Samuel Beckett and his band of Waiting for Godot brothers must be giggling in their graves. As architects of what came to be known as Theatre of the Absurd, he and his buddy Harold Pinter would be like Carrie Bradshaw let loose in a Manolo Blahnik shoe store, given the sheer lunacy of events in recent days.

Between he-who-has-yet-to-show-even-the-slightest-sign-of-remorse (aka Molemo “Jub Jub” Maarohanye) being caught engaging in prison activities that would make a porn star blush; the backlash against Boity Thulo for posting a pic of what she felt were her toned, but the Twitterati called “thick”, thighs online (because her previously published bootylicious butt should be balanced on stick-thin legs, dontcha know); the ongoing outrage regarding Queen B’s supposedly charitable endeavour to sell her designer threads on Gumtree; and the furore surrounding a hapless Francois Hougaard’s declaration that his current squeeze is “definitely an upgrade” on his previous choice of arm candy (which is an insult to former flame Reeva Steenkamp, apparently), absurdity abounds.

Oh, and lest we forget, there was ANC secretary-general Gwede Mantashe’s declaration that the protracted platinum sector strike was actually the fault of “white foreign forces” who were “trying to destabilise the country’s economy”.

Yes, Gwede… now all you need do is click your red ruby heels together three times and it will all go away.

But the Mampara of the Week Award undoubtedly goes jointly to French Montana and Khloe Kardashian, with the person charged with commissioning this year’s host for the MTV Africa Music Awards (Mamas) coming in a close second.

Opting for a folksy wannabe rap moniker (French Montana sounds like a cigarette brand spoilt little rich girls smoke) already leaves a question mark looming large over your supposed street cred. That you would then see fit to “lyric twerk” your way through the closing performance of one of the largest international music events while obviously under the influence of something other than coke (a cola) is more Miley Cyrus than hard-core hip hopper.

Having your partner, Miss KK, swaying her hips and flipping her hair for you in front of the cameras backstage in what was so obviously a contrived video aimed at eliciting a reaction from her estranged hubby was equally downright embarrassing. For her.

Then there’s the matter of Marlon Wayans. Feathers were ruffled by the comedian-cum-actor’s stereotypical gags with respect to the amount of “junk” in the African female’s “trunk” and the like (perhaps shlebs should learn not to take themselves so seriously), but this in itself was not the core reason for many an eyebrow being raised regarding his role as host.

And hey, even if his brand of humour failed to tickle your funny bone, the man certainly redeemed himself when he did what Beyonce – and Rihanna, for that matter – never have, namely credit our traditional dance forms as the true source of the supposedly innovative moves in their music videos.

The obvious, and as yet unanswered, question spilling from everyone’s lips was why an American personality was chosen to emcee a ceremony for Africans, held in Africa, honouring Africans?

Perhaps organisers felt the “returning to the Motherland” schmaltz so favoured by these American personalities would serve as sufficient justification for their selection. Never mind that these same personalities only return to the Mystical Motherland when they’re paid to do so.