I honestly miss the Juba where you could board a mwasalat (minibus) and not tell the driver to stop but just snap your fingers, and the driver would know that you had reached your destination. Travelling anywhere within the city would only cost at most a mere Dinar; in most cases, it was a coin of fifty cents or kumsumia, as it was called locally. That is the Juba I miss today! The Juba I am referring to is the city where you would pull out the coin to pay the conductor, who were mostly children, and they would retort that someone had already paid your fare.
I miss that Juba when I remember how a friend, an engineer from Uganda, vowed to return to his country to change the names of his family members. The obsession with the lifestyle in Juba prompted him to rename his family members after names of different locations in Juba. He told me that he was going to rename his son to Hai Malakal, his daughter Malakia, and his wife, Juba Raha.
Juba then had very few restaurants, one of which was known as Mama Zahara, which served all local and regional delicacies and cuisine. Those days, we fondly ate foul Masr (fava beans), fish, roasted chicken, and bread, accompanied by bottles of Coca-Cola. The same philanthropy and generosity in other sectors were replicated in eateries. You would fill your stomach, and at the end of it, be turned away by the cashier who would curtly tell you that your bill had been paid by someone.
Today, the story is a stark contrast, and life in Juba is a pale shadow of its former self. A fortnight ago, an old friend visited a restaurant and ordered food. He proceeded to the counter to clear his bill, only to be shocked at the bill, a whopping US$10, which he did not have on him at that time. Since my home is near the restaurant, my friend called me on the telephone and I had to rush to his rescue when hell threatened to break loose. Such a situation would never have happened in the Juba of those days, I am reminiscing about, because the owner of the restaurant in those years would have just let my friend leave without paying.
The so-called “niggers,” “torontos,” “Sherikat gangs,” were not yet born. Juba was a haven. On the flipside, only a few privileged homes had latrines; the underprivileged ones, like some of us, literally dug shallow holes on the ground that served as makeshift pit latrines, especially in the evening hours.
There were a few commercial toilets and bathrooms in the markets made of plastic; one would pay kumsumia to use them. Upon paying, a small piece of toilet paper would be handed to you together with a small piece of soap to complete your bath. The size of the piece of toilet paper kind of annoyed me. At times, it was cut so small that it would not meet the purpose for which it was given, but all in all, I still miss that Juba.
Today, Juba has changed; every home has a toilet or latrine and at least a bathroom. I recently went to shower and hung my pair of trousers up in the outdoor bathroom adjacent to the perimeter wall. By the time I finished bathing, I had no clothes; someone had stolen the pair of trousers. I was lucky that at that time, there was no one at home. I had to tiptoe back to the house naked, bending like I had stomach ulcers and a tummy ache. I was scared. I was imagining someone just walking into the compound as I was trying to get to the house and seeing me naked. That information could have gone to the village, and a different story would have been created out of it. I was also scared of the citizen journalists. I was traumatized for days, thinking, what if someone took my picture using their phone at that time when I was heading to the house? What if they put the picture on Facebook? Luckily, none of that happened.
The Juba I miss never had Facebook, WhatsApp, and the many social media platforms that we have today. No trolling, abusive language, misinformation, and people we relatively happy. Only Sudani and Zain telecommunication companies provided mobile communication services. We literally met physically, as it was an assured way of meeting people. Then entered Gemtel Telecommunication Company. It was more locally owned but with a number of limitations. Acquiring a SIM card was more difficult than acquiring a handset. Some thieves could snatch your phone but drop the handset after pulling out the SIM card. The SIM card would immediately be inserted in another phone, and you could call and talk to the person who stole your phone. The SIM card cost US$100 and was hardly available. We did not have technology for tracking phones and so on. Once you lost your SIM card, that was the end of it.
All roads were dusty, and it was sweltering heat. There were only a few houses with permanent perimeter walls. Then, we had only a few traffic police officers, and they did not ask for logbooks from motorists. Vehicles were registered under the New Sudan (NS) number plate series. Those with Central Equatoria Temporary Plate Number registration bore “CETP” stickers.
Supplies from Uganda and Kenya used to come through Kaya-Yei, then Juba. The now-famous Juba-Nimule Road was not operational, it was heavily landmines infested by landmines. The current fantasy and craze with fuel guzzlers like V8 models never existed. Instead, there were other competitive models. General Isaac Obuto Mamur was among the outstanding and privileged few who owned a fleet of cars that included Hummers, Jeeps which were very unique then. A few other well-off guys had cars known as “Big Horn.”
Juba had few hotels like Mango Camp, Civicon, now Oasis, and you would hardly find South Sudanese girls working in those hotels because it was considered near abomination. A case at hand was when my brother’s wife got a job at Juba Grand Hotel as a receptionist, but could not be allowed to take up the job. My brother believed that such jobs were the domain of promiscuous people; as such, many of the workers in Juba Grand Hotel were brought from the Philippines. Recently, I asked my brother whether he had changed his mind about his wife working in the hospitality industry, and it seems he had.
We did our film drama rehearsals at Kumoyangi Primary School. Landmark Hotel has since replaced the institution. Last month, I visited Landmark Hotel to try and see if I could get that old feeling of the school; it was not there.
The only political parties we knew then were the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement (SPLM) and its armed wing, the Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA), the National Congress Party (NCP) of former President Omar Al Bashir, and the Sudan Armed Forces. Today, I am told we have about nine commanders-in-chief, unknown gunmen, and more than thirty political parties. Things have indeed changed.
The writer is a journalist and the Chairperson of the Union of Journalists of South Sudan and can be reached via oyetpatrick12@gmail.com.