THERE is absolutely nothing that excites Lady Scrutator more than an event that promises glitz, glamour and an opportunity to be seen.
So imagine my delight when I learnt—quite dramatically—that there was a Moshoeshoe’s Day Horse Race in Peka this past Saturday.
Finally, I thought, an occasion worthy of that Dior dress—the one I acquired during a media summit in Italy in 2023 and have been desperately waiting to unleash upon unsuspecting Basotho.
Naturally, such an outing required proper financial planning. I made a swift pilgrimage to Mashonisa JP’s Maseru branch and secured a few thousands of maloti—strictly for aesthetic purposes, of course. A VVIP ticket was non-negotiable. One does not simply attend such an event; one arrives.
And arrive I did.
Champagne? Only the finest. A bottle of Veuve Clicquot firmly in hand—because really, what statement is one making with a beer quart? Even a dumpie or can would have been an insult to my entire existence.
As dignitaries trickled in, I ticked them off like a well-curated guest list: Prime Minister—present. Ministers—present. The atmosphere? Deliciously elite.
Then, the moment of moments: His Majesty arrived, flanked by the Crown Prince Lerotholi Mohato Seeiso and Her Royal Highness Senate Mohato Seeiso. I stood firmly on my pencil heel. Sitting was not an option when one is wearing Dior and holding imported bubbles. Visibility is key.
But just as I was settling into my role as the unofficial fashion ambassador of the marquee, chaos entered the scene.
In walked the organiser himself, renowned businessman Bishop David Thakadu Ramela, hand-in-hand with his wife, making a grand entrance after His Majesty.
After His Majesty!
Now, I may not be an expert in protocol, but even my stilettos know that one does not invite the King and then arrive late to one’s own event. This is not brunch with friends in Maseru West. This is Moshoeshoe’s Day celebration, for heaven’s sake!
And it got worse.
Ministers rose to greet him. He brushed past them like they were decorative plants, acknowledging only the Prime Minister and His Majesty before taking his seat—close to the King, no less. I nearly dropped my champagne.
His poor wife, bless her gracious soul, attempted to restore dignity by greeting everyone properly. A true heroine in a moment of national embarrassment.
At that point, I genuinely considered removing one of my stilettos—not for fashion, but for corrective action. I wanted to pound his head to knock some sense into him.
The Prime Minister, instead of addressing this unfolding theatre, appeared… amused. Amused! One would have expected him to at least rein in Ntate Ramela and firmly remind him, “Respect the King, uena sani!” After all, Ntate Ramela is younger than Ntate Matekane.
At the very least, a sharp word—or even a disapproving clap—might have sufficed.
Or perhaps Ntate Matekane could have gone further and unleashed his famed Masole a Mokotakoti. With Army Commander Lieutenant General Mojalefa Letsoela seated right there in the marquee, surely a quiet instruction could have been issued to restore order.
One imagines that even the mere threat of those Mokotakoti soldiers—renowned in Leribe for their enthusiastic application of the whip—might have swiftly recalibrated Ntate Ramela’s enthusiasm.
But no—smiles all around.
And then came the speeches. Lord have mercy!
Just when I thought the drama had peaked with the late arrival, Ntate Ramela rose – calm, confident, and clearly very comfortable in proximity to power – and proceeded to deliver what can only be described as a one-man constitutional amendment.
Just when the patrons were about to clap for him after thanking the sponsors, he put his speech away then spoke from the heart – about governments not being overthrown “as long as I am alive”. I nearly choked on my Veuve. Since when did national stability hinge on one man’s pulse rate?
Let us be clear, dear readers: this is a country governed by laws, not lifelines.
Elections are not decided in marquees in Peka. The government is not installed or protected by personal declarations, no matter how loudly or repeatedly they are made between sips of bottled water.
One would think Ntate Ramela had been quietly sworn in as the Minister of Who Must Rule and For How Long.
Last I checked, he is not a Member of Parliament. Not a party leader. Not even a candidate. In fact, he does not even qualify to be one. Yet here he was, speaking with the authority of a man who keeps the keys to the State House in his Gucci side-bag.
And the Prime Minister? Still smiling.
At this point I began to wonder whether we had unknowingly transitioned from a constitutional monarchy to a motivational seminar—where governance is secured through declarations, networking and sheer confidence.
“I will support whoever Basotho elect (as government),” Ntate Ramela boldly said.
How generous.
As if Basotho have been sitting anxiously, ballots in hand, waiting for his approval before deciding their leaders.
My dear Bishop, Basotho do not require a spiritual endorsement to choose a government. They have ballots, not blessings, to do that.
And this business of positioning oneself as the ultimate defender of “His Majesty’s government” — as though the nation’s institutions, laws, and security structures are merely supporting actors in a play where he is the lead — is where the fictious Rumpelstiltskin fairytale writes itself.
Because surely, surely, the stability of a sovereign state cannot rest on one man’s willingness to remain alive and available.
At that point, I stopped sipping my champagne and started sipping the absurdity.
By then, my mind was no longer on the horses. I couldn’t tell you which one won, lost, or ran in the wrong direction. My entire afternoon had been hijacked by a masterclass in misplaced confidence of a South African national.
I left Peka with a bitter heart—and an unfinished bottle of Veuve, as I felt I needed something stronger, maybe a tumbler of Peka’s best Mamotsatsa, but the villagers had tried the drums of the local brewers.
Achee!!!
