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Muckraker

Politricks and carrots

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MUCKRAKER is tickled that Uncle Tom had the audacity to offer Prof Nqosa Mahao a diplomatic post.
The offer had all the hallmarks of political chicanery, bravado, desperation and a tinge of naivety. It was a brazen attempt to send Mahao to Siberia whence his political career would rapidly fizzle.

Once Mahao was outside Uncle Tom would have split his camp by offering similar trinkets to his comrades.
A ministerial position here and a PS job there would have been enough to dismember the faction. He would have lit a bonfire and asked Mahao’s friends to switch their allegiances if they wanted to feel the warmth.
Then he would reclaim his power and pull the middle finger on the congress battalion that has been banking on Mahao’s faction for the numbers to topple him in parliament.
With the commander captured, the faction would have imploded to spew the spineless opportunists it shelters. For Uncle Tom, that would have been an act of political genius.

The only trouble is that Uncle Tom misjudged the professor’s hunger. Uncle Tom’s trick can only work on the likes of Sekatle (the turncoat) and Maliehe (the flip-flopper).
Mahao also knows he holds the cards. For months, he has been spanking Uncle Tom up the hills and down the valleys. He caught him by the ears in February but Justice Mahase quickly jumped into the fray.
She smeared Vaseline on Uncle Tom’s ears and Mahao lost his grip.

Uncle Tom bolted again but Mahao was snapping at his heels and caught him again.
This time Mahao borrowed a pair of pliers from Justice Mosito, gripped Uncle Tom’s ears firmly and is refusing to let go. The old man is writhing in excruciating pain while the professor drags him back to his senses.

Justice Mahase will not be jumping in with her Vaseline because some people are already gathering charcoal to roast her.
Uncle Tom still thinks he can wriggle out of this one. Such obstinacy has always been the demise of our politicians. They refuse to accept that they are cornered and finished.

Uncle Tom himself can only blame himself and groupies around him. Uncle Tom probably thinks he is still in his prime and can still unleash a thundering kick on political opponents. But even goats and cockroaches know those days are long gone. He is not a spring chicken anymore.

Agility and energy have left his limbs and veins. Yet even if Uncle Tom is ready to face the reality of his rapidly waning political fortunes he will still have to deal with vultures around him.
The scavengers who see him as their meal ticket. The hangers-on who keep driving a tired old man because they know that without him they will be hobos. The maggots in the political cesspool.

Good-for-nothing freeloaders and bootlickers. Scroungers! Instead of allowing Uncle Tom, a man who has loyally served his people to live his last days in peace, they will squeeze the little that remains of his energy.
Mahao would have been a fool to accept such a blatant bribe.

Age and momentum are on his side. He can afford to wage a war of attrition. There is no point is accepting some foreign errand when the ultimate prize is within his grasp. The only man standing between him and power is an 80-year-old man.
You don’t need to have mastered basic biology to understand the logic here.

For years Deputy Prime Minister Monyane Moleleki (Mokola) has meticulously cultivated a reputation as a shrewd politician.
He has watched, possibly in amusement, as comrades bludgeon each other in the dark political alleys while he steers away from trouble.

There is no doubt that he might have secretly encouraged many comrades to ruinous decisions.
He has probably set them on each other while keeping his hands clean.
Little wonder he survived a lot of political tornadoes. He is a sly schemer.

But once in a while there comes a time when even the most cunning operator meets his match.
As age has caught up with his bones and mind Mokola is being forced to taste the same bitter medicine he dished to other comrades. And he doesn’t like the taste.
MEC leader Selibe Mochoboroane is the man forcing Mokola to imbibe the concoctions. Last week Mokola told a Taung rally that Mochoboroane is stealing his thunder.

He accused the Young Turk of stomping his turf in stolen shoes. Mokola said both the shoes and the turf belong to him.
“My friend Mochoboroane must stop wearing big shoes that do not fit him,” Mokola said.
“People should not dance with shoes that do not belong to them”.

Mokola was livid that Mochoboroane is stealing his ideas and passing them as his.
That way Mochoboroane has been able to steal Mokola’s thunder for bringing electricity to villages.

The allegation is that Mochoboroane hides somewhere in the Taung hills and waits for Mokola to start a project in the area.
Then when Mokola is done with the projects he descends to the villages, drum in hand, claiming to be the one who did the work.

It takes months for word of Mochoboroane’s thievery to get to Mokola because he is too busy with the mess in the coalition government.
By the time he gets a chance to leave his babysitting chores in the government, Mochoboroane will be basking in stolen glory.
The villagers will be singing his name over hopose while imploring his ancestors to give him more years. Prayers would have been uttered for Mochoboroane. Songs of praise would have been composed for him.

No villager will believe Mokola when he says it was him who brought them power.
To the villagers it is Mokola who is bum-jiving in stolen shoes. He is the desperate politician pinching Mochoboroane’s ideas.
Mochoboroane has denied such treachery but Muckraker thinks there is some truth in Mokola’s allegations. What she will not accept is Mokola’s overdone grumbling. He has no monopoly over politricks. In

politics there is nothing horribly wrong with nicking both ideas and credit.
Politicians do it all the time. It doesn’t matter who builds the road or clinic as long as you can convince villagers that it was you. What matters is how you sell your lies to the villagers.

If your story is convincing then you are the one who delivered the goods. A seasoned politician, Mokola should have learned that trick by now. Muckraker suspects he knows the game and has played it for decades but is just bamboozled by the skill and speed with which Mochoboroane is doing it.
He has been accustomed to outwitting the dunderheads in the congress movement for decades. Now he has met his match. Game on!

And it’s not as if Mochoboroane is using a brand new trick. For years, Lesotho’s politicians have stolen credit for bridges, roads, schools and clinics built by donors.
They are known to shamelessly hog the limelight at handover ceremonies.
The donor’s name is mentioned as a footnote after hours of saying “my government”, “my ministry” and “my party”. The real sponsors are elbowed off the podium as politicians stuff the stolen credit into their pockets.

Even if the benefactors try to emphasise that it is their ideas and money being used the minister will always twist the facts. It is not for seniority that ministers speak last at handover ceremonies.
It is meant for them to have the last word to leave their indelible lies about them or government being the brains behind a project.

Mokola, therefore, has no right whingeing about Mochoboroane’s tricks.
In any case, Mochoboroane can also say that Mokola should not be claiming credit for government projects because he is not using his own money. He didn’t pay for even a plug in the electricity project.

The real sponsors are the taxpayers from whom the government gets the money. Mochoboroane also has a right to claim some credit because he is part of the government by virtue of being an MP.
Because the taxpayers are not there to claim the thunder they deserve anyone in government can steal it.
It’s a fair game. Mokola should sharpen his propaganda skills instead of screaming about Mochoboroane. Neither the shoes nor the turf are his. Let’s play!

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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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