Emmanuel Monychol
05-20-2010, 07:34 AM
Even though there is a big war, war that brought us peace, which we commemorate, we still have our little wars.
South Sudanese Students in Uganda Celebrate Sixteen May, Every Year. It is well-known as Sitasher Maio. It is generally agreed that it was Sixteen May of the year nineteen hundred and eighty-three, that southerners’ boiling pot of hatred for Arabs reached its zenith, in the region of upper, the sea of oil.
Creeping few argue that it was Nineteen May, when the first bullet of freedom was fired. But whatever day of the month of May that it was, we southerners celebrate the heroic day when our gallant army, Battalion 105 led by Major Kuanyin Bol launched an assault on the red ears (Arab) Battalion 115.
Major Kuanyin, a brown, physically and sizably built with handsome gaits and clear stare, a gentleman with soft curly hairs like a woman is our hero. He was a man of no nonsense for the red ears and anything unjust, however sugar coated.
Aware of his rebellious nature, the army general, Mr. Mutaha, a red ear, asked him to transfer north but he defied the orders and shot the message bearer. He then went ahead and shot his junior officer, who was also a red ear. Kuanyin then called his first bodyguard and held his nostrils closed tight for three minutes. Then, he left him and the poor man staggered back. Kuanyin asked the gasping bodyguard:
‘What happened that you are gasping for breath?’
‘Sir,’ said the bodyguard, ‘you have held my nostrils and I nearly suffocated.’
Let me help you suffocate Arabs!’
Kuanyin, in his loud, commanding and clear voice ordered his Battalion to slaughter all Arab soldiers in his Garrison and the whole Arab battalion next Head Quarter. After the total killing of the enemy soldiers in the two camps, he said:
‘The deal is done boys; the war has begun. Please, a few nuts in the pockets, a gun, enough bullets and swift jump to the bush. This is our house, this is our mark, and we must die or live in the thicket of our Motherland.’
And so he and Battalion slipped into the nearest bush. They were only to be heard on the BBC, a few days later that they have captured Boma, a small village in upper Nile. It is now SPLM smallest unit of civil administration, symbolising that heroic start of the revolution against tyrants, the red ears.
This marked the beginning of the Africa’s longest civil war in the Sudan. Kuanyin Bol died in Upper Nile seventeen years later. He was murdered under very unclear circumstances by un-commissioned militias. Although I did have the chance to meet him physically; his death saddened me deeply. When his opponents accused him of power hungry and materialism, Kuanyin boasted on his deathbed:
I have three hundred cows.
I have forty women.
I have numerous children; some I do not know.
As true muonyjang (Dinka Man),
What much do I want?
The land has killed me.’
Even though Kuanyin had not lived to see the fruits of his labour, this day (Sitasher Maio) is marked as a special day dedicated to heroes like him.
Edward and I woke up late that day. He had been reading late into the night; then there was this girl, fat and wore a flowery thin skirt that get caught between her loose bums. Her name was Nora. She came unannounced and as usual, (it angers me) Edward asked me to give space, that is, leave the room and go out in the chilling cold.
It was at 1:00am in the morning when he beeped my Ericson mobile phone number to indicate that his night duty servant has left.
‘You are behaving like a bum. You beg money and instead of use it for what is useful, you sag empty your energy dry on Nora.’ I said.
My friend is that what matters? Tomorrow is gonna be a big day: Sitasher Maio.’ He said, smiling eagerly and sounding American.
I rolled myself up in my linen blanket and covered my head. Soon, he was sleeping soundly. I followed him in a sound sleep. We slept on the same bed, back to back.
It was 10:00am when we both woke up. I rinsed my teeth with my forefinger; there was no toothpaste and Edward had used my toothbrush as toilet tissue last night. I dressed up and walked down floor with Edward. We were going to Calendar Guest house, Hall of Meetings. This was where the south Sudanese hold their annual celebrations of the Sixteen May. The Guest of Honour (G of H) was War Veteran and an elder of Warrap State Community. He was, I guess, a fatherly figure, recently from Romania where he served as Ambassador.
The meeting was scheduled for two 2:00PM. That was when the G of H was expected and speeches to start. The party was scheduled for 7:00PM, when it was dark and parents have left. Dim Blue lights were to be used. The style of the dance was the now Congolese squeeze-me-tight style known as Rumba.
Formerly, it was a folk dance in duple time that originated in Cuba with Spanish and African elements; rumba features complex footwork and violent movement. With Congo style; we squeeze first then go crazy after wards. I expected my girl to be there; so we could squeeze and go wild afterwards. It filled me with frenzied glee. I have not met with her lately because she was preparing for exams.
But as one of the speakers said: Time is the disease that west has failed to liberate Africans from because it is not sickness and can’t be taught in class; it is sheer laziness to keep time and respect it. The whole program started two hours behind schedule and the G of H arrived an hour later. Edward and I were not exceptions; we arrived when the G of H was concluding his speeches. The last bit I heard was that we were the backbone of the economy and that we should not drink too much, fornicate or masturbate. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘it will sap your energy, which you would use for something constructive like study.’
‘What the hell is that?’ I asked Edward.
Although I have just arrived, the last time from the G of H did not please me. In the scorch of Aids and other sexually transmitted sicknesses, yet we need sex, my refuge, only lies in masturbation. I sat and turned to look at the old man. Despite his age, he wore tight jeans. Then I thought of Don Williams’ deep country voice now I crown forty; still wearing jeans. I have expected him to dress in an ambassadorial suit; of whatever colour, I did not care. But I had expected him to be dressed in an ambassadorial suit. Then his winks, every now and then at young girls who have nice rounds of bums made sexually appealing by the tight long skirts they wore which betrayed well design (curved) of their inner beings, made me feel the man is more than his words. But again, I recalled the old adage, a scapegoat: do what I say not what I do. I closed that chapter on the G of H and focused on the celebrations.
I was expected to read a Poem, Dr Garang Must Die. When I received a call from the MC (master of ceremonies) to come on stage and read my poem. I moved on to the podium. I looked at their faces, smiled and thundered.
‘Dr. Garang Must Die...’
I stopped short of reading without seeing and searched my pockets. I got nothing but my handkerchief. I pulled it out and wiped my face with it.
‘I have-had left Dr. Garang Must Die at home, eeh rather my hostel...’
‘Damn it!’ someone shouted
‘What a shame. Memorise like a poet!’ Someone advised.
I licked my lips and gathered my courage.
‘My dear listeners, I accept my delay and hence failure to read the poem which could be of importance to your sense and needs of the time but remember the protos; no one is supposed to talk after the G of H. It is met therefore that my poem cannot be read after the G of H speech is delivered. His speech is final and we are supposed to absorb his elderly words without interruption!
‘What the hell is G of H and what do you mean by it is met and protos...’ Edward bowled his tongue.
‘Call the words you mentioned, irrelevances,’ I said and walked down the podium. No one clapped for me.
The meeting was closed with a prayer. I was already yawning and feeling hungry; have not had a bite since morning. I expected to chew some fried piece of chicken, probably, a leg or chest. I would make sure there was water or soda to push it down in case it became stubborn on my throat. I turned and looked towards the food area; the tables were already laid and arrayed with food. I cannot deny it, I swallowed greedily. But I made sure people did not see my Adam’s apple rapid shoot up and down. So I press down my neck and pulled the shirt collar a little high, looked on my chest and swallowed. When I saw the G of H and some elders leave without taking a bite, I knew the youth programs were soon kicking off.
The much awaited Rumba dance began with freezing feelings. Like South African kids in Sarafina film, save for the lack of leopard skin, which our celebs did not have; there was acrobatic kicking of legs in the air, calling the name of the DJ to raise the volume and make sure the lights were dim blue enough. I licked my dish clean with my tongue (my usual habit since high school days). I threw empty dish over the fence, a sign of immeasurable joy. I bet, if it were to be in the village, I would have chopped my Best Bull to pieces and gave the mutton to the needy and buy another Best Bull with ten heifers.
I opened my mouth wide enough, aaaaah. I put my left hand on my chest pushed my fisted right hand up like Jacob Zuma and continued with aaaaah.
My intention was to draw my girl friend’s attention. She had become distant from me so far. I had failed to buy her, her best hair cosmetic; it made her unhappy.
But I was not in the film; this was real life, so she never heard my frenzy aaaah or came to enjoy with me. I fell sick; got head ache for that. I guessed I also went mad. I pushed in between people smooching. I pushed in between those who held each other tight.
Bathed in sweat my paces increased. I was searching, chasing nothing. It was at this one point, that I got a hot unsuspecting slap. And friends, this is the reason for this story. He slapped me, the bloke I did not recognise till today slapped me; the man I never knew me. He slapped me. His hands were really rough. He must have been a brick layer. I staggered gained, my level and I slapped him back. I thought I saw his eyes rolling. I don’t know what he saw. For me, I saw the dim blue lights appear like fireworks. We fought and soon the fighting that was between me and the guy who slapped me for squeezing between him and his girl became a three camp fight. It drew others in. Even drunkards, they started throwing bottles and glasses were crushing with noisy cracks. Girls starting crying loudly, young men moan and growled under pain; others gave a sharp wail of I am dead Mama-oo.
The three camps fought blindly. The brothers to the guy fought the bloke in question for scandalising their sister; I fought him for slapping me when I just needed a pass through. His friends and siblings fought in defence of him. We fought for three hours.
At the end of the day, we were all losers. Fifteen fighters are in the hospitals for various injuries. I am also laid. I got a crack in my skulls. Someone hit me with a me with a bottle of beer. The bloke was laid in the garden of memory and I stand to appear before court for murder. I am not guilty because I did not mobilise people to fight him. I hit him with nothing. I was defending myself. But him-I started the fight.
I don’t know what Edward did or where he was. But my past knowledge of him is that Edward was not a fighter. He came to see me in the hospital, a few days ago. He did not sustain any injury and was not implicated for anything. He had also paid doctors to continue to claim that I was critically sick with the wound in my head. That the doctors should say I had internal bleeding, that my future to live were slim; that I may die any time soon. He has also planned to buy the casket and place a log with human face in there to suggest that I was dead, any moment from now.
When I asked why he had not helped me or join in the fight, he said he knew I would win the fight, and that what he did was worth than his physical intervention. He also claimed that he knew that the police would come.
Because of that, he said he had sacrificed his sweet smooching of his girl’s thick warm lips (not the Nora with loose bums, whom I hate for interrupting my nights). He said he had left kissing her and went to the gates to bribe off every policeman who came to stop the fight. Edward claimed he had turned them away, saying look,
‘This is a cultural fight, we will be fine.’
:mad:
South Sudanese Students in Uganda Celebrate Sixteen May, Every Year. It is well-known as Sitasher Maio. It is generally agreed that it was Sixteen May of the year nineteen hundred and eighty-three, that southerners’ boiling pot of hatred for Arabs reached its zenith, in the region of upper, the sea of oil.
Creeping few argue that it was Nineteen May, when the first bullet of freedom was fired. But whatever day of the month of May that it was, we southerners celebrate the heroic day when our gallant army, Battalion 105 led by Major Kuanyin Bol launched an assault on the red ears (Arab) Battalion 115.
Major Kuanyin, a brown, physically and sizably built with handsome gaits and clear stare, a gentleman with soft curly hairs like a woman is our hero. He was a man of no nonsense for the red ears and anything unjust, however sugar coated.
Aware of his rebellious nature, the army general, Mr. Mutaha, a red ear, asked him to transfer north but he defied the orders and shot the message bearer. He then went ahead and shot his junior officer, who was also a red ear. Kuanyin then called his first bodyguard and held his nostrils closed tight for three minutes. Then, he left him and the poor man staggered back. Kuanyin asked the gasping bodyguard:
‘What happened that you are gasping for breath?’
‘Sir,’ said the bodyguard, ‘you have held my nostrils and I nearly suffocated.’
Let me help you suffocate Arabs!’
Kuanyin, in his loud, commanding and clear voice ordered his Battalion to slaughter all Arab soldiers in his Garrison and the whole Arab battalion next Head Quarter. After the total killing of the enemy soldiers in the two camps, he said:
‘The deal is done boys; the war has begun. Please, a few nuts in the pockets, a gun, enough bullets and swift jump to the bush. This is our house, this is our mark, and we must die or live in the thicket of our Motherland.’
And so he and Battalion slipped into the nearest bush. They were only to be heard on the BBC, a few days later that they have captured Boma, a small village in upper Nile. It is now SPLM smallest unit of civil administration, symbolising that heroic start of the revolution against tyrants, the red ears.
This marked the beginning of the Africa’s longest civil war in the Sudan. Kuanyin Bol died in Upper Nile seventeen years later. He was murdered under very unclear circumstances by un-commissioned militias. Although I did have the chance to meet him physically; his death saddened me deeply. When his opponents accused him of power hungry and materialism, Kuanyin boasted on his deathbed:
I have three hundred cows.
I have forty women.
I have numerous children; some I do not know.
As true muonyjang (Dinka Man),
What much do I want?
The land has killed me.’
Even though Kuanyin had not lived to see the fruits of his labour, this day (Sitasher Maio) is marked as a special day dedicated to heroes like him.
Edward and I woke up late that day. He had been reading late into the night; then there was this girl, fat and wore a flowery thin skirt that get caught between her loose bums. Her name was Nora. She came unannounced and as usual, (it angers me) Edward asked me to give space, that is, leave the room and go out in the chilling cold.
It was at 1:00am in the morning when he beeped my Ericson mobile phone number to indicate that his night duty servant has left.
‘You are behaving like a bum. You beg money and instead of use it for what is useful, you sag empty your energy dry on Nora.’ I said.
My friend is that what matters? Tomorrow is gonna be a big day: Sitasher Maio.’ He said, smiling eagerly and sounding American.
I rolled myself up in my linen blanket and covered my head. Soon, he was sleeping soundly. I followed him in a sound sleep. We slept on the same bed, back to back.
It was 10:00am when we both woke up. I rinsed my teeth with my forefinger; there was no toothpaste and Edward had used my toothbrush as toilet tissue last night. I dressed up and walked down floor with Edward. We were going to Calendar Guest house, Hall of Meetings. This was where the south Sudanese hold their annual celebrations of the Sixteen May. The Guest of Honour (G of H) was War Veteran and an elder of Warrap State Community. He was, I guess, a fatherly figure, recently from Romania where he served as Ambassador.
The meeting was scheduled for two 2:00PM. That was when the G of H was expected and speeches to start. The party was scheduled for 7:00PM, when it was dark and parents have left. Dim Blue lights were to be used. The style of the dance was the now Congolese squeeze-me-tight style known as Rumba.
Formerly, it was a folk dance in duple time that originated in Cuba with Spanish and African elements; rumba features complex footwork and violent movement. With Congo style; we squeeze first then go crazy after wards. I expected my girl to be there; so we could squeeze and go wild afterwards. It filled me with frenzied glee. I have not met with her lately because she was preparing for exams.
But as one of the speakers said: Time is the disease that west has failed to liberate Africans from because it is not sickness and can’t be taught in class; it is sheer laziness to keep time and respect it. The whole program started two hours behind schedule and the G of H arrived an hour later. Edward and I were not exceptions; we arrived when the G of H was concluding his speeches. The last bit I heard was that we were the backbone of the economy and that we should not drink too much, fornicate or masturbate. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘it will sap your energy, which you would use for something constructive like study.’
‘What the hell is that?’ I asked Edward.
Although I have just arrived, the last time from the G of H did not please me. In the scorch of Aids and other sexually transmitted sicknesses, yet we need sex, my refuge, only lies in masturbation. I sat and turned to look at the old man. Despite his age, he wore tight jeans. Then I thought of Don Williams’ deep country voice now I crown forty; still wearing jeans. I have expected him to dress in an ambassadorial suit; of whatever colour, I did not care. But I had expected him to be dressed in an ambassadorial suit. Then his winks, every now and then at young girls who have nice rounds of bums made sexually appealing by the tight long skirts they wore which betrayed well design (curved) of their inner beings, made me feel the man is more than his words. But again, I recalled the old adage, a scapegoat: do what I say not what I do. I closed that chapter on the G of H and focused on the celebrations.
I was expected to read a Poem, Dr Garang Must Die. When I received a call from the MC (master of ceremonies) to come on stage and read my poem. I moved on to the podium. I looked at their faces, smiled and thundered.
‘Dr. Garang Must Die...’
I stopped short of reading without seeing and searched my pockets. I got nothing but my handkerchief. I pulled it out and wiped my face with it.
‘I have-had left Dr. Garang Must Die at home, eeh rather my hostel...’
‘Damn it!’ someone shouted
‘What a shame. Memorise like a poet!’ Someone advised.
I licked my lips and gathered my courage.
‘My dear listeners, I accept my delay and hence failure to read the poem which could be of importance to your sense and needs of the time but remember the protos; no one is supposed to talk after the G of H. It is met therefore that my poem cannot be read after the G of H speech is delivered. His speech is final and we are supposed to absorb his elderly words without interruption!
‘What the hell is G of H and what do you mean by it is met and protos...’ Edward bowled his tongue.
‘Call the words you mentioned, irrelevances,’ I said and walked down the podium. No one clapped for me.
The meeting was closed with a prayer. I was already yawning and feeling hungry; have not had a bite since morning. I expected to chew some fried piece of chicken, probably, a leg or chest. I would make sure there was water or soda to push it down in case it became stubborn on my throat. I turned and looked towards the food area; the tables were already laid and arrayed with food. I cannot deny it, I swallowed greedily. But I made sure people did not see my Adam’s apple rapid shoot up and down. So I press down my neck and pulled the shirt collar a little high, looked on my chest and swallowed. When I saw the G of H and some elders leave without taking a bite, I knew the youth programs were soon kicking off.
The much awaited Rumba dance began with freezing feelings. Like South African kids in Sarafina film, save for the lack of leopard skin, which our celebs did not have; there was acrobatic kicking of legs in the air, calling the name of the DJ to raise the volume and make sure the lights were dim blue enough. I licked my dish clean with my tongue (my usual habit since high school days). I threw empty dish over the fence, a sign of immeasurable joy. I bet, if it were to be in the village, I would have chopped my Best Bull to pieces and gave the mutton to the needy and buy another Best Bull with ten heifers.
I opened my mouth wide enough, aaaaah. I put my left hand on my chest pushed my fisted right hand up like Jacob Zuma and continued with aaaaah.
My intention was to draw my girl friend’s attention. She had become distant from me so far. I had failed to buy her, her best hair cosmetic; it made her unhappy.
But I was not in the film; this was real life, so she never heard my frenzy aaaah or came to enjoy with me. I fell sick; got head ache for that. I guessed I also went mad. I pushed in between people smooching. I pushed in between those who held each other tight.
Bathed in sweat my paces increased. I was searching, chasing nothing. It was at this one point, that I got a hot unsuspecting slap. And friends, this is the reason for this story. He slapped me, the bloke I did not recognise till today slapped me; the man I never knew me. He slapped me. His hands were really rough. He must have been a brick layer. I staggered gained, my level and I slapped him back. I thought I saw his eyes rolling. I don’t know what he saw. For me, I saw the dim blue lights appear like fireworks. We fought and soon the fighting that was between me and the guy who slapped me for squeezing between him and his girl became a three camp fight. It drew others in. Even drunkards, they started throwing bottles and glasses were crushing with noisy cracks. Girls starting crying loudly, young men moan and growled under pain; others gave a sharp wail of I am dead Mama-oo.
The three camps fought blindly. The brothers to the guy fought the bloke in question for scandalising their sister; I fought him for slapping me when I just needed a pass through. His friends and siblings fought in defence of him. We fought for three hours.
At the end of the day, we were all losers. Fifteen fighters are in the hospitals for various injuries. I am also laid. I got a crack in my skulls. Someone hit me with a me with a bottle of beer. The bloke was laid in the garden of memory and I stand to appear before court for murder. I am not guilty because I did not mobilise people to fight him. I hit him with nothing. I was defending myself. But him-I started the fight.
I don’t know what Edward did or where he was. But my past knowledge of him is that Edward was not a fighter. He came to see me in the hospital, a few days ago. He did not sustain any injury and was not implicated for anything. He had also paid doctors to continue to claim that I was critically sick with the wound in my head. That the doctors should say I had internal bleeding, that my future to live were slim; that I may die any time soon. He has also planned to buy the casket and place a log with human face in there to suggest that I was dead, any moment from now.
When I asked why he had not helped me or join in the fight, he said he knew I would win the fight, and that what he did was worth than his physical intervention. He also claimed that he knew that the police would come.
Because of that, he said he had sacrificed his sweet smooching of his girl’s thick warm lips (not the Nora with loose bums, whom I hate for interrupting my nights). He said he had left kissing her and went to the gates to bribe off every policeman who came to stop the fight. Edward claimed he had turned them away, saying look,
‘This is a cultural fight, we will be fine.’
:mad: