MUCKRAKER is always reluctant to ‘say I told you so’ when misfortune befalls on those who reject her two cents and her words come to pass.
She is not that gloating auntie who derives pleasure from being vindicated.
But there are times when she cannot resist a few jabs on heads that disobey their ears.
The Revolution for Prosperity (RFP) has just confirmed that it’s a hotchpotch of elites thoroughly convinced that they are Messiahs for Lesotho’s great unwashed.
The cabal thinks the peasants and waged are nothing but tickets to political office.
Don’t scream. Don’t snare. Don’t fume. Listen.
The helicopter party has just announced that it is reserving eleven constituencies for its 11 founding members. So the party’s Super 11 will go to the ballot without being subjected to primary elections.
Those who think this is an injustice worth some shabby placards and vigorous picketing at the party’s offices can go and hang on tomato trees.
The leadership doesn’t want to soil itself by diving into the cesspool that is primary elections.
It has spoken and its word will be obeyed. Their way or the highway.
All of which is to endorse the notorious fact that the RFP is their thing.
The message is clear: if that gets your blood boiling you can form your own party and see if anyone will call you ‘Ngamola’.
Ha u na chopper, ha u na chelete. Ha u na ntja. You are just you, your nose, mouth and nails. Perhaps a blanket. Thola!
The leadership says the idea is to make sure the Fantastic 11 gets into parliament.
Yeh, right! Up-side-down goes the logic of those who think they are smarter than everyone.
The truth is that the Fantastic 11 believe, with every fibre in their beings, that they are above the riffraff.
They don’t want a popularity contest with the poor members of their party because they are not their equals. They know the popularity they claim to have in their constituencies only exists in their heads. It’s a figment of their imagination. The hallucinations of people who don’t use a fatuku to clean their hands. The kind that doesn’t eat at funerals.
Their fear of being embarrassed by villagers in primaries is palpable. Imagine the leader being walloped by a general dealership shop owner.
The stunner who used to run our courts clobbered by a molisana.
The ravishing one who once managed our money bested by a rural teacher.
The former government secretary and minister shown flames by a retired miner.
They know that their money and schooling are not enough to win them the primary elections.
Some members are shedding crimson tears, moaning that the decision is undemocratic.
Yet it is, but there is nothing you can do about it.
You don’t invite yourself into someone’s home and seek to dictate how they should manage it.
My project, my rules.
Muckraker warned them about this reality but they said she was either bitter or high on something illegal. Some malicious fellows said she was speaking like someone had grabbed her big toe.
They didn’t realise that it is they who were drunk with false hope while thinking that clutching on the cocktails of the rich will cure them of poverty.
Now they are farting the gases of tummies full of unfulfilled expectations.
Braaaaaa. Bruuuuuuu. Nasty C, one of Muckraker’s favourites, you played yourself.
This thing is not yours, never was and will never be.
That’s the unadulterated truth. Now, swallow the lump in your throat and follow the leader.
And one last thing: The RFP didn’t invent this game. All parties in Lesotho protect their leadership from internal polls.
The RFP has just been transparent, arrogant and brazen about it.
Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!
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