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‘Maesaiah’s graduation party



HELELE helele, ‘Maesaiah has finally escaped the jaws of bed bugs. Yet Muckraker will not be taking a bottle of wine to her welcome party.
With or without bail, ‘Maesaiah remains a vile and deeply loathed woman.
Even stray dogs in Thamae will not rummage through her bin. Only leeches that benefited from her chicanery are rejoicing at her release.

Yet we should not hesitate to attend her ‘graduation’ party if invited. After all, this is the only time she is graduating from a formal institute.
Don’t tell me about high school because she left it when Mathematics made her see stars. The motive for attending the party is to see what she looks like after her epic battle with the bed bugs in prison.

That she lost the battles is as clear as a pig’s behind but we still have to check if the bugs have sucked the silliness and arrogance out of her system.
The second reason for accepting the invitation will be to see what a former First Lady looks like after spending nearly a month in remand prison.

It will not be a pretty sight but one not to be missed given her notoriety for being a quarrelsome lady whose mouth is always faster than her brains.
The third and most important reason for joining the party is to bring her some bleach (jik), scouring powder (vim) and thinners to wash the jail dirt off her yellow bones.

There should be no basekomo for her. A dip bath is what she deserves. A wire brush would not be a bad idea.
It is tempting to say she should clean everything including her manners and her talkative mouth but this is the Feselady we are talking about here. A woman incapable of changing her nauseating manners. She just cannot resist being mean.

There are those who have accused Muckraker of bashing ‘Maesaiah in recent days. Well, Muckraker has not uttered a lie about the sister.
It is a notorious fact that the woman was having a tango dance with bed bugs. There is no denying that she had a miserable time. You don’t need Sandawana to tell you that ‘Maesaiah is unlikable.

What is there to like about a former First Lady who behaved like a thug?
Muckraker’s heart bleeds for the remand prison bugs that have lost their delicious meal.

‘Maesaiah had not even enjoyed a Muvhango episode after remand prison when the excitable started emitting pedestrian arguments.

Pseudo legal analysts were waxing lyrical about the independence of the judiciary.

The ‘evidence’ of that so-called independence was that the court had resisted being influenced by the social media’s shrieks.
Nyoe, nyoe, nyoe this shows that the courts are guided by the law, not public emotion. Spare us the tosh, please!

We know the Feselady got the initial bail because a judge was in the small pocket of Uncle Tom’s jean. Yes, that little jean pocket whose purpose is yet to be made public.

The problem with such unimaginative arguments is that they tend to confuse a tree for a forest.
Far from being a sign of an ‘independent’ judiciary, the verdict shows a court incapable of getting things right the first time. The bail hearing is a correction of a mess created by Justice Masefokoro in February.

The Court of Appeal’s ruling was never meant to force the High Court’s hand to keep the Feselady in remand prison.
Anyone who thinks like that has a brain the size of the punctuation mark at the end of this sentence. The court said the High Court, in particular the judge, had cut corners to grant the bail.

The crux of the judgement was that ’Masefokoro had presided over a sham bail hearing before freeing the Feselady.
If it pleases the court Muckraker will say only a CJ could grant bail after such a bogus hearing. The CJ here doesn’t mean a Chief Justice but a Confused Judge.

There is no point in saying who the CJ is in this case but if the shoe fits then so be it. Name names at your own peril. Muckraker will deny it with her own life.

She never said there seems to be a tap oozing Hopose at the Palace of Justice. What is clear is that the Court of Appeal forced the High Court to mop the floor after peeing all over.

If disgrace was a person it will be called the High Court of Lesotho. There is therefore no reason to give the High Court credit for cleaning up its own mess.
Doing so will be akin to giving a student a distinction in a supplementary examination.

The gullible souls and bootlickers have been in overdrive since ‘Maesaiah returned to Uncle Tom’s arms after weeks of hugging the cold prison floor.
Some said they “knew she was innocent” as if a bail hearing is a trial.

No surprise here because such drivel is expected of the battalion that used to populate the State House’s corridors. That gang has never been known for smarts. It was just a hotchpotch of imbeciles singing for their dinner.
The cake however goes to the manufacturers of the ridiculous claim that the bail was a victory for ‘Maesaiah. The woman has won nothing. Zilch!
She has just spent a month in jail when she thought she would be as free as a bird.

She now has to report to the police twice a month.
Feselady, the globetrotter, now has to inform the police when leaving the country.
That might not sound like much trouble but it sure is for someone who once thought she had the law in her armpits.

In short, she is now far lower than a common Mosotho woman. Basotho women don’t have to report to the police two times a month. Twice a month she has to walk into a police station and say: “Bahlompehi ke ’na enoa!”
Ordinary people don’t have to tell the police when they are going to Ladybrand.

You are wrong if you think this is not a big deal for her. Feselady is now back to her primary school days when she had to ask the teacher to visit the VIP.
Remember this is a woman who once had a lease to a First Class seat.
Instead of per diems she gets letters of approval to leave the country.
If that is a victory then the LCD is the ruling party, the Maloti is weaker than the Zimdollar and John Xie is Father Christmas.

It takes a special brand of naivety to celebrate a loss as a victory. It will be funny if the purveyors of such a crippled argument were not dead serious.
They believe they have stumbled upon some brilliant idea with which to change the narrative about ‘Maesaiah’s legal woes.

The fact however is that the Feselady’s wings have been clipped.
Apart from being out of power, she is also a suspect shackled by bail conditions.
The point is that she is no longer a free woman do to as she pleases. Anyone who sees her in Ladybrand can call Mokete to ask if she had asked for his permission.

Even a trooper can ask what she is doing near the Maseru Bridge Border.
She cannot walk near Mohokare River without the police suspecting that she is about to slither out of the country like she did earlier this year.

If you see her buying a suitcase you can tell the police that she is about to pack and vamoose. Anyone who sees her buying running shoes at Total Sport can tell the police that she is getting ready to run across the border.

She cannot even be seen exercising because someone might tell the cops that she is getting fit for a long walk to Ficksburg. Some have called her bail a pyrrhic or hollow victory. They are wrong. This is an outright defeat.
Boom! Oh Boom! ‘Maesaiah has come down with a thud.
Someone call Nteboheleng Ralekuku to lick her off the ground.
Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuu!

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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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