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Cheers to the police minister



Let’s start with a small housekeeping matter before getting to the meat this week. Muckraker is getting sick and tired of the security guards brandishing bottles of spirit at shops.

It’s as if someone has told them they are the new Covid-19 doctors.
The guards have discovered a new job and they are busy at it.
Muckraker knows the intention is to protect the customers but wishes their masters also taught them to aim at the hands. Some are spraying everywhere. They keep missing the palms to spray the wrists and arms. The adventurous are going for the face and chest.

Which makes Muckraker wonder what else the guards are missing if they cannot aim at something as big as palms. Mmmmmmm. What is going on in your mind now perverts? They could be missing thieves. Phew!
Now to the pith.

Muckraker has seen a video of someone who looks like Police Minister Lehlonoholo Moramotse buying beer during the lockdown.
Of course Moramotse has denied taking a delivery of two crates of beer from a Chinese man.

But not even a stray dog in Seapoint will believe his denials.
The evidence of his chicanery is overflowing on the video. Muckraker can tell you without a doubt that Moramotse is a distinct man, whose bulk figure cannot be mistaken.

No other politician in parliament and cabinet looks like him. He is special.
Moramotse is ample evidence that the Creator is not stingy.
His tummy is protruding from the video. Muckraker is therefore not going to launch a habeas corpus case for the minister to bring his twin brother.
Instead of pleading his innocence the minister should just admit that he was doing what every Lesotho politician does: calling on favours from their leChina.

There is nothing criminal about asking your Chinamen to quench your thirst during the lockdown. After all, other politicians have received bigger things from their Chinese.
A little better of tipple is nothing alarming.

Moramotse can also claim that a man of his stature cannot be expected to live on bread and motoho alone for 21 days.
He could also say he finds it tough to remain sober when his police officers are beating people to pulp in the villages.

And he is not alone hunting for beer to get through this lockdown. Many are imbibing hopose. Others have turned to the black market for something to blunt the pain of the lockdown.
The only difference is that the minister happens to have his own Chinese who can deliver on call.

That brings us to the hypocrisy of lynching the minister for such a small transgression.
True, he violated the lockdown rules imposed by the cabinet.
Indeed he is one of the people who are supposed to enforce the lockdown regulations.

But in our criticism we should not pretend to be overly disgusted and behave as if we are pious. Moramotse’s crime is that he is so passionate about his beer that he cannot resist the temptation to buy it when bars are closed and others are not allowed to buy it.
The same cannot be said for people violating the constitution with vim and stealing government money.

Politicians are violating lockdown rules to have marathon nocturnal meetings to plot Uncle Tom’s demise. The police, who Muckraker hears want to quiz Moramotse about his shenanigans, are busy breaking bones in the streets.

All this is not to justify the minister’s monkey shines but to show that there are more noxious things that should horrify us. This was just an old man doing some mischief.

It’s alright to shame him but we should never forget that his is not the most heinous of crimes. There are worse criminals perambulating our streets.
The only real reason why people are screaming about the minister is that he is enjoying the benefit the lockdown has denied them. More precisely, people are angry that they have been locked up.

They have become touchy. Humans, like all animals, are cantankerous when caged.

That explains why there is so much bile spewed on social media.
A few days ago Basotho and South Africans were quarrelling over a post on eNCA news about Lesotho being “Covid-19 free”.

It started when some bored blabbermouth from South Africa made a snide comment about Lesotho being a tiny country with five people, 10 goats, five cows and donkeys.

He didn’t put it in those words but the import of his words amounted to the same.
As can be expected, Basotho came out firing salvos at South Africans for being arrogant, insensitive and condescending. Soon it had degenerated into a verbal scuffle soaked in vulgar insults.

Mothers from both countries were called names and so were ancestors.
Basotho were called donkey eaters and South Africans lazy shack dwellers using children to suck grants from their government.

Our beloved Moshoeshoe I International airport was called a two-men entry point with no stamps. That almost got to Muckraker because for some reason the person who wrote that had been mutilating syntax in the previous posts but had suddenly managed to put together a perfect sentence.
That alone implied that he had put some thought into that insult and summoned all his lost Matric composition skills because he wanted it to sting.
Go to hell you illiterates, Basotho said.
The shouting match dragged on, with each party rummaging every nook and cranny of their brain to find the most spiteful words to spit at the other.
Muckraker found the whole battle amusing, coming as it did from a mere announcement that Lesotho does not have a confirmed case of Covid-19 yet.
The squabble achieved zilch apart from showing that idle minds conjure silly ideas and caged people are irritable.
Both parties have been locked in their homes by a virus. Their freedom has been curtailed by a tiny organism they have never seen and will never see.
They may scream at each other until donkeys tell tšomo but our misery will not end.
It doesn’t matter whether you live in a hovel, mountain, hole, mansion or hotel.
But Muckraker understands that some might have just been taking the opportunity to kill time.
It’s their choice to clutch at whatever they can use to keep sane in this time.
By now we have all discovered our therapies. Some scream while others pray.
Some like trolling and unleashing insults on others on social media.
It’s a pity bars are closed and Moramotse has swallowed the little that remained of the beer.
Check his picture if you think Muckraker is lying about the whereabouts of several crates of beer from the Chinese.
Find your own leChina or just someone to clobber on Facebook. Stay away from the fridge because you will need to fit into those jeans after the lockdown. The lockdown is not an excuse to eat your way up the sizes.

On a related matter, Muckraker is flabbergasted that someone in South Africa is suing CR7 to open bars.
CR7’s ban on beer sales has offended an association of beer traders who say it’s unfair and unreasonable. They want him to open the bars pronto, faster that he can say “My fellow South Africans”.
You can be sure that someone is rubbing their hands in glee. They cannot wait to drink themselves all the way to stupidity. Muckraker has no qualms with the association fighting for its rights.
What she cannot get is why no one in South Africa has sued the president to reopen schools.
Muckraker is not insinuating anything but just wondering if no student is really furious about staying home. Surely there should be some association that sees the closure of schools as unfair.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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Mokherane’s nonsonso



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.

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

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Maretlane’s dish rubbish



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


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The market of rascals



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


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