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The mokulubete boys and girls



THE next ground-breaking study in Lesotho should investigate why decent men and women transform into idiots when they become ministers.

It’s as if they deposit their brains into a huge bin before getting into cabinet.
Smart people suddenly become dunderheads. The honest become pathological liars. The decent turn into arrogant morons.

And nearly all of them develop some nauseating mannerisms that make them look doubly foolish. Suddenly they want someone to open doors for them.
They can’t carry their own bags. They now have a pompous spring in the step.

They pretend to forget names of their classmates.
But it is the spectacle that happens when they are in a supermarket that tickles Muckraker. Last week Muckraker watched one minister walking in a supermarket with his bodyguards and aides. His hands were stuck in his pockets as the aide pushed the trolley. All he did was point at the things he wanted the aide to pick.

It was such a sad sight watching a man with an oversized suit pretending to have suddenly lost the ability to pick his own bananas and phoofo.
The aide dutifully obeyed the orders because he honestly thought pushing the trolley and picking groceries was part of his job.

It is weird that men and women who would haggle over the price of moroho with nkhono in the bus stop area are now behaving like kings.
Watching the drama, Muckraker could not help but notice the irony of it all.
Those with money and real power have no time to shop for tomatoes in Shoprite.

They simply send their maid to do the shopping.
So why do our ministers partake in such mundane activities like shopping for bread.

Well, the first reason is that they want to show us that they have arrived.
The second is that they fear that their aides will pinch their change.
Third, they really have nothing useful to do with their time. A minister is one of the most underemployed, overpaid and overrated civil servant.

Yet we should not be overly disgusted because such pretence will soon come to an abrupt end. In a few months these men and women will come back to Mother Earth. The poverty that comes with falling from power will drag then back to their senses, kicking and screaming.
They will soon be common Basotho men and women.

We will meet in the streets and shops. Together we will be checking the expiry dates of rice and milk at Chinese shops. We will all share the Mokhorotlo FOOT number plate. Power, as they say, is temporary. You can only rent it while waiting for the next tenant. The countdown has begun. Tiktoktiktok….

The transformation that happens when a politician becomes a minister is breath-taking. Men and women who were jostling for makoenya and chips at Monathi Café suddenly claim that such national delicacies give them a running tummy.

Those who grew up gulping mokulubete in Qaqatu wells walk around with bottled water. You can see from the way they sip from the bottle that this is something new to them.
They are used to kneeling on the banks of Senqu River imbibing the cloudy waters like cows. Little wonder that most of them are hopelessly incompetent.

The mind is traumatised by the sudden change in diet, manners and environment. At some point it shuts down and stops working.
Their bodies are shocked by the dramatic change in nutrition. It takes years for a body fed on hopose for 50 years to adjust to wine and whiskey.
A body used to sekopo needs time to adapt to bacon. The same applies when it changes from papa to avocado. It takes time to acquire and appreciate the taste of cheese. The transition from motoho to Ceres is not easy.

Sometimes the body is so shocked that it expands uncontrollably.
That, dear reader, is how ministers get from size 32 to 44 in weeks.
Some will take to the gym when their bodies start overwhelming them. You see them huffing and puffing on the treadmills while their bodyguards and aides mill around.

You want to laugh but then you realise that this is serious business. This is a man under pressure. You will be watching a man who forgot that food is not his friend.
A man whose body has been abused by food. A man burdened by the results of his gluttony.

All this is to say that being a minister comes with perks and a pack.
The perks are the good salary, allowances and a gang of aides.
The pack, of course, is the overflowing tummy.
And that all explains why nothing much happens in cabinet. Imagine where this country would be if all those in cabinet would work as hard as they did back in the villages.

This country would benefit immensely from a combination of little food and hard work. This recipe of too much food and little work is dangerous to the country. Luckily, the country doesn’t suffer alone. The ministers too will feel the impact of being indolent while chawing copious amounts of food. Fair and square!

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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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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