THERE is a Sesotho saying that goes: “Ha ntja e shoa matsetse a e baleha” — fleas abandon a dying dog.
Now, it appears that dog has transformed into the Big Cat roaming the South African prisons. But one has to wonder whether he is still a Big Cat after failing to live out the proverbial nine lives.
With seemingly nothing left to lose, the Big Cat has started singing like a canary. And when a cat starts singing, one can only imagine what secrets are about to come tumbling out.
Uncle Sam, however, was quick — very quick — to denounce him. He was faster than fleas fleeing a dying dog.
I suppose a cat has fleas too, just like a dog. So now the Big Cat’s fleas, those loyal companions who once appeared permanently glued to his fur, are beginning to jump ship.
And Uncle Sam was faster than Peter when he denied Jesus three times before the rooster crowed.
While Ntate Mofomobe maintains that Uncle Sam and the Big Cat are besties — so close, apparently, that he has asked the Madlanga Commission to summon Uncle Sam — our beloved Prime Minister appears to hold the national record for the fastest denial of knowing someone.
This country has witnessed some impressive political performances over the years, but this one deserves its own category at the national awards.
Several letters have reportedly been dispatched to Uncle Sam’s office seeking clarification on various matters. His public relations machinery, meanwhile, would normally respond that Uncle Sam is busy and will attend to the queries when he has time.
The queries often come from disgruntled Basotho groups who, presumably, have discovered that getting an answer from a politician can sometimes be more difficult than getting a straight answer from a politician.
But Lady Scrutator was well informed that Uncle Sam had already boarded a plane at Moshoeshoe I International Airport, bound for Luanda, Angola, where he was attending the African Union Extraordinary Session.
And that is precisely when the Big Cat allegedly decided to sing.
What a timing! One can almost imagine Uncle Sam sitting comfortably in his aeroplane seat, perhaps enjoying the benefits of satellite internet, when someone whispered: “Ntate, there is a problem.”
“What problem?”
“The Big Cat is singing.”
“The Big Cat?”
“Yes, Ntate. And he is singing your name.”
Suddenly, the African Union summit became a secondary matter. Thanks to modern technology and the satellite internet network now available in Lesotho, Uncle Sam was apparently able to dispatch an urgent message to his office.
The press release had to be issued immediately. There was no time to waste. The Big Cat had spoken. And so came the emphatic declaration: “Ha ke so kopane le monna eno ‘na” (I have never met that man). Never! Not even once. Not at a political gathering. Not at my inauguration. Not at a funeral. Not at a braai. Not at an airport lounge. Not even accidentally at the supermarket.
The denial arrived with such urgency that one could almost hear the rooster crowing somewhere in the distance. But politics is a strange animal.
The same person can be your friend on Monday, a stranger on Tuesday, an acquaintance on Wednesday, and someone you have never met by Thursday. By Friday, the relationship may have become so non-existent that even photographs might require forensic examination.
Of course, the Big Cat has a different version of events. That is what makes this whole saga particularly entertaining. When two people tell completely different stories about whether they know each other, one begins to wonder whether they attended different schools of friendship.
Perhaps there are several levels of knowing someone. There is: I know him, I know of him, I have met him, we have spoken, he is a friend. Then there is the advanced political version: I have never met the man.
That last one is particularly useful when the friendship suddenly becomes inconvenient. But Ntate Mofomobe does not appear convinced. He insists that Uncle Sam and the Big Cat are besties. And because this is politics, the disagreement has now been upgraded from ordinary political gossip to material worthy of a commission of inquiry.
Enter the Madlanga Commission. The commission now finds itself in the unusual position of potentially having to referee a friendship dispute. If the commission summons Uncle Sam, perhaps it should also prepare a questionnaire.
Question one: Have you ever met the Big Cat?
Answer: Ha ke so kopane le monna eno ‘na.
Question two: Have you ever spoken to him?
Answer: Ha ke so bue le eena.
Question three: Have you ever exchanged messages?
Answer: Ha ke tsebe nomoro ea hae.
Question four: Have you ever slept at his penthouse?
Answer: Ha ke tsebe ha hae.
Question five: Did you invite him to your inauguration?
Answer: No.
Question six: Have you ever been photographed together?
Answer: That must be artificial intelligence.
Question seven: Were you ever friends?
Answer: Define ‘friends’.
By then, the commission may need another commission to investigate the first commission.
Political friendships can be remarkably durable — right up until the moment they become liabilities. When everything is going well, everyone knows everyone. Photographs are taken. Hands are shaken. Smiles are exchanged. Promises are made. People sit together at functions and appear inseparable.
But when the storm arrives, suddenly the social geography changes. The man who was once sitting in the front row is now sitting in another province. The friend becomes an acquaintance. The acquaintance becomes someone you vaguely recognise. And the person you once allegedly knew becomes a complete stranger.
That is why the old Basotho wisdom about fleas is so powerful. Fleas do not hold farewell parties. They do not write resignation letters. They simply leave when the dog begins to die.
And the Big Cat seems to be discovering that political fleas behave in exactly the same way. They stick around while the fur is warm. But once the animal starts limping, they start looking for another host.
The most amusing part, however, is watching everyone suddenly discover the virtues of distance. People who were once allegedly close now insist they were never close. Those who allegedly shared conversations now claim they barely exchanged greetings. Those who allegedly knew the Big Cat now seem to know only his surname. And those who may have benefited from his influence are suddenly experts in independence. But perhaps we should not be too harsh. After all, denial is an essential survival skill in politics.
It is right up there with smiling while angry, shaking hands while plotting, and saying “we are consulting” when absolutely nobody knows what is happening. Our politicians have perfected the art.
The only danger is that when too many people deny knowing the same person, somebody eventually asks the obvious question: If nobody knew him, how did he become so well connected?
That is the question that will not disappear simply because another press release is issued. Nor will it disappear because someone is thousands of kilometres away attending an African Union meeting.
Technology may make denials faster, but it does not necessarily make them more convincing. And so we wait, while the Big Cat continues singing.
