In Juba, truth no longer walks; it limps. Each sunrise brings a new rumour, and by noon, someone has already blamed the Awiirs.
A deal stalls at J1? It is the Awiirs.
A contractor’s payment delays? It is the Awiirs.
A journalist spills tea or beer on his keyboard, and the letters stick? Still the Awiirs.
He wakes up sore after too many White Bulls? Of course, the Awiirs.
Welcome to South Sudan’s rumour republic, where even broken keyboards become conspiracies and gossip now passes for investigative journalism.
The death of verification
This is not random confusion. It is the result of lazy reporting and a public addicted to sensation. In the race to go viral, writers skip the slow work of verifying documents, confirming sources, and offering the right of reply.
What now passes for investigation is often a collage of whispers stitched together with adjectives. It accuses without evidence, names without proof, and thrives on outrage. Somewhere along the line, rumour replaced record. Journalism forgot its first rule: if you cannot defend it with evidence, it is not a story.
The quick check for truth
Before you believe any loud claim, ask four simple questions.
Where is the document or the source?
Who else witnessed or confirmed it?
Are there receipts, letters, or contracts to back it up?
Has the accused been given a chance to respond?
If the answer to any of these is silence, it is not journalism. It is gossip with punctuation.
When the pen becomes a sword without a handle
Courage without craft is dangerous. The pen can expose corruption or cut down credibility depending on who wields it. Too many self-styled journalists now confuse emotion for investigation and advocacy for analysis. They swing at targets before checking if the blade is sharp or clean. What is left behind is not public enlightenment but a trail of confusion and reputational wreckage.
A journalist who publishes without proof does not challenge power; they feed it. Disinformation gives the corrupt their best cover.
The politics of blame
Behind the headlines lies a national habit. When institutions fail, we blame faces. Families near power become lightning rods for every grievance. The Awiirs are only the latest to bear that weight.
But blame without evidence is the oxygen of impunity. It allows the real decision makers to hide behind the noise while the country debates gossip instead of governance.
Names do not define guilt
A surname is a name, not a verdict. To smear a family name because a rumour fits your bias is to abandon both logic and decency. There are Awiirs, Dengs, Lokolis, Nyangis, and Wanis all over this land, each with their own stories, struggles, and sweat. Not every Awiir, or any other name, belongs to one family or one circle of power.
We must stop turning surnames into shortcuts for blame. The moment we attach corruption, failure, or privilege to entire communities, we begin to tear the fragile fabric that binds us. South Sudan is a mosaic of families, tribes, and tongues, but our shared name is nation.
If you have only heard the story, go meet the people. Look them in the eye. Ask the questions. You might be surprised. Meeting an Awiir or any other so-called accused may well transform your view. You may find yourself eating your words and learning that truth has no tribe.
Lessons from across the border
Kenya once walked this same path. Media wars, unchecked leaks, and tabloid sensationalism nearly broke public trust. Painful lessons forced reform. The Media Council of Kenya, the Kenya Editors Guild, and investigative desks like Africa Uncensored introduced higher standards for verification, documentation, and editorial review.
Their success came from professional pride, not fear of lawsuits. Kenya learned that a newsroom must have lawyers, editors, and fact checkers before it can claim to hold anyone accountable.
South Sudan can learn the same lesson faster. Build a national press council. Fund training in investigative methods. Create an oversight panel of editors, lawyers, business leaders, and civil society to review major stories for accuracy before publication.
National unity and shared ownership
Whether you come from Rumbek or Torit, Bor or Yambio, the disease of misinformation eats the same fabric. Rumours have no tribe. Lies travel faster than roads can be built. And when one region burns in falsehood, the smoke settles over all of us. The duty to defend truth is a national duty, not a tribal one.
Realpolitik and neorealism in the media space
Those who think rumour is harmless forget that information is power. In global politics, states rise and fall not only through armies but through narratives. A nation that cannot control its own story becomes a playground for others. Misinformation weakens state cohesion, undermines diplomacy, and emboldens external interference.
For leaders and elites, this is not charity work; it is a survival strategy. Stability is the national currency. Rumour erodes trust, and trust is the first layer of security. In a realist sense, power is not just the number of guns or barrels of oil a nation owns. It is the strength of its institutions, the credibility of its government, and the discipline of its people.
Those who plant rumours for political advantage are not winning. They are burning the field on which they, too, must one day eat.
Youth and digital responsibility
Our young people, who live mostly online, must understand that every post is a brick. It either builds or breaks. To forward a rumour is to become part of the machinery of deceit. To fact-check before sharing is to become a soldier of truth. South Sudan’s digital future depends on the discipline of its youngest citizens.
Religious and moral duty
In every faith practised in this land, truth is sacred. From church pulpits to mosque minarets, the message is the same: false witness destroys nations. Let us bring back conscience to our conversations. A journalist without conscience is a danger to both heaven and homeland.
The final word
It now feels as though every community and every clan has become an Awiir. That is how far rumour has gone. My fellow citizens, it is time to sober up. We have no other country. This is the only place we can truly call home.
Let us each do our work properly and with integrity. Whether in government, the private sector, the press, or the village market, the nation moves forward only when we perform our duties with honesty and professionalism.
Even those who write for a living must remember that their words can either build or break. If you call yourself a journalist, be one in full measure. If you are writing for hire, at least have the integrity to demand fair pay from your sponsors before you mislead a nation.
South Sudan will only rise when truth becomes our culture, when competence replaces conspiracy, and when integrity is not a slogan but a way of life.
To those who profit from smears, the choice is simple. Chase the short-term gain of chaos or embrace the long-term reward of legitimacy. History will remember the builders, not the wreckers.
The writer, Sokiri Lojuan Lojökudu, is a concerned South Sudanese citizen.
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.