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MUCKRAKER has never been one to shy away from a good fist fight. There is nothing wrong with behaving like a thug once in a while.

That lesson was drummed into her in Mafube just as she had learned to wear her tattered undies without leaning against a wall. There were brutish boys and girls who could kick you for even walking near their house or looking at their cow.

You know the rascals who behave like they were born when the village midwife was at a shebeen. Those mini-tyrants who take pleasure in seeing you writhe in pain after unleashing a thunderous blow on your head for no justifiable reason.

The little scoundrels who would giggle as you scream back to your mother’s house with a blooded nose of their making. After being spanked several times and failing to persuade her mother of the wisdom of intervening, Muckraker decided to toughen up. And so she fought like a warrior.

Bones were broken, eyes gouged out and ears wringed. Suddenly Muckraker, the punching bag of village bullies, was feared. Not because she possessed any particular Kung-Fu skills.

No. It’s just that word spread fast in the village that she could punch above her weight when necessity demands so. That is how you deal with bullies, you fight back. And because bullies are usually motormouths you can be sure the ones you injure will tell others pronto. And soon enough, you will enjoy some peace.

 

Muckraker was reminded of those Mafube days when she heard of a thoroughly entertaining boxing match over the weekend. She was not there but reliable sources say Democratic Congress (DC) youths kicked and scratched each other like they were high on something illegal.

Some of them do smoke herbs for a living but thou shalt not judge them for they need to feed their idle minds. So when she heard of the fight Muckraker said: Ah, those little rascals have been smoking again.

What triggered the fight was the factionalism we have always known has laid eggs in the ruling party. Even baboons know the DC is infested with power-hungry people who have now set the party on the path to ruin.

The factionalism the leadership has strenuously hidden like an unwanted pregnancy is now playing itself out in the party’s kindergarten league. DC kids have turned on each other to appease their respective masters.

Over the weekend some of them were clobbered for wearing T-shirts with the wrong faces on them. It’s all hilarious when you put serious thought to it. One group was wearing T-shirts with Size Two on it and another was wearing one with Size Two and the Bearded One.

So war was declared, harsh words exchanged and blows traded.

Phew! Meanwhile Size Two and the Bearded One were probably enjoying a game of morabaraba somewhere. Let the free boxing matches begin.

 

That is the nature of African politics: zealots clobber each other over things they don’t understand. But before you ululate over the factional skirmishes in the ruling party you must not forget there is nothing new here, at both party and national levels.

The DC’s mistake is that it has failed to keep a lid on the fights. The backbiting, nocturnal meetings and scheming have now turned into fist fights. There are wars festering in every party in this country. It’s not the politics but just the nature of us as a people.

We have factionalism in our churches, families and burial societies. When three Basotho gather you can guarantee there will be factions.

Muckraker has been to weddings where the factionalism in families is as clear as the groom’s gown. You see it in the seating arrangements, the interaction of people and the plastic smiles flashed all over the place to mask palpable contempt.

You see it at funerals where people whisper nasty things about uncles, aunts, cousins and nephews.

 

Still Muckraker has a problem with those who assume that factionalism is a bad thing. Journalists, especially those excitable nincompoops they call political reporters, write about it as if it’s some evil deed punishable by eternal fire. Politicians scream their heads off, never mind that they play the game with verve.

The truth though is that factionalism is a manifestation of democracy, a concept we hold so dear to our hearts but understand zilch about. Every party must have factionalism.

Rivalry is the essence of politics.  Only a party of brainless zombies does not have factionalism. People are allowed to coalesce on an idea or around a person.

If that meeting of minds constitute a formation of a faction within the party then so be it.  Only politicians who have been beaten at the factionalism game hate factionalism. That’s what happens with losers.

They cry wolf when they have been beaten at a game they thought they had mastered. There are enemies in every organisation. And that is fantastic.

Yeh, I said. Every human being must have an enemy. If you don’t have one you must go out of your way to make one before the sun goes down. Say something horrid or spread a rotten rumour if that is what will help you get an enemy.  Enemies make victories sweet.

Frankly, Muckraker cannot imagine a life without enemies. Anyone who tells you life is fun without some form of rivalry is uttering a blue lie and has to be considered any enemy.

“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows,” says the big book in Psalms.

In whose presence will a table be prepared for you if you don’t have enemies?

Phew. Muckraker will tell you today that she has a stadium-full of enemies but she is still not satisfied. She still wants more.

 

Speaking of enemies, Muckraker is about to lose patience with Lehlohonolo Scott, the public enemy number 1. She is not saying that to mean the boy is guilty. He will have his day in court. Good luck to him.

But at some point someone should tell him and his lawyer to sort out their mess pronto. One day he has a lawyer and the next he doesn’t. Next, his lawyer is moping about payments as if he doesn’t know the government pays when it wants.

The other time he said he had quit. Muckraker just laughed because the man didn’t sound genuine at all. It later turned out he was just joking.

No one laughed though. Scott himself has said he only wants this particular lawyer to represent him. That sounds fair until you remember the man is not paying from his pocket. The government is paying which means the people are paying.

We now have a toxic combination of a confused lawyer and a grumbling client. Muckraker hopes this is not just some game to game the system.

This Scott nonsense should just come to an end. At some point the judges should tell the two to go and hang or to hell, which ever takes their fancy.

 

Last week a reader wrote to ask what Muckraker thinks about local football and why she has never had a go at our national team. The answer is simple.

We don’t have football in this country. It therefore follows that there is no national football team. It has never been there. What we have in Lesotho, and most of Africa, is something that looks like football. It looks and smells like football but it’s not.

To say it is terrible football will be a compliment. Football, like singing, has been undermined because everyone thinks they can do it. So we have pathetic players calling themselves footballers because they can kick a ball across Mohokare River.

They think two legs are all you need to be called a footballer. And before I forget, South Africa doesn’t have football as well. Their only solace is that theirs is a poor imitation of football. Ours cannot even be called fong-kong football.

 

 

 

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Muckraker

Mokherane’s nonsonso

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MUCKRAKER has been waiting for our MPs to explain why they want a M75 000 salary.

She hoped somewhere in the sewage the MPs were spraying as justification for their attempt to rob us blind was some reasonable argument.

Just something to show that there was some sort of method to their rank madness and shameless greed.

Sadly, Muckraker has been waiting for Godot because none had emitted anything showing that they carry a brain bigger than the punctuation mark that ends this sentence.

Instead, we have been treated to some of the most inane arguments proving beyond all reasonable doubt that our parliament is full to the brim with imbeciles masquerading as MPs.

Thanks to Mokherane Tsatsanyane, that one who came into parliament through the window while dressed in DC colours, we now know we are being led by slow minds.

After reminding us that MPs “run this country” and are a special breed, Tsatsanyane went to the meat of his bizarre argument.

“He! He! Mokherane is crazy, he wants M75 000! That’s what people will be saying. But I have just spent almost M5 million in my area. I bought 40 wheelchairs at Moshoeshoe II, one wheelchair costs M3 000, that means I have spent something like M300 000,” he emitted while frothing at the mouth as if someone stole his goat.

It is tempting to follow his argument to its finality just to be sure his mouth has pulled the middle finger on his brain but that is obvious.

His problem is that he just can’t do simple arithmetic.

It is impossible to spend M300 000 after buying 40 wheelchairs at M3 000 each. It can’t!

He was inflating his numbers and ego just like he wants us to pay him an inflated salary. The other possibility is that he was just entangled in the web of his lies. They say liars must have good memories. Muckraker would add that they should learn to count as well.

At that moment, someone should have told Tsatsanyane to stop telling tall tales but the man was now on fire. After all, he thought he had just gotten away with the lie that 40 multiplied by 3 000 is 300 000.

So he pushed on.

“They are happy and celebrating, He! He! Mokherane is donating wheelchairs and food parcels. In a day you can spend around M400 000 when you are an MP helping people. But tomorrow when you want an increment, they complain.”

Muckraker wanted to call Tsatsanyane to deliver some crude words but remembered that his kind is beyond redemption.

The critical question is what kind of grade he smokes. The one from Mapoteng is not that potent. It takes a special kind of high for someone who claims to be spending M400 000 a day on charity to shed a Maqalika of tears over M75 000 per month.

But his lies and hallucinations are not the crux of the matter.

The question is who invited him to be in parliament.

More precisely, who voted for him?

Expect a blank face instead of an answer because he was neither invited nor elected.

The people of Qoaling rejected him in the last election and he only sneaked into parliament via the proportional representation list.

Now this unwanted, unelected, and unelectable nonentity is telling us that M75 000 is “nothing to write home about”.

So why cry for it like a hired mourner?

Even if it’s a small amount, you still don’t deserve it here and in heaven.

Hear, hear, hear, a man who claims to have just spent “almost M5 million” in his “area” is complaining about being underpaid.

You cannot make this up.

Even if his salary is increased to M75 000, Tsatsanyane will not earn M5 million over his five years in parliament. At the current salary of M40 000, he will earn M2.4 million over five years.

There are five logical explanations for his alleged spending habits.

He could be filthy rich, extremely generous, reckless, bad with mathematics or just a pathological liar.
What is clear is that no amount of lying, screaming or flawed reasoning will help the MPs get the M75 000. This time it won’t happen.

Gone are the days when these lazybones would make threats to get away with evil deeds. There will be no increase for those freeloading impostors.
Nada!

Those who feel underpaid should surrender their seats and leave us in peace. Muckraker can bet her last kobo that their absence will not be missed. Most of them can even be replaced with donkeys and there will still be no real effect on the quality of parliament’s work.

MPs who mourn about being paid less than their counterparts in South Africa are free to cross Mohokare River and contest.

As for those who believe they can jerk up their salaries to recover what they used to campaign, Muckraker says: Go hang! The ropes are on Muckraker.

Muckraker warns anyone who is even thinking of entertaining the MPs’ demands that there will be chaos in this country.

Some furniture will fly, bones broken and someone will run.
This is not a threat but a promise.

Bring it on! We are sick and tired of a few people defecating on us.

Muckraker will not be having a wet weekend because she is going to the gym. You know why. It’s about time we get fit to deal with nonsonso.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuuu
muckracker.post@gmail.com

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Muckraker

Maretlane’s dish rubbish

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Muckraker is still recovering from the Moshoeshoe Walk but her fatigue has nothing to do with the 116km she endured. The walk in the mountains – far from the rascals, perverts, thieves and pretenders of Maseru – was fun.

The pain in her muscles was inflicted by the epic incompetence she witnessed over the three-day walk. Someone should tell Thabo Maretlane to either shape up or ship out.

They say it takes at least 10 000 hours to master a skill. Maretlane has been managing the walk for 17 years but has been consistently doing a shoddy job of it. He is dependable like that.

He has one year to organise the three-day event but for some reason, only known to him, he still botches it every time.

This year he bungled spectacularly. It was as if he had spent the past 16 years mastering the art of mismanagement. By the time this year’s walk started, he was ready to deliver some top-notch shit show.

Oh shame! He brought his ‘A’ game to the mountains and stole the show while the world watched. It was a fantastic display of incompetence. 

The kind that leaves you dazed. He pushed the frontiers of mediocrity. 

Even he could not believe he was capable of sinking to such levels. 

Maretlane started dishing it out from day one. Breakfast was a croissant, a small yoghurt and a piece of dry cheese. And that was it. Off you go into the mountains, he said. 

After a few kilometres hikers were stopped for some speeches from dignitaries. 

And so they waited, waited and waited. There is nothing wrong with some delays. 

But it’s bad manners to park people in the scorching sun for hours without any explanation or apology.

Maretlane and his people were behaving as if the tortuous wait was part of the schedule. 

Yet it wasn’t the lack of communication or the roasting that got Muckraker’s goat. 

Ladies who wanted to relieve themselves had to find some hiding spot in the veld because Maretlane didn’t find it reasonable to provide mobile toilets. When nature called they had to visit a gulley or squat behind a rock. There were not many rocks big enough to cover both the face and the big bums. 

If too scared to use the gully or rock you had to ask friends to shield you from the crowd. 

And that was the source of Muckraker’s irritation. Maretlane forced Muckraker and her friends to be toilet walls. That humiliation of having to invite a congregation to a peeing session would persist for the next three days Maretlane unashamedly basked in the glory of having done something as part of our 200th Anniversary. Water was brought in lituntoana so Maretlane could be amused as we behaved like cattle at a watering hole.

Maretlane didn’t seem bothered because he was on a mission to make the most from the least effort. He had promised water and had delivered. 

 If you didn’t like how it was delivered you could tell it to the mountains or go hang. 

March on, this is not your mother’s house. Drink up and move it, lunch awaits across the mountains. After they finally dragged themselves to the lunch venue, they came face to face with the stinker Maretlane had been cooking while they dragged through mountains and valleys. 

Lunch was something that tasted like chicken but could have been easily mistaken for some newly invented type of rubber. It came with five chips, a piece of bread as hard as Weetbix and a salad that looked like it was about to pinch your nose. It was vulgar. 

Next was some fish smaller than the lemon that was supposed to season it. 

It was served with a sandwich that looked like some leftovers from last year’s walk.

The five chips and the threatening salad were there again, warning you against eating them. 

They were back again when Maretlane unveiled the foul-tasting hot dog.  

It was khemere all the way. By the way, there is nothing traditional, organic or healthy about that drink. The salt on the wound is that hikers paid M1 000 for those meals. The message was clear: we make you pay through the nose for kaka and then make you kaka in the bushes. Come again next year for Maretlane will do you dirty again!

Don’t expect Maretlane to have learned anything from that episode. 

He hasn’t learned in 17 years. 

Don’t try telling him anything. He is now too busy preparing to deliver another scandalously shoddy show next year. Muckraker will not be paying to be abused again. Never! 

Maretlane has eaten enough from her. It will take her months to relearn how to use a toilet again.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuuu
muckracker.post@gmail.com

 

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Muckraker

The market of rascals

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THE Market’s management is either high on something illegal or just reckless.
They could also be either proudly incompetent or simply daft.
Muckraker suspects they are high, reckless, incompetent and daft.
That is a heavy burden to carry but self-inflicted and deserved.

Their job is to feed tummies and quench thirsts but they believe they are capable of many jobs. In addition to cooking chickin, they fancy themselves to be detectives, expert witnesses, rape experts, psychologists, communication gurus, criminologists, prosecutors, CCTV analysts and many other things they conjure up in their small minds.
That much is lavishly clear from their crude statement reacting to a woman who alleges she was raped in their toilet last week.
Instead of just acknowledging the alleged incident, The Market was sweating to testify, analyse evidence, scrutinise footage and play judge.
They tell us the alleged victim arrived at the restaurant “heavily intoxicated” as if they had measured the alcohol content in her blood.
They say she had left an “unpaid bill” at another restaurant as if they were the Small Claims Court.
They claim CCTV footage shows the victim coming out of the toilets holding hands with her alleged attacker as if they are certain that the handholding was consensual and not one dragging the other. Make no mistake about the sinister motive behind those salacious details sprinkled all over the statement.
They were gathering wood for a pyre to burn the woman and her allegations.
Their demented reasoning is something like this: she could not have been raped because she was intoxicated, absconded her bill down the street and was holding hands with the alleged attacker. None of those things have been proven and they might be just shameless lies told by uncouth characters.
The point, accepted by everyone else except some nincompoops, is that The Market should not have mentioned anything about a bill or intoxication. They are not just trivialising her serious allegations but also calling her a drunk who dodges bills and lies about being raped.
They do this by telling what they believe to be a cogent tale to illustrate that her story is incredible.
Muckraker read that clumsy statement several times and each time she was further disgusted by both the writer and The Market as a business.
They say the gentleman from another restaurant who is “well known to The Market staff” claimed that the woman had left an unpaid bill. That is not some random anecdote but an attempt to justify why they allowed him into the bar after they had closed.
It could also be a flimsy attempt at saying the man could not have violated the woman because he is “well known” to them.
As soon as the narration started Muckraker knew The Market was on an evil path.
And boy, did they march with vigour.
They say while the two were discussing the unpaid bill, the victim “indicated that she needed the bathroom”. Then comes the killer line in the statement: “Moments later, the said gentleman also walked to the bathroom, where after a while they both emerged holding hands”.
The public is invited to conclude that the discussion about the unpaid bill was resolved in the toilet and the two “emerged holding hands”.
In other words, whatever was said or happened in the toilet was so mutual that a debt was settled and hands were held.
The victim blaming and bashing could have ended there but The Market was just getting started.
After social media clobbered them for their callous and inept statement, The Market came back with a second one pretending to be correcting the first one.
This time they tried to sanitise the first statement by weeding out the offensive parts but avoided withdrawing the first statement and sincerely apologising to the woman.
They forget that people will never unlearn what they learned from the first statement and are most likely to read the second statement as an update rather than a correction.
But just like that, The Market thinks they have dodged the bullet so they can go back to their cooking and notorious upselling.
Their message to women is stinging: “It’s your funeral if you run away from a bill and get raped in our toilets. We will protect ourselves and the suspects at all costs. For good measure, we will tell the public you enjoyed free drinks and got so drunk that you made allegations of rape against our friend who was only trying to get you to pay”.
Muckraker will not speculate on what happened but can say, without fear or favour, that The Market’s management are unmitigated and unrepentant rascals. Only a business managed by accredited scoundrels reacts with such brazen thuggery to allegations of rape on its premises. Muckraker didn’t say CHE accredits scoundrels but that the mischief exhibited by The Market is of such high quality that it deserves a certification of sorts and at a higher level. It’s Level 8 stuff.
Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuuu
muckracker.post@gmail.com

 

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