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Muckraker

Fridays, doctors and gold diggers

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You mark dates on the calendar based on their importance. There are fridays, Fridays and then FRIDAYS.
Tomorrow is a FRIDAY because something big is likely to happen, at least according to those who claim to have their ducks in a row. And it will happen when people still have the pennies to wash it down with some merry waters.

Our excitable but mediocre reporters would say the bell tolls for Size Two.
A cliché here, a cliché there, and they think they have written a story. Substance and analysis are a bother forever interfering with pedestrian reportage.
They walk with a spring in their step and a mouth ready to gloat about their talents. Muckraker’s appeal to our scribes is to go easy on the clichés this week because the story does not need any to give it oomph. A good story writes itself.

How more dramatic can it be that Size Two is being shoved to the door while pooping his usual riddles. It is the day when Size Two will have to fight for his political life.
That alone is enough to give a fillip to the story which has been told from back to front and front to back several times.
The opposition is sharpening its machetes against the man from Tseolike. By Friday morning he will be back whence he came, they say.
That is all good if the opposition is going to stand together when the voting comes. There is possibility that some MPs might sabotage the motion for fear of being forced to seek a new mandate from the people they lied to a few months ago.

By voting for the motion to send Size Two back to Tseolike some MPs might be unwittingly signing their dismissal letters.
There is absolutely no guarantee that they will come back to parliament if Size Two declares an election. And an election is his way of saying “if I cannot have it then no one else should”.
Truth be told, some MPs are like a villager who ululates for a sangoma whose bones will point to his uncle or aunty as the one sending to meet their maker.
Indeed, those with something between their ears know that their fate might be intricately tied to that of Size Two.

The only difference is that after being kicked out Size Two will go back to his camels while they go back to nothing.
A pensioner, Size Two no longer has to worry about baby formula and trinkets for nyatsis. The same cannot be said for some of our young MPs (male or female) who have used their little fortunes to amass both debt and concubines.

Muckraker cannot wait for the day when the MPs will be pounding the streets of Maseru, looking for jobs.
That is if some of them are employable. That august House is teeming with jesters who should be nowhere near any company or government office.

Muckraker has received shrieking letter from a fuming junior doctor. The little doctor was responding to the article in which Muckraker told his ilk to zip it and pay their dues to the country before they slither out to greener pastures.

Using in inelegant language and clumsy syntax, usually reserved for village bumpkins, the little doctor went for Muckraker’s mother, describing her anatomy in graphic detail.
For a moment Muckraker thought the little doctor has been playing peeping tom as her mother bathed at the river. Bloody pervert.
Given that most doctors are rascals, Muckraker will not discount that possibility. There have been days when MaMuckraker suspected someone was watching her as she dunked her old self into the river.

Muckraker could only chuckle as the doctor went after a poor rural woman who would never hear his insults. It’s a pity the woman does not have an opportunity to respond for she would have put the little doctor in his place. The gutter being his rightful place.
Still Muckraker found it in her soft heart to sympathise with the little doctors. After years sweating it out at university, they probably thought they were going to be swimming in money. Phew!

That this misguided dream has been shuttered is not Muckraker’s problem. The little doctors are our goats to tie to a tree for the next five years.
We own them from head to toe and no amount of insults from their ill-mannered mouths is going to change that. That, of course, does not mean the government should treat them like slaves.

True, they should have contracts, decent wages and better working conditions.
Yet these demands must be placed in the right context. If working for long hours is what has got the little doctors whimpering then they are fighting a losing battle. That’s just the nature of the job.

As for the salaries, it is clear as a goat’s behind that employers pay what they can afford not what the employees think they deserve.
Throw a stone at the government complex and you are likely to hit a civil servant who is overworked and underpaid.
Muckraker will not retract her statement about junior doctors being overrated. Health Minister Monyamane had better stood up to those reprobates if he doesn’t want to get the spanking of his life from Muckraker.

They will complete their housemanship in Lesotho before they prostitute their state-sponsored qualifications across Mohokare.
Meanwhile, Muckraker patiently waits for yet another stinging letter from the doctor who called himself Cursepainter (you have to be doubly daft to use such a pseudonym).

Muckraker admires Rethabile Mahopolo, the sister who writes a biting feminist column for the Public Eye. It takes guts to go against the grain like she does.
On her best days she is capable of enunciating her views with spectacular clarity. That’s largely because she has a decent head on her shoulder and a good dose of respect for grammar rules.

But there are days when she exudes so much bitterness that she gets lost in her emotions. You see a sister who needs therapy rather than acres of space in a national newspaper to spew her bile at the male species (not that men don’t deserve some spanking).
Mahopolo has a way of getting hopelessly entangled in the web of her own skewed ideology. Blame that on her little understanding of what it means to be feminist, a noisy but dying breed.

It’s patently sad that such an out-of-fashion ideology has to rely on advocates like her for stimulus. In her last instalment, perhaps one of her worst so far, she found herself in a dilemma.

On one hand he was screaming about women respecting their bodies (which is an astute argument) while on the other she was haranguing them for selling themselves too cheap.
So in one article she has talked about respect of femininity while putting a hefty premium on it.

In other words women should respect themselves enough to sell themselves for the right price. The right price here being marriage or some real amount.
A few thousands are not enough for a woman to open her legs for a man, she opined. That, of course, might be true were it not so estranged from reality.
The last time Muckraker checked there were desperate women opening their legs for R30 or less. Some are opening their legs for Streetwise Two.
And no amount of bellowing from a columnist will alter that. The argument about women respecting their bodies has a way of bouncing on its head especially when pushed from a holier-than-thou perspective.

Pushed by those who think they are perched on a higher moral pedestal, it becomes a sekorokoro of an argument. Its worse when those pushing it forget that it is part of a much more sophisticated and fundamental argument about women empowerment.

But what really knocks the legs off the argument is that its purveyors want to play aunt and portray men as mean monsters hunting for some naïve women in which to inject their seeds.

In the end it makes women look like just idiots who have no say in matters of sex. It undermines the intelligence of women in the name of protecting them from the ‘evil men’. Sister Mahopolo was so angry at men that she could not resist the temptation waffle.

“We were raised to cherish our femininity and treasure is like a gold mine but it appears nowadays it has been reduced to a mere gold pan,” she thundered, perhaps conveniently blind to the ridiculousness of comparing femininity to a goldmine.

“You see there is a huge difference between gold mining and gold panning. The latter is a cheap, simple and easy process while the former requires investment, dedication and hard work!

A man should not just have to splash a couple of thousands of dollars on you to get between your legs. That is panning.”
By the time she finished that line her argument was in a ditch. Apart from lacking substance the example is premised on a horribly wrong assumption that gold panning is a “cheap, simple and easy process”.

Anyone with even a cursory understanding of panning will tell you it breaks both backs and souls for so little.
To say Basotho men panning in zama-zama are playing is to peddle a lie.

By the way there is no difference between gold mining and gold panning. Gold panning is a type of gold mining in which you use a pan. You owe me a drink for that free lesson sister.

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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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