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.