Connect with us


So what!



PUNCH a Mosotho and he will bellow. ‘M’e oe! But pinch him and he will use a gun or a knife to send you to meet your Maker.

Steal a few coins from him and he will dispatch you to your ancestors, pronto. Steal millions from them, like Simon Thebe-Ea-Khale did not so years ago, and they just cry with hands over their heads. That is just how we are.

We are incapable of reacting accordingly. We make mountains out of mole hills.
This month a non-issue has been sneaked onto the national agenda. Someone somewhere, possibly carrying an empty head or high on a Grade ‘A’ of something illegal, decided it’s time to kick up a fuss about the number of political parties in Lesotho.

Nyoe, Nyoe, nyoe, we have too many parties in this country, some of the excitable souls preached. Nyoe, nyoe, nyoe, nyoe they are a threat to our democracy. Blah, blah, blah Lesotho is too small for 26 or 27 parties.

Nyoe, Nyoe, they add neither grass nor trees to the political landscape. My foot! How such drivel gets concocted in someone’s head before it is emitted through the mouth is a mystery crying out to be revealed by the many ngakas and fake prophets who pervade our streets.

For the record, Muckraker cannot stand loudmouths except herself because she is a licenced blabbermouth. The uncertified chatterboxes in our midst have been manufacturing the brouhaha about Lesotho having too many political parties.

Behind this artificial storm is a flawed reasoning propped up by dubious examples.
America, they say with crimson eyes, has two parties for a population of 300 million. Look at Australia and the United Kingdom, the say with gusto as if they have been struck by a Eureka moment.
In their legendary naivety, journalists like to join the chorus. A discord that ruptures our eardrums is what we get.

Some have even written editorials about the issue. One columnist, who labours under the illusion that people still take her as seriously as she does herself, has been stuck on this issue like a broken vinyl.

Sadly, no one has bothered to whisper to her that it’s no longer fun. So what if there are zillions of political parties in a country of two million?

Ironically, that ‘so what question’ is one our so-called commentators, journalists, analysts and many of similar stripe have never bothered to ask. Yet it is the one that should guide every argument, article or radio programme.

The next time you find yourself being lured into such a mundane debate you must slap yourself and ask “So what?”

You see, democracy at its most rudimental level is about peoples’ choices. Therefore, anyone who sees something wrong with people forming political parties is a closeted dictator.
It’s worse when they claim to be democrats or have their own political party.  We can have political parties for rats, cows, pigs, goats and lizards.

Morons, idiots, psychos and perverts are allowed to form their own political parties.
Why should they not when there is no proof that those already leading the other parties do not fall into one those categories.

How would you define that bearded politician for instance? There is nothing to him apart from his well-documented grudge with the shaving machine. Give the man a razor blade, please!

Muckraker did not call the man any names. It’s just that it takes truckloads of courage to run a party whose only supporters are your relatives.

Still, that doesn’t mean his is a totally useless party or that it should be wiped off the face of this country or that parties that might turn out to be as pathetic as his should be clobbered before they are formed.

To do either of those would be to sabotage democracy as we know it. Methinks the number of political parties has nothing to do with the price of bread.

It is a pointless debate whose ultimate destination is boredom. After spending hours shouting our voices croaky over the issue we will find that we have achieved zilch. Zippo! It’s a shivoo that has no dancing, drinks, music or singing.

In this debate what moves is only time and not distance. The upsetting reality is that this is a ‘debate’ manufactured by pseudo-elites who have convinced themselves that they know what is best for the people.

Muckraker is talking about those poorly educated nincompoops used to lecturing villagers about everything. It turns out that the people who vote, those whose votes really decide who stays in State House, have no use for such tosh.

To them the noise from the pseudo-elites is just a fart waiting to be blown away by a breeze. That is because they know how to sift through the morass of political parties. They have the tenacity to hold their noses and dip their hands into the septic tank.

And even they pull out a maggot of a political party that is their business and choice. The pseudo-elites can eat their hearts out. The ‘experts’ can fume until donkeys are wearing miniskirts but that will not change a thing.

It’s not as if the big parties are offering anything substantial. They are all selling hokum.  Without exception, all are flogging warm water at a market. They are rotten fruits of nationalist and congress trees.

They all stink. Yeh, I said it! And all you can do is ask ‘who the hell does she think she is’ as if that will soothe your roiled heart. Keep at it for that is a national hobby: Asking for the credentials of those who have said something instead of looking at the import of what has been said.

We are a country that will investigate someone’s totem, sexuality, marriage status, academic qualification and even salary before we digest what he has to say.

The result is that we confuse status for substance, positions for qualifications and voyeurism for acumen.

Yet when more clowns want to climb this wagon of mediocrity we scream as if someone has set a fire on our behinds.

Right now there are those who are yelping incessantly about the number of political parties. Hooray, we have found more hogwash to keep our mouths busy.

Meanwhile those we elevated to be our leaders, whether in government or opposition, are busy bungling with vim. They are frog-marching this country to the top of Thabana-Ntlenyane from where they will shove it downhill.

That is what they have done exceptionally well since this country gained its right to have a flag, a national anthem and put a black face in the State House. They call it independence.
And what do we make of their tomfoolery? Well, we sing, dance, whistle and ululate. That is what we are in the political sphere: donors of votes and court jesters.

Let the silliness spread, unfettered. Years from now we will sit under a peach tree and ponder about where we went wrong.

Botswana and Namibia would have graduated into developed countries. All we will say is if, if, if and if.

We must pray that by then there will still be a country called Lesotho. Muckraker will not bet her last kobo on that one.

Continue Reading


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


Continue Reading


The Market of nonsense



You are wrong if you think The Market’s statement about the alleged rape in their toilets is just terrible public relations or some error of judgment.
The statement reflects society’s attitude towards rape victims and women in general. That much is clear in the statement’s tone.

The statement says the alleged victim was “heavily intoxicated” but the truth is that its author was drunk from both something illegal and prejudice.
Even someone who had drunk all the beer, ciders, cocktails, whisky, gin and brandy in The Market would not come up with such a statement. This is top-notch BS rehearsed over years and expertly mastered. The Makhadzi dance to the alleged victim’s trauma.
But there is more to show their contempt for the alleged victim.
The one-page statement mentions the alleged victim’s name five times. Five!
It has 11 sentences and mentions the victim’s name in five of them.
It is unethical to mention rape victims by name but The Market did it anyway because they probably wanted to remind everyone that she is “that woman”.
You can bet your last January kobo that some dunderheads will justify naming her on the basis that she had already identified herself by posting the incident on social media. Nonsense!
The Market had no right to identify her by name in their statement.
They didn’t seek her consent. And even if they did, it’s still unethical.
To see that mentioning her name five times was not an innocent mistake you have to check how many times the statement mentions her alleged attacker‘s name. Zero!
This is despite that the alleged victim had revealed his name, or at least part of it, on social media. They call him “a staff member of one of the establishments at Maseru” and a “gentleman”.
They don’t even say the man is from one of the establishments at Maseru Mall because that would instantly narrow the list and expose him.
So they resort to saying “Maseru” as if Maseru City is synonymous with Maseru Mall. The idea was to keep his identity as vague as possible. Even if the alleged victim had not mentioned his name The Market knew him because the statement says he is “well known to The Market staff”.
There is a method to the madness here. The Market was at pains to protect the alleged attacker while loudly shouting the victim’s name. Ideally, neither the victim nor the suspect should have been mentioned by name. She is a victim of rape and the suspect was yet to appear in court.
Those with an eye for detail might have also noticed that The Market unashamedly tries to pretend to have suddenly discovered the woman’s rape allegations on her Facebook page. She reported to their staff soon after the alleged incident.
Muckraker will end this depressing story with one more observation.
The Market’s statement mentions “toilets” as if they have many toilets.
The reality is that it’s one toilet for men and women. The main entrance is the same and so is the washing area.
On busy nights you can use either of the cubicles. Muckraker has seen men budging into the women’s cubicle and vice-versa. “Hona le motho!” is a common scream in that toilet.
Muckraker has bumped into men with open zips and women pulling up their pants in the washing area. Women fixing their bras bump heads with men tucking in their shirts.
Whoever designed that toilet has a brain the size of the punctuation mark at the end of this sentence.
There are no words for those who thought it fit to be used by their patrons.
Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuuu


Continue Reading


Is Kabi a real lekoloane?



Is Kabi a real lekoloane? That is not a trick question so don’t bother scratching your stressed head.
Even the goats in Matatiele, where he is alleged to have been initiated, know he is not a real lekoloane.
They know what he did last December and are as disgusted as the other makoloane who rightly feel he has cheated his way to the title.

The Matatiele goats know that other initiates had to spend at least five weeks at the initiation school to earn the honour of being called a lekoloane.
The leadership of the national initiation committee says claiming to be a lekoloane after just 72 hours at an initiation school is “unacceptable”.
Muckraker will call it fraud until Kabi proves otherwise.
Muckraker is not saying this to humiliate Kabi. He is a good fella but the stubborn reality is that he didn’t complete the course and therefore has no business pretending to be qualified.
It’s not as if Kabi entered the school with credits from another school. There was no transfer letter.
If there is a letter he should name his former principal.
He cannot claim to have attended initiation classes through Zoom and then went to complete the course with some practicals for 72 hours. He didn’t do distance learning because initiation schools are not UNISA.
There is no crash course in initiation school. That he qualified for mature entry doesn’t mean he could just sneak into the school hours before graduation and then claim to be a certified lekoloane.
The issue is not whether Kabi believes he is a real lekoloane because that doesn’t matter. Being in a plane doesn’t make you a pilot even if you scream to be regarded as one.
Muckraker has visited NUL’s law school but cannot claim to be a lawyer. She has joined the wires on her phone charger but is no electrician.
The real Makoloane are furious because he has cheated his way to their title and wants to be treated as their equal. They are right. Yet what Kabi has done is more serious than stealing a title. He has corrupted the institution of initiation.
He had no excuse for pulling the 72-hour trick at the initiation school.
Parliament was closed, they had dismally failed to topple Uncle Sam and his party is dead. He cannot claim he was busy running the ABC because Feselady and her hubby are still in charge.
For the past week, Muckraker has been wondering why Kabi could deliberately inflict such dishonour on himself.
The answer is that Kabi is entitled like other politicians. He wants to have the best for his minimum effort.
They want to earn the best perks but still claim to be the people’s humble servants. They want the people to vote for them for merely being present or promising something.
When held to the highest standards they point to the incompetence of other politicians.
Their favourite refrain is “at least….”
Kabi desperately wanted to be a lekoloane but was not prepared to put in the work.
The second part of the answer is that Kabi, like other politicians, thought he could get away with it. It’s an attitude informed by the general contempt politicians have for those they believe are beneath them.
It’s just that he has underestimated the resolve of other initiates to protect their institution from fraudsters and imposters.
Now he will be remembered as a political leader who was caught, pants down, masquerading as a lekoloane. The national initiation committee has said he is not wanted near an initiation school and if he is seen in the vicinity he will be forced to repeat the course.
Muckraker thinks “repeat” is not the right word. He will be starting from Grade 1, doing the ‘a, e, i, o, u’ of initiation school.
Kabi is worse than a high school dropout because dropouts don’t show up for graduation.
He is worse than those who insist on using the honorary doctorate title because, at least, that title is given voluntarily. There is nothing called an honourary lekoloane. You are either or not.
Those who cheat in exams are way better than him because, at least, they would have attended classes and qualified for exams but are just too daft. Kabi didn’t attend classes or take the exam.
He just arrived when others were rehearsing their graduation songs, got himself smeared with ochre and proudly walked to the podium to be capped.
Kabi is welcome to call himself a lekoloane but he will be a lekoloane in his head and not to anyone else.
He might as well have spent the 72 hours plotting to topple Uncle Sam because he will never be a lekoloane even if he smears himself with a Maqalika of ochre and recites initiation songs a million times.
A man who is not initiated is called a leqai but what do we call one who tries to cheat their way to initiation?
Let’s call him a kabi. And that is a real title because it is earned. Finally, oh finally, Kabi has invented something useful. Hooray!
Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuuu


Continue Reading