Kananelo Boloetse
Last year, I had the privilege of having a few minutes with the Speaker of the National Assembly, Mr. Tlohang Sekhamane, for a candid and thought-provoking conversation.
Amidst our exchange, he shared a perspective that has lingered with me ever since, one that cuts to the core of why political participation in Lesotho remains anemic, particularly among the youth.
“If you engage in politics in Lesotho and then serve in Parliament,” he remarked, “regardless of how young and vibrant you may be upon completing your term, no corporation will be willing to hire you.”
His words were stark, sobering, and, perhaps most troubling, unsurprising.
Mr. Sekhamane painted a grim picture of the post-political landscape for former parliamentarians: an unspoken blacklist imposed by the corporate world, rendering them untouchable, persona non grata in the marketplace. He cautioned that anyone stepping into the political arena should do so with their eyes wide open, fully aware that self-employment might not merely be an option but an inevitable necessity upon leaving office.
In Lesotho, it seems, the private sector views former politicians not as assets with valuable experience but as liabilities to be avoided at all costs. Their years in public service, regardless of performance, do not translate into career capital.
Instead, they become baggage, excess weight that corporations are unwilling to carry. The perception is that former politicians are too controversial, too polarizing, or too accustomed to power to reintegrate into the workforce. And so, once they exit parliament, many find themselves cast adrift with no clear path forward.
This is not a revelation unique to Mr. Sekhamane’s observation, it is a quiet truth we all know but rarely confront aloud. It is the elephant in the room that explains why so few young, intelligent, and ambitious Basotho throw their hats into the political ring. The stakes are simply too high.
For young professionals contemplating a future in politics, the calculation is brutal. Do they risk their economic security for a seat in parliament, knowing that even a single term could render them unemployable?
Do they gamble their careers on the hope that their time in office will open new doors rather than shut them forever? The reality is bleak: whether they succeed in securing a parliamentary seat, stumble during primary elections, or lose in the National Assembly elections, the outcome is often the same—a scarlet letter branding them as unfit for economic opportunities beyond the political sphere.
Politics in Lesotho, it appears, is a one-way ticket to ostracism, a career path reserved for those who feel they have little left to lose. This dynamic explains why our political landscape is overwhelmingly dominated by individuals who enter the fray late in life, often after exhausting other avenues. It also explains the lack of fresh ideas and the cyclical nature of our political leadership.
But the consequences of this phenomenon extend beyond individual politicians. It is the country itself that suffers when brilliant young minds, who could bring innovation, pragmatism, and energy into governance, are deterred from participation. It is Lesotho that remains trapped in a revolving door of leadership stagnation, where the same faces and ideas resurface election after election, because the barriers to entry for new blood are simply too high.
But must this be our reality? Must we resign ourselves to a system that punishes rather than rewards civic engagement? Is it truly inevitable that political participation in Lesotho should come at the cost of one’s future employability? Or can we envision something better, a system that values, rather than vilifies, those who step up to lead?
Look across our border to South Africa, where a different narrative is unfolding. This week, former Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF) Member of Parliament Mbuyiseni Ndlozi, a brilliant and dynamic young leader, stepped away from his parliamentary role and joined a prominent South African radio station. Far from being cast aside as a pariah, Ndlozi was welcomed with open arms. Listeners eagerly anticipated his first broadcast, a testament to the public’s recognition of his intellect, charisma, and potential beyond the political stage.
Imagine if Ndlozi had been relegated to obscurity simply because he once served as an MP. What a waste of talent that would have been. Imagine if, instead of being embraced by the media industry, he had found every door closed, his credentials dismissed, his past experience treated as a stain rather than a strength. South Africa understands something that Lesotho seems to have forgotten: that political leadership should not be a dead end. It should be a launching pad.
Lesotho could learn a vital lesson from this. Ndlozi’s transition demonstrates that political service need not be a death sentence for one’s career prospects. Instead, it can be a springboard, a chapter that enriches an individual’s experience and equips them with skills that are transferable to other fields. Leadership, public speaking, negotiation, policy analysis—these are the tools of a parliamentarian, tools that any corporation, media house, or entrepreneurial venture should covet.
Yet in Lesotho, we have allowed a toxic stigma to fester, one that demonises politics and, by extension, those who dare to engage in it.
This stigma is strangling our democracy. By discouraging young people from entering politics, we are depriving ourselves of fresh ideas, bold leadership, and the energy needed to tackle the pressing challenges of our time, unemployment, poverty, and underdevelopment among them.
The reluctance of our youth to step forward is not apathy; it’s a rational calculation. Why risk a promising career, a stable future, or a seat at the corporate table for a system that offers little reward and even less security? The result is a political landscape dominated by older voices, many of whom are disconnected from the aspirations and realities of the younger generation.
It’s time for a paradigm shift. Lesotho must stop treating politics as a radioactive wasteland and start viewing it as a noble pursuit, one that builds rather than destroys futures. We need to dismantle the myth that serving in Parliament is a one-way ticket to economic exile. Corporate leaders, civil society, and the public at large must begin to see former politicians not as liabilities but as individuals with unique insights and proven resilience.
Imagine a Lesotho where a young MP, after serving their term, can walk into a boardroom, a classroom, or a media studio and be celebrated for their contributions rather than shunned for their past. Where a former legislator is recognized not as damaged goods but as a leader whose experience in governance, policy, and public service makes them a valuable asset in any sector. Where the transition from politics to private enterprise is not seen as an act of desperation but as a natural and welcomed progression.
To achieve this, we must start by changing the narrative. Political service should be marketed to young Basotho as an opportunity for growth, not a gamble with their livelihoods. Mentorship programs could connect former parliamentarians with private-sector opportunities, showcasing their value.
The National University of Lesotho (NUL) and training institutions such as (LIPAM) could offer reintegration programs tailored for former lawmakers to help them translate their public service into new professional paths. And, most importantly, we must foster a culture that honours civic duty rather than penalising it.
Mbuyiseni Ndlozi’s story is a beacon of possibility. It proves that political engagement does not have to be a life sentence to irrelevance. It proves that leadership in government can be a stepping stone to leadership in business, media, academia, or any other field. Lesotho’s youth deserve to know that they can enter politics, serve their nation, and still have a future beyond the National Assembly.
Let’s stop demonising politics and start empowering a new generation of leaders. Our democracy, and our country, depends on it.
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