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Run for dear life!



A man staggers into a Maseru police station, blood oozing from his head and belly.
He begs to see the officer-in-charge. His plea granted, the man is ushered into an office at the corner of the station.
A chubby officer is perched on a chair behind a pile of files.
“Sit in that corner ntate. I don’t want your blood messing my visitor’s chair. And as you deposit your poor bum on my floor please start telling me what brings you into my esteemed office,” the senior officer says.

“I was having dinner when three thugs armed with machetes barged into my house and attacked me,” the man says as he squirms in pain.
“Oh, I see! So how can we help you if you have not brought either an eyewitness or one of your attackers with you?” quips the irritated officer.
“I am here to report my case and make a statement,” the man says.

The officer pulls out a notepad and then tells the man to start telling his story. Remembering stories of police officers struggling to write statements in Sesotho the man insists that the officer records his statement in English.  And so he begins his story in Sesotho while the officer scribbles furiously in English. All is well until the officer asks the man what he was eating when he was attacked.

“Papa,” says the man. “Ntate, you don’t just eat papa alone. You eat it with something,” the officer shots back.
“Papa ka lepu,” the man says.  The officer stares at the man as he ponders what to call lepu in English.
Unable to find an English word for lepu the officer drops the pen and says: “Ntate, I think you have to change the relish. You can say you were having papa with meat or moroho or eggs. This lepu thing of yours is irritating. I get a feeling that you want to embarrass me now.”

“But that is what I was eating. I am not going to lie because you don’t know English,” says the man.
At that moment the officer jumps off his chair, rolls his sleeves and slaps the man before calling his juniors to teach the man a lesson.
This man, the officer tells his juniors, has come with a story so complicated that it looks dubious.
“I have reasonable suspicion that he is the one who attacked the three men he claims to have attacked him. There could be three dead bodies in a ditch somewhere. Get this man to spit it out.”
So the man is dragged to a cell where he is tortured for hours.

His body numb with pain from the brutal torture, the man eventually changes his story.  “I killed three men then stabbed myself on the head and stomach,” he says.
“Ah, now you are talking. Now let’s get your papa story right. You said you were having papa with lepu right?” the senior officer asks. When the man insists on his lepu story the torture intensifies.
Eventually, he gives in. “No, I never said lepu. I said I had papa with eggs before I attacked the men,” the man says.

“Yes, I knew the true story was hidden somewhere in your bones. It just had to be squeezed out. Here we make people bleed the truth,” the senior officer says, thoroughly pleased with himself.
The case was hurried to the courts where an angry judge dully acquitted the man on account of the violently induced confession and utter lack of evidence.
The man’s attackers still walk the streets, as free as birds.

The police deny that they laid even a finger on the man. Instead they insist he slipped and knocked his head on the floor. As for the man’s confession, the police say he made it after a strong prayer by one of the officers. The story will sound like a silly joke to those who don’t know our police force is infested with some malcontents. As deputy police spokesperson senior Inspector Lerato Motseki, Muckraker’s sister from another mother, belongs to a department that specialises in defending the police against public attacks.
It is not unconceivable that she genuinely believed all those accusing the police of torture and brutality were out to tarnish the institution’s reputation.

But last Monday her colleagues proved her wrong and in a vicious way. For allegedly revealing the details of the case of the late Lipolelo Thabane, Senior Inspector Motseki got the beating of her life.
She claims that seven male colleagues beat her with fists and suffocated her with a plastic. All this happened as she was half naked. Muckraker’s blood was boiling as she read Motseki’s ordeal. Yet that unbridled anger could not blind her to the irony that pervaded her story.
“I broke no law and they are the ones who have broken it,” Motseki said. “I challenge anybody who said I broke any law for making known the RCI number (of the murder investigation).”
In trying to tell her story Motseki was tripping herself. She was insinuating, perhaps unwittingly so, that if revealing the case number was wrong then her torture is justifiable.
The point is that the police have no business using excessive force on suspects, even those caught with hands dripping of blood, was lost on her.
The gem, however, came right at the end of her story.
A journalist asked police spokesman Superintendent Mpiti Mopeli if he is aware that Motseki, his subordinate, had been tortured by fellow police officers. His answer was astounding.
Mopeli said he was not aware that Motseki had been tortured or arrested.
At least Mopeli did not claim that Motseki fell off a chair. He simply said he doesn’t know about the torture. That is somewhat an improvement on the pathetic answers police officers give in court when sued for torture.
There are important lessons to be learnt from Motseki’s tribulation. The first is the obvious one that we should all run when we see the police. It is in your interest to avoid the police because you never know when they can decide to go rogue.
The second is that spokespersons should never deny things on behalf of their organisations because they really don’t know what really happens in corridors when they are sleeping.
The only person you can speak for with confidence is yourselves. There is no need to deny things you don’t know.
If you spin things people will not believe it when you tell them that your head is now spinning after you were clobbered by your comrades.

Muckraker is sick to the back teeth with the nauseating profile pictures women post on Facebook and Whatsapp. In recent weeks she has learned to read between the lines. When a woman says something about loving her husband and family it means there is a storm in the marriage.
When they post some motivational quotation that’s a sign that they are either broke or they suspect that some vulture is after her man. When they say something about God, you should know they have reached a dead-end.
They are now seeking some intervention from somewhere. In other words they are admitting that they are pathetic failures incapable of sorting the mess in their life. A picture of a husband is meant to mark territory.
A picture from a holiday she had years ago is supposed to remind enemies that she once had a good time and they should not write her off as yet.
The point is that there is a sinister motive behind every profile picture or update.
Women, by their very nature, rarely do things for themselves. It’s almost always about the next woman. It’s the same reason why they spend hours in front of a mirror.
The problem with profile pictures, though, is that nobody really cares about your state of mind when you posted them.
So you can insult a sister who rarely looks at your profile.
Or even if she checks it, there is always a possibility that she might not get the subtle point of the message. A majority of people don’t know how to connect events.
For instance, they will probably never pick that the verse you plonked on the profile is related to what they did yesterday or last year.
There are others like Muckraker who just don’t give a rat’s behind about your whinning.
Why bother with women who just don’t understand that this world is not their mother’s island?
So as you rummage through your phone for biting verses and quotes, others are marching on, unperturbed by your pathetic cries.
Which makes profile updates a lazy way of communicating with friends or enemies.
Muckraker prefers to buy Nchoathi and sing profanities to her enemies.
There is no room for misinterpretation when you are insulting a person for more than an hour on a call uninterrupted by the vagaries of a measly budget.

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Machonisa on fire



It was only a matter of time before the so-called socialist party owned by a machonisa started unravelling. Now the capitalist owner of the Socialist Revolutionaries is lashing out at anyone who dares to tell him to behave himself.

Teboho Mojapela is moving around his party’s structures with a phafa, leaving his victims scratching their bums.

Muckraker has no sympathy for his victims. They deserve what they are getting.

Having deluded themselves to think that they are stockholders in the SR, they should now enjoy their harvest of thorns. They were guests at Mojapela’s house but tried to tell him how to arrange his furniture and what to eat.

He is telling them to go find somewhere to play because the SR is his personal property.

That the SR is in Mojapela’s armpits has always been clear. He formed and funded it.

It’s just that some were too naïve to realise the obvious.

Thabo Shao packed his bags and left after Mojapela whipped him out of his house. He now mumbles something about Mr Machonisa being a dictator. He says that as if it’s a discovery to be shared with the rest of the world.

Yet anyone with something between their ears would have known that a machonisa who brags about beating his naughty workers could not possibly be a democratic leader.

Only Shao and a few dimwits didn’t know that.

Anyway, Shao’s exit will not change much because he just doesn’t matter. He is a political nonentity who overrates himself.

What interests Muckraker is Mr Machonisa’s nerve to call Shao an uneducated rascal. That hurts because it’s an insult coming from someone who has made it a mission to give education a bad name. Mr Machonisa’s definition of someone educated is Tlohelang Aumane. Hear, hear, and hear. Phew!

Does anyone remember Aumane saying anything either educated or educative?

Muckraker only knows him as a political jezebel incapable of staying in one political bed for more than 15 minutes. He is always itching to be married to the next political party.

Muckraker is tempted to say Aumane is politically horny but she won’t say it for fear of offending the oversensitive souls. The kind that claims to have almost suffocated to death after someone farted in a hall.

But Mr Machonisa doesn’t care about Aumane’s habits because he thinks he is renting a brilliant political mind. A few things will happen in that union.

Mr Machonisa will soon realise that Aumane is just an empty-headed political slay queen always looking for the next partner to get him Ice Tropez (May lightning strike whoever drinks that but cannot afford it. Fire!)

Aumane will realise that Mr Machonisa is a moneyed but unrefined village bumpkin whose mouth has a terrible habit of rebelling against his brain.

Mr Machonisa will find the next brain to rent while Aumane will be putting on his stilettos to find another political lover to smooch on the Maseru streets.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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The queen Mampara



Muckraker once promised to say nothing about the Feselady but that Mampara’s mouth keeps running as if it’s connected to Muela Hydro Power Station.

The Feselady told some ABC members who visited her home that she will not associate with the party until it distances itself from the remark of suspended spokesman Montoeli Masoetsa. What made her relapse to her Drama Queen ways was Masoetsa’s attack on her and her hubby. He said the ABC lost because of Uncle Tom and Feselady.

That simple truth, known to even donkeys in Qaqatu, pierced her cheeky heart and got her tummy roiling. She now says she will never wear the ABC’s regalia until the party apologises. Don’t laugh. If this was a threat, the Feselady has lost her touch.

She used to beat people for merely looking at her in a funny way or calling her hubby.

She would harass government officials in public. Now she has been reduced to threatening to avoid yellow dresses and T-shirts to fix the ABC. Boom! Boom! The mighty Drama Queen has fallen.

What remains is just the fading memories of power sexually transmitted.

The transmitter of that power has long ceased to function literally and figuratively.

But the Feselady is too engrossed with herself to realise that she has neither the power nor the capacity to make threats to anyone. She rules only her home, yard and a few idiots still clinging to her.

It takes some sophistication to read irony and the Feselady doesn’t have even a pinch of it. Her people in Mokhotlong rejected her when she tried to sneak into parliament via that hollow popularity garnered through matrimony.

ABC supporters think she is just an uncultured blabbermouth. That she thinks anyone would lose sleep over her threats to burn the party’s regalia or turn them into fatukus is comical. Her tantrums will not change a thing. Her boycott might be the best thing to happen to the party since the October 7 defeat.

Why would the few remaining ABC supporters worry about a garrulous charlatan boycotting their party?

The last time she was wearing the ABC like a wig, it lost more than 200 000 voters, flew to the opposition benches and became a smallanyana party. Nothing hurts more than that. So bring it on mummy!

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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The RFP’s thokolosi



The RFP leaders should fire whoever is advising them on how to deal with constituencies demanding a conference to elect a new executive committee. Their response to those demands has been a comedy of errors.
It’s been nothing short of kindergarten blunders unbefitting of people who sold themselves as the smart ones to lead the country out of darkness.
The secretary general told those bellowing for a conference to take a chill pill and wait for Uncle Sammy to give directions.
Uncle Sammy said those people or their kind are divisive, dragging the party off its agenda and incapable of understanding his dream for the country.
Other leaders have said those clamouring for a conference can go plead their case to a mountain because the current national executive committee will run the party for another six pregnancies.
Never mind the words they use, the leaders are telling the members that they will not be told how to manage a party they started. This is to say the leaders will not be taking instructions from the riffraff. Yes, I said it! Those rubbed the wrong way can curse.
Someone should round up the RFP’s executive committee members, lock them up in a room, throw away the keys and spank them until they understand politics.
They are clearly struggling to make a distinction between a political party and private companies. You would think this is common sense but the human mind is always slow to banish habits.
The RFP leaders were used to being business owners, not political leaders. That is why they cannot understand why anyone who wasn’t there when they started the party can tell them how to manage it.
But make no mistake, reality will grab them by the noses and eyelids back to their senses. They will be taught three simple lessons. The first is that political parties are voluntary entities in which power lies with the members.
The second is that party members are not employees you can just instruct to jump around because you pay their wages.
The third, which is more important, is that the only time a political party is a personal property is when it’s an idea in the founder’s head. Once registered and people join, the members own the party together with its structures, leaders and vision.
The other problem with the RFP’s responses to the demands for an elective conference is that they keep pretending that those three constituencies are just rogues out to sabotage the party. Nothing can be further from the truth.
Those constituencies are small thokolosis of someone right there in the party’s echelons. They represent a growing faction in the party. That faction that is a thokolosi was birthed when the party was still a spirit. It was nurtured when the party was registered and continued to grow during the campaign.
By the time the RFP became government, it was a full-blown thokolosi vigorously doing bedroom things to produce more thokolosis. Now it is granddaddy thokolosi living in the RFP’s armpits.
There is a simple way to find the thokolosi’s owner.
Just round them up and beat them until their parents start wailing. If the parents don’t come out the thokolosis will run to them for protection.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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