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Season of silliness



MUCKRAKER has heard a sorry story of a senior politician who is donating shoes to poor villagers. He says he is doing it out of his goodness of the heart yet we all know he is begging for votes.

Sadly, his party has squandered so much political capital that it’s no longer electable. We are getting to a time when it might be considered illegal or a sign of mental sickness to support his party.  His party has been buried in an avalanche of political propaganda. Now voters speak of it with twisted faces full of disgust. You know the face you have when chewing ginger.
Or the face most women have when they try to fit in by trying to drink a wine they have never tasted. Or the face of a villager tasting cheese for the first time.

Muckraker wonders if his effort to cover the cracked feet of the poor villagers will change his waning political fortunes. Voters have long concluded that his is a party of thievery and other terrible things. He could donate thousands of shoes but still lose.

Yet that is not how it should be. Surely when you give a man shoes he should just be grateful enough to repay you with his votes. As it turns out, the problem with this politician is that he is being advised by slow minds. There is a way to make sure those who get his shoes don’t betray him when they enter the voting booth. The solution lies in keeping the voter dependent on him.

The only way to do that is to donate one shoe per voter. Give each villager the left shoe and promise to return with the right shoe when you have won the election.
If they vote the ‘wrong’ way they will be stuck with one shoe.

And there is no way they can make a plan because they will all be having shoes for the same side. Phew!
Sometimes all you need is a little bit of common sense. Now say “Thank you aunt Muck”.

Muckraker wishes Size Two a speedy recovery. That is if reports that he is under the weather are correct. He was probably just going for a scheduled medical check-up.
We should not have qualms with that for the man has seen better days.
Any body over 50 should be constantly checked for defects.

It is Size Two’s right to take care of the body that works his money. For him medical check-ups are even more important because of the torrid time he has experienced since he insisted on coming out of retirement.

The man had never been allowed to rest since 2015. From the first day he was fire- fighting. At some point it looked like he had been sent to put out a raging fire with his saliva.
General K gave him a headache, SADC gave him nightmares and the opposition was sitting on him like a tonne of bricks.

Meanwhile Mokola was up to some high jinks. The Americans kept the fire on his behind ablaze. Then there was the economy that just refused to start and the hunger that camped in the villagers because of drought.

He had just gone from tending his camels to handling hot national issues. So bear with the man when he takes some time off to see his doctor. Go slow on the rumour mongering, Size Two is just fine.

What we should question is why he has to cross the border to see a doctor as if we live in some remote village.
Not that we are really a modern country. But we do have doctors here and a hospital that cost us M1 billion to build.

Unless this was a special medical case there is absolutely no reason for Size Two to cross the border to see a doctor.
The point here is that he should have faith in the health system his government has created. It is his government that hires doctors, nurses and buys medicines.
The least he can do is experience what everyone else has to endure when they visit the so-called government hospitals.

Until you spend a day waiting to see a doctor at Tsepong you will not understand why people are pissed with that hospital. Until a nurse tells you they have run out of a painkiller you will not understand why people are bitter with government hospitals.

Size Two should have just gone to a government hospital for his check-up if he thinks Basotho are being squeaky wheels.
Muckraker wonders if he would have driven or flown all the way to Johannesburg if he was paying from his pocket.

The election season is upon us. It is the season of madness. The season of silliness. Get ready to be entertained, wowed and disgusted at the same time. Prepare to gobble the unpalatable lies our politicians will foist on you.

Take heart for a cyclone of propaganda has come to our shores. To survive it you should have a strong sense of humour and a functioning tosh detector. Anything short of those will leave you bruised.

While waiting for the political drama of elections to start Muckraker had stopped paying her DStv subscriptions.
Nothing beats Lesotho’s political theatre when it comes to entertainment. The problem now is that the drama is taking too long to start.
So Muckraker has to resort to our pathetic radio stations for fun.

Unfortunately these days there isn’t much to enjoy on radio because political parties have taken over every programme. For three weeks now we have been bombarded with the same old bunkum about there being no money for the elections. Where is the money, they ask. How will we fund the election?

There is no money for elections. There is no budget for the elections. Blah, blah and blah. None of those running their mouths on the radio stations seem to understand anything about government finances. The blabbermouths cannot even manage their own finances yet they have the nerve to pretend to be experts on the national budget.

The biggest ignoramuses are the illiterate MPs who keep harping on about this money issue as if it will resurrect the 9th parliament.
Impressionable minds are being fed the same old discredited BS that there is no money for elections.

Now listen carefully you small minds hurting our ears with the mumbo jumbo. Government money is not kept in a tattered bra like your grandmother’s pennies. It is not kept under a pillow or an old tin under a bed.

The absence of a budget does not mean there is no money. A budget is not money but a mere list of things you want to do with the money. So an election is going to happen in this country on June 3.

MPs should worry about where they will find money after losing the elections instead of having sleepless nights about where the money for the elections will come from.
After June 3 the government will still have money but you might just be as poor as a church mouse.

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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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