ON what bomb are some political activists sitting? Some have been perambulating Maseru, armed with hare eng Thaba Tseka bags full of anger, insults and hate speech.
The other day one was having a go at United States Ambassador, Mathew Harrington. Frothing at the mouth, he said Harrington should be shown a shortcut to the nearest border. If the government doesn’t get him out then we will give him the boot, he said as he went for the jugular.
It is not clear who is included in the “we”. What is known for sure is that his mouth has been let loose. Muckraker hopes the excitable activist doesn’t have a puppet master in government. Yet even if he has, he is sure flogging a dead donkey.
Governments are not in the business of taking instructions from political activists bellowing on radio stations. Harrington will not vamoose no matter how loud the activist screams.
There is a horribly wrong perception that the US is desperate to have an embassy in Lesotho. It can do without us. The British left this country and lost nothing. The Irish packed their bags too and didn’t lose anything.
The relationship between the US and Lesotho has long ceased to be that of master and slave (if it was ever that). Muckraker thinks the relationship is more like that of a Sugar Daddy and a nyatsi.
For years the nyatsi has been spoilt rotten by the Sugar Daddy who has renovated her toilet, paved the road to her house and even built clinics for her clansmen. Remember the US$360 million compact Size Two once described as a gift from the ancestors as if our ancestors were ever that rich and generous.
The nyatsi has also been allowed to sell her hand-woven baskets in Sugar Daddy’s village without paying taxes (AGOA).
All these favours have helped the nyatsi grow rotund cheeks and a big bum.
Muckraker therefore doesn’t understand why the nyatsi wants to kick up a storm when the Sugar Daddy demands a little bit of manners and gratefulness. The Sugar Daddy is telling the nyatsi to stop spanking her children with a barbed wire whip and to keep the house clean.
Surely there is nothing wrong with a Blesser telling the Blessee to behave decently. After all, no Blesser blesses without demanding a little bit of say in the Blessee’s affairs.
The blessed loses some independence as soon as she receives the first blessing from the Blesser. The truth in this case is that the nyatsi is at the mercy of the Sugar Daddy.
She cannot send away Harrington, the Sugar Daddy’s representatives in her yard, simply because some talkative cousin is complaining bitterly. The nyatsi can pretend to resist but she knows the Sugar Daddy is in charge.
Are the opposition leaders coming back or not? Muckraker asks this question because of the mishmash of responses from the opposition camp. The problem with our opposition is that it is speaking with too many mouths.
Sister Rantso will open her mouth and say some weird things. She hardly ever says anything illuminating. What she does well is to waffle and complain.
She thinks attacking Size Two every time she opens her mouth will miraculously improve her perennially shallow ideas. The plumb one has never been known for her sophistication. She a simple-minded politician ill-prepared for the acumen that goes with the office she now holds.
True, exile has a way of sapping the energy of even the most vibrant of politicians but in Rantso’s case she was naïve and lethargic before she crossed Mohokare.
She remains unchanged and cannot possibly dream of being anywhere near power unless she clings on to the seams of Uncle Tom’s gown. It boggles the mind why she finds it prudent to open her mouth when she has very little sensible things to say.
Still she does it because it’s clear the opposition camp doesn’t have an official spokesperson.
Enter Cheese Boy, the garrulous spokesperson of the BNP, who has appointed himself spokesperson of the opposition. Journalists know Cheese Boy is not frugal with sound bites.
Thrust a microphone in his face and he will ramble on and on as if his mouth is connected directly to Muella Power Station. That Cheese Boy is confused has never been in doubt. What is startling is the vim with which he shares his confusion with others. He cannot be accused of being stingy when it comes to disseminating his confusion. Blame that on youthful exuberance.
Uncle Tom sleeps a lot these days but he remains capable of mumbling biting profanities when he comes back from dream land. He is a teammate to die for in an insulting match.
His only weakness though is that he tends to forget that the purpose of speaking is to convey a message. He insults when he should cajole and screams when he should whisper. The result is just high sounding words devoid of anything useful.
The only ray of hope in this muddle seems to be Molapo who usually comes up with something sober. Yet he too sometimes cannot resist the temptation to jump on the bandwagon.
The list of opposition spokespersons is growing by day. Just when you think you have managed to sift through the morass Brother Thesele will come up with his on load of baloney (you could say boloney if you want). The most toxic spokespersons though come from a battalion of self-appointed PR managers from the opposition.
All they have to do is find a naïve radio presenter to give them a platform to poop their drivel. Others simply punch a few keys on their computers and dispatch poison into the cyberspace.
The result is a seriously jumbled-up message from the opposition.
So who are we supposed to believe? Well, no one! Muckraker will believe the opposition leaders are coming when they cross Mohakare River. Until then she will just watch the stampede from a distance.
Muckraker is enraged by the shooting of Lloyd Mutungamiri, the editor of Lesotho Times. Such a heinous act is ample illustration of the moral deprivation that has now gripped our country.
At some point we have to draw the line: to say beyond here we cannot do worse, lest this country turns into a jungle that will shock even those perpetrating such violence.
Unfortunately recent history, together with its callous acts, has shown that there is very little to startle those behind such attacks.
It would seem that absolutely nothing will drag such people back to their senses. Each day we move closer to the crag, seemingly oblivious to the fact that we are only making things worse and ours is the only country that will lose. There are moments of madness in the history of any country.
This is our moment.
From it we will learn the value of living in peace and the beauty of tolerance. But to begin that education we should stop the madness first.
We shouldn’t have even started but because we did, through commission and omission, the onus is on us to stop. We owe it to ourselves to stop those behind such dastardly acts.
For that we look to the government from which we require collective action. Muckraker is cocksure that we should never travel the journey we have travelled for the past three years.
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.
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!
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