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Weddings, chargers and our time



WE are living in insanely interesting times.

That is why Muckraker will start with a passionate plea to her enemies.

Here it goes: Comrades, please go slow on the witchcraft for Muckraker wants a few more months to witness this spectacle unfolding before our eyes.

To the friends: Please watch Muckraker’s back and keep the wretched witches at bay so she can live to long enough to see how all this drama will end.

Indeed, this is not the time to kick the bucket. Get sick, get crazy, go hungry or catch an STI, but don’t you dare die.

There is entertainment galore being dished on us, free of charge. There is plenty to make us marvel.

The wedding over the weekend was something else. Maeseah made her enemies green with J. Brightly, she shinned as if to tell those mischievous ladies who have been eyeing Uncle Tom that she has sealed the deal and they must fasten their twitching hearts on a firm leash.

A few weeks ago a Chinese man found himself sitting on the right side of Uncle Tom.

Not even the most powerful sangomas and prophets (false ones included) could have predicted that one. But there is John Xie perched on the high table with a vuvuzela thrust on Uncle Tom’s ear.

Anyone who doubts John’s status as a mover and shaker in this government has a morsel of manure in the head. Either that or they are in Orania.

John is the real McCoy in this government. Muckraker compares him to a universal charger because his title gives him access to any office government.

Anything called a special project falls under him. Uncle Tom can send him to fire a minister, pull a middle finger on an opponent or pinch Zuma’s ears. That is what being a special envoy means.

These are interesting times indeed. Those now in the opposition after masterminding their abrupt fall from grace in May are fuming over John’s appointment.

They have every right to be pissed but in doing so they should leave some room for shame.

It is an open secret that they too were hobnobbing with John when they were in power. No, Muckraker lies. They are still fraternising with him as we speak.

Broke to the bone, some of them are still getting hand-outs from John.

But his help doesn’t come from heaven like manna. There is no free lunch. They too will repay him in kind at some stage.

Let any opposition member who has not received some form of help from John, directly or indirectly, raise a finger. Direct help means you were given a soft loan or you bought groceries on credit from his shop.

Indirect help means your party got some form of help from the man. It doesn’t have to be a campaign sponsorship. So let’s cut the hypocrisy and accept that John is a universal charger that powers every phone.

As Muckraker types these words DJ Waters is holed up somewhere in South Africa, having skipped the country.

His deputy, Tseliso Mokhosi, is in court with a swollen face and bruised wrists. Of course we can predict the reaction from the government and the police. They will say the DJ is running from his own shadow or that the guilty are always afraid.

As for Mokhosi’s black eye they might say he fell off a chair while being interrogated or that he slapped himself so he could accuse the police of torture.

In times like these it is tempting to call Kama what it is: a bitch. Yet before we bum jive we have to remember this is just another chapter in our sad history.

We have a terrible habit of making each other run. Each government comes in clutching its own set of sjamboks with which to whip opponents.

Muckraker is not saying thieves and criminals should not be arrested. It’s just that in this country we have a way of mudding the waters so much that we lose the moral high ground. A simple interrogation ends with blood oozing from a suspect.

Still there is nothing new with what is going on here. We are merely harvesting the seeds we planted several years ago. Those seeds sired those thorns that are now lancing us.

Whoever owns the plantation has the power to harass opponents.

What makes it all infuriating is that deep down in our hearts onlookers like Muckraker have a nagging feeling that those who are now at the end of the long whips do not really deserve our sympathy for they too were aggressors not so long ago.

Lacking from this spectacle pervading our politics and now gripping our country are principles. At some point we must march back to those if we are to avoid a catastrophe.

Muckraker says this because political power is never durable.

Those in power should know that there will come a time when they too will look up to find someone else above them.

They should never be too comfortable or haughty. Muckraker can attest to this after a horrid text she received from one principal secretary (PS) a few years ago.

It would seem that after being appointed PS the man remembered how Muckraker rejected his overtures when they were growing up together in Mafube.

So he gleefully wrote: “Hello Muckraker. I hope this letter finds you in splendid health both physically and emotionally so that you can comprehend it.

Today I found myself going down memory lane back to the days in Mafube when I was courting you. You frowned at me when I was homeless and jobless. I will never forget the arrogant look on your face when you told me to bring you a mountain if I wanted to win your heart. First mop Katse dame dry if you want me to love you, you said cheekily. Those mean words stabbed my heart Muckraker.

That was my heart you were kicking. Anyway, this week I finally gathered the strength to forgive you. Yet that doesn’t mean I will forget how you treated me. Please don’t call or text me. I am in a better place now. The new government has made me a PS while you still wallow in your mediocre job of insulting innocent people for pittances. Enjoy your misery sister. Adios.”

Muckraker pondered for a while before dispatching a short one to the man: “Thank you for the revealing letter. I am thrilled by your new appointment. Might I take it that you will now repay the few hundreds I loaned you as a homeboy? I also hope that you remember that a PS’s tenure is as short as the life of a fly. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Forever prophetic, Muckraker would watch as the man lost his job after two years. He is now pounding the streets of Maseru, low on cash and high on anger.

Poverty has paid him a visit again and this time it has been granted a 99-year lease on his life. Last week the man sent Muckraker another text.

“Although you have made it clear that I have no place in your heart my love for you will never dim. Might I be bothering you too much if I ask for M100 to close some urgent holes in my finances?

Muckraker’s response: Good to hear from you after a long time. Regarding your request I would suggest that Size Two, your former boss, can spare you a few hundreds from his handsome pension. Seeing that he has gone past the age of paying school fees and going to parties, I suppose he will not have a problem finding that money. The man only has his wife and camels to feed. He can adopt you.

That’s the last Muckraker heard from the poor soul.

Muckraker will confess that she doesn’t watch local football, if at all it deserves to be branded as such.

There is something annoyingly wrong with watching 22 men chasing a spherical object in a potato field.

To pretend that those men are playing football is insane. Ours is not even an amateur league. We can’t even call it a boozers’ league.

Still that doesn’t mean some impressionable minds don’t enjoy it. That is why Muckraker is now telling the powers-that-be to get on with the league. All attempts to explain why the league has been delayed have become a hard sell. Something sinister is going on and even baboons have caught up to the lie.



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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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