Once again, the voice behind the gigantic hand that handed me a book has instructed me. Here is the account from the voice. I know you. I know your father. He was there from the beginning of the war for liberation until it ended. He fought fiercely and commanded forces to a successful conclusion. He captured towns, one after another, from the enemy. He was present at the independence celebration; when the chants were loudest, his fist was raised the highest. He wore the struggle like a badge of honor; he was a brave man. In this nation, he helped establish institutions. Now he is not here. Could he be resting after a long toil? Has he suddenly become a fool? Look at me. I walk barefoot. Your father and I could not have been foolish; we are dead because there is a time for everything. We did all we could to ensure you now have a country.
Look at that minister, that general, that director. He wears a suit that costs more than the annual salary of a soldier recently killed in Panyume. They have forgotten the true reasons behind what has become the longest liberation struggle on the African continent. It has all happened far too quickly. They have turned into oppressors. Do their actions genuinely reflect our liberation ideals, or have we freed the country for fools to ruin? I do not regret it, but I am not happy either.
Their sons woke up today past noon, having spent last night in clubs until 4 a.m., pouring whiskey that costs as much as a village family’s monthly survival. They indulge in cocaine during the weekdays and rely on pills to wake up; alcohol tops their daily diet, serving as their delicacy. They own multiple cars; perhaps each has three, but they cannot drive straight. They are slowly dying, while their parents are too busy looting to notice.
My son, let me tell you, their daughters are beautiful; however, that beauty is hollow and superficial. It is sustained by money that rightfully belongs to hospitals, which now lack basic supplies like gloves or gauze. These girls have truly aged prematurely; to maintain their youth, they inject substances into their faces while using other drugs to numb their nerves, injecting them through the veins, seeking to feel something—anything—because the emptiness of a stolen life is a torture no luxury can silence. They wear fake smiles and put on a façade of confidence, but deep down, they endure excruciating pain. They constantly worry, praying they haven’t lost their uteruses due to the unsafe abortions they obtained illegally. They are wasted, and that is why they greedily loot the country; they want plenty of money to enjoy life before they meet their ancestors.
Look at that orphan whose father’s oil money—his last before he met his fate—has been stolen by the atheeng-goormal. She wakes up at 5 a.m., hungry and hopeless. Yet, she defies despair as she sharpens the last stub of her pencil. She continues to study, knowing that education holds the key to her future. This grit is what helped us achieve independence; she is transforming it into something that stolen money cannot provide. She will grow into a responsible citizen who understands the value of her fellow citizens. The drugs will soon wipe out the heartless brats.
I can confidently tell you that those who have stolen the wealth of this nation are often awake at 3 a.m. in rarely inhabited mansions. They spend their nights counting money, convinced it could somehow vanish. Haunted by the memories of the martyrs, these individuals are, in fact, being meticulously monitored by those same martyrs.
You know what? Most of them will die. This isn’t a threat or a calamity I wish upon them; it’s simply a fact of life. They will be quickly forgotten after their deaths. Those standing by their gravesides will hastily choose the cheapest coffins, bury them, and walk away. Like the rest of us, they will be underground, while their wealth remains above. The titles they held will not accompany them to the grave. In the end, they will return to what they truly are: mere dust.
They mock the hungry and the sick in hospitals. Many schools lack essential supplies like chalk, and teachers struggle to stand due to hunger. Meanwhile, their poorly raised family members rot in mansions, draped in designer clothes, and are convinced of their own success. True success lies in making others smile; it does not come from allowing your children to succumb to drugs.
As I share these words with you, let it be clear: a limited opportunity for their redemption remains, though it is still available. They should show respect to their fellow citizens, who may be the children of those who fought alongside them. If they reach out, it could usher in a new dawn, one characterized by equality and prosperity for all. Martyrs possess the capacity to forgive.
The new oppressors must acknowledge openly that the country belongs to all its citizens. Their position of advantage does not justify mistreating others. They should not allow themselves to be stained by the blood beneath their feet; that blood belongs to martyrs and was spilled for a noble purpose: to secure liberty!
Till then, yours truly, Mr. Teetotaler!
The writer, Dr. Sunday de John, holds an MBA and a Bachelor of Medicine and Bachelor of Surgery (MBChB) from the University of Nairobi, Faculty of Business and Management Sciences and Faculty of Medicine, respectively. He is the current Chairman of the South Sudan United Front-Progressive and can be reached via drsundayalong4@gmail.com
The views expressed in ‘opinion’ articles published by Radio Tamazuj are solely those of the writer. The veracity of any claims made is the responsibility of the author, not Radio Tamazuj.
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