The Day my Brothers
Thought I Was their Father
A Short Story
By John Oryem (Sudan)
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“Are they still searching for dollars from
passengers?” I asked the taxi driver. “They don’t do these days my son.” He
replied. Probably he might have suspected I was carrying thousands in my flashy
handbag. I only had 200 of them. ‘For tea, weighing extra kilos of my bags and
water on the way.’ At least they say so in Khartoum. My memory went back to the
time when Sudanese were hung because of a few dollars. Those were the early days
of the Revolutionary Command Council, immediately after the military coup.
“A Southerner sewn a few dollars in his shoes
trying to get away with them to Kenya.”
The message went on from mouth, to another mouth.
Southerners and Northerners alike spoke of the same event. That was it all.
Everywhere in Khartoum people discussed about the prohibition of foreign
currencies circulation. There were no newspapers to report the tragic event,
journalists were still at Kobar prison waiting their uncertain fate. The man’s
body was handed to his relatives by unknown security men days later. It was a
Holy Week of 1990.
“How can they hang him? His father is a militia
leader in the south fighting for the Arab-north government.” Underground
murmuring of jobless Southern intellectuals went on, they too, fled from war in
the south. They sat all daylong under Araak Hotel shadowy verandahs. Office bags
on their hands. Some were bald and former Regional Ministers in the overthrown
civilian government. Most of them were seeking houses for rent around the city.
Their several wives and numerous children were to be brought to the capital,
away from SPLA bombardments of Regional Capitals in the south. Some of the
former civil servants looked sickly and hungry. If you invited ten of them for a
sandwich, they would shamelessly join you.
“Our oil is God-given.” I said to myself. The
pipeline from the south of the country to Port Sudan is as long as the list of
our poverty and lamentations. Life offered us much, 2004; we have dragged too
far. On 30th August 1999, a crude oil tanker disappeared in the Red
Sea waves off to Malaysia, there were on-looking ministers with sticks lifted
high in the air. “Allah is Great, Allah is Great.” They shouted. It was our very
first export. My country Sudan was in the headline that day for a good cause;
economic emancipation.
My memory disappeared again in the scene of
destruction that was going on along New Extensions, affluent area of our great
city. The old, tall buildings must make way for multi-million dollar
skyscrapers. Roads widen. The buildings are beautiful. But they must be pulled
down. Oil money was bursting our national treasury. War was ceasing in the
south. Another one was just beginning in the west, Greater Darfur. A kilo of
meat remained at LS 8000. Government officials kept on telling us; “800 Dinars
please.” Sudanese masses never wanted change since 1992 when Dinar currency was
first introduced. The British had left since 1956; their Pounds stuck around. We
liked their legacy; perhaps it was another bonus to our independence.
# # #
Airport Road was quiet that morning. Young
soldiers stood at roadblocks wielding their AK-47 guns, most of them were
conscripts. I was silent with my recollection of life as the taxi sped faster.
The taxi driver looked at the young soldiers and said abusively; “Their tails
are cut these days,” he wanted to seduce me on Sudanese murky politics. We never
trusted some of them who posted like good people, but were security agents of
the revolutionary inner circle. They landed many innocent people in hot waters
of Ghost Houses till the street corners of our towns.
“Sudanese masses are hungry, tired of war. Let the
peace come quickly.” The taxi driver commented angrily while facing me, than his
steering wheel. I pretended to be sleepy. I yawned once more before the final
roundabout.
“I bought this car during Nimeiri’s time.” He said
to me with a calm voice.
“It is strong eh?” I appreciated his old machine,
whose years I equated slightly with my grandma’s.
“Yes. Things of the past are stronger than of
today.” He said with assurance. His happiness was intensifying.
“Nimeiri?” I asked myself privately. My mind rushed
to our ancestors’ saying; a cow is praised for its milk after it has died.
We approached the main entrance. “International
flight?” asked the taxi driver. I hesitated answering him.
“Yes, the section.” I responded with a distant
interest after his long expectation. He dragged his attention thereafter on the
traffic ahead.
“Diplomatic section?” he asked me for the second
time at the interval of few seconds. I laughed at his question that appeared to
be a mockery.
“Diplomats travel in taxi?” I put to him
sarcastically. He exposed his decaying teeth to me without further questions.
On reaching the main entrance, porters were not
only running towards our car, but every thing on four wheels captured their
attention. We thought they came to help us. We mistook their action for Sudanese
well-known charity. After showing our passports to the security men at the
narrow gate, the porters were still beside us with our bags, they moved loosely.
Our eyes met every minute. They assured us that all was fine with our precious
suitcases. We looked suspiciously into their eyes expecting their assurance. The
silence indicated; things have changed in the Sudan. I put my right hand in the
back pocket of my jeans, to give the porter that last Dinar notes. Everyone with
luggage and suitcase did like me.
“Thank you. Thank you.” The porters said before
pushing their wheels back to the main airport gate where they wait for other
domestic and international travelers. They were happy serving many passengers
who come and go till daybreak, when they were changed, then they would go home
with plastic bags to their children. “Woman, now make food for our children.” It
seemed each one was uttering that statement after reaching back home, exhausted.
# # #
There were no searches. Not even at the airport
entrance. In the past you would have met fierce-looking security men. Those were
the days immediately after the revolution. But Salvation Government has just
celebrated 15th years in office. The celebrations weren’t fabulous
like those of the previous years. The man at the hot seat was in the east with
the tally of achievements of those past bittersweet years. Nothing was unusual
except for the expected peace promises. The crowd was ecstatic. Each time the
president spoke, they shouted; “Allah is great, Allah is great.” Certain diehard
supporters intervened in-between president’s speeches. It was a common thing for
stooges seeking government posts. The president was proud about what his
government was about to achieve with its Southern Sudanese rebels, which fought
the central governments for the past decades. He was burying his predecessors in
a historical dustbin.
There were mixed feelings on the events after the
coup. It was unusual Thursday night of 30th June 1989, when a
military junta toppled the then democratically elected civilian government of
Prime Minister Sadiq El Mahdi. Some Sudanese and others reflected on that day
with sorrow. But for those who were benefiting from the civil war, especially in
the south constantly cursed the peace talks that was going on in Kenya. Colin
Powell, the US secretary of state and UN’s chief wit, Kofi Annan were due in the
country that week. Still after fifteen years in power, everyone in the
government was scared. Who could stop the two world’s most powerful men heading
for Darfur in the west? That war, which burst from the western region of Sudan,
was gaining international recognition, more than the previous one, which was
dwindling in the south.
# # #
We entered inside the magnificent lounge of
Khartoum International Airport. Thank God, Sudanese never named national assets
after their mortals. Along the corridors, there were no portraits of heroes,
martyrs, presidents, former or present. Only Koranic verses graced the white
ceramic walls. Our bags and luggage disappeared smoothly through the huge, ugly
electronic machine in front of us. If you were attentive, you would have seen
them x-rayed next to you on the screen.
“Open that box,” said the Arab operator of that
fearful machine. My attention was captured by the red signal, which was beaming
while my small suitcase was swallowed; shortly it was trapped inside it. I never
knew that, the red signal light was accusing me to the operator who refused to
glance at me, despite my total presentation of my Nilotic physique to him. My
heart beat faster than usual.
“Has someone put something mistakenly in my
suitcase?” I thought to my self. “The taxi driver? Porters?” my inquiry when
wild.
After exposing the entrails of my box, the bearded
operator told me:
“Remove the cells from your radio and camera
please.” I obeyed his order hurriedly. Other passengers bypassed me. Kenya
Airways jet heating on the disembarking lot. I met what I was required to do and
continued following my other fellow passengers.
“Thank you sir.” I told the operator with
confidence. I knew I had overcome one danger already. My whole fear was indeed
my Toshiba laptop. I looked after it like my last born child, the final brake of
a woman’s womb. It wasn’t opened. My fear was that, the security officers were
going to snatch it away from me.
During the first days of the revolution, everyone
going to East Africa was considered a rebel or a fifth columnist going to join
the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement \Army. Of course the movement’s offices
were in the neighboring countries bordering southern Sudan and far afield.
# # #
Everything was relaxed that morning. The former
dreaded security men were smiling broadly to all passengers, both to those who
were scared of flight uncertainties and confident ones. In the past, they pulled
people, even innocent ones from the planes, only to be taken into torturing
chambers named Ghost Houses, such houses where allover the country.
That particular day of our journey was a unique one
for every one of us boarding that B767 weekly Kenya Airways,
Khartoum-Nairobi-Entebbe. Our flight schedule was at 3:30 am Wednesday.
As we were being ushered to the waiting lounge, I
said to myself; “Sudan has really changed these days.” Most of the passengers
were busy reading either books or foreign magazines found in diplomatic mission
premises. Diplomatic staff and aid workers were going to refresh in Kenya with
what they lacked in Sudan. Other passengers were nodding in various corners
within the lounge. As I leaned on adjacent plastic chair, it seemed a gram of
pure sand was poured into my eyes. To relief the waiting fatigue, I went to
refresh with a bottle of Pepsi from the airport cafeteria. There I met the same
faces of the people who assessed our documents previously.
“Are they following me?” I asked myself again. I
couldn’t avoid our faces from meeting. I put to them in our usual Sudanese way.
In my pockets, there were still seven hundred Dinars notes I intended to show to
my brothers once I was already in Uganda, the Pearl of Africa. Those Dinar notes
were another appreciation of our motherland, not known by my siblings in exile.
“Fadal Bepsi.” Have Pepsi please, I said to the
young security officials.
“Oo sukran ya brother.” Thank you brother. The tall
and thin one responded to me. Most of the security officers were school dropouts
who found exercising their English fascinating. It was their reminiscence of
their old Intermediate schooling days before the military coup.
I was back among the passengers in the lounge
again.
“May Allah reach you to your destination.” Wished
the security man at the final gate. He was younger than I was. I buried myself
in the orange plastic seat again. My back began to get wet. We were at that
moment, waiting for the last announcement, “ladies and gentlemen…”
I stretched erect and checked my mobile voice
credit. The receipt inside was enough for good number of text messages to my
people around the world. From Utah to Kiryandongo Refugee Camp. I struggled with
my short fingernails, polished for that overdue journey. The first number was
Nathaniel’s. I pressed my mobile keyboard.
Hi u guys,
Gr8 d 2moro
We shall b @ Entbe b482moro
Ur all wit my oxoxoxoxo
Yyssw
Dnt b>(
Thx, tc
Luwamh.
William
For my illiterate mother in exile, the hi-tech
message was read to her as:
Hi guys, great day tomorrow.
We shall be at Entebbe before 8am tomorrow.
You are all with my hug and kisses. Sure, don’t be
sad.
Thanks. Take care.
Love you with all my heart.
William
The messages all went through. I became excited.
The loud clock ticked noisily overhead from the marbled wall. The long awaited
voice came out strong, conquering our emotions. We all rose up confused. “Here,
here.” Said the man with a walkie-talkie.
“Safe journey. Ma’salaama.” Peace be with you. He
wished to each one of us. We responded as we did in the Sudan. “Bon Voyage”
# # #
There were very young Kenyan hostesses welcoming us
onboard their prestigious, award-winning airline. Lots of holidaymakers onboard,
fresh from European landscape in search of tropical sunshine. Like us, Nairobi
was our destination. B767 had all computerized systems that convinced us that;
Africa wasn’t behind in technological highway. We were served by a tumultuous
announcement by a sharp hostess voice:
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome onboard this B767
aircraft bound for Nairobi. It shall take us two hours to our destination. Our
crew is headed by; Pilot Patrick Musyoka and Captain Kasuku Ochieng, plus other
vibrant members you shall meet later on. We should be arriving Jomo Kenyatta
International Airport by 0530hs.”
As for me, the sun was going to rise with another
experience in life. Things were new for me again. The ABC of seatbelts,
emergency gadgets, toilets etc. etc. took me aback. For those who had spent
hours and hours flying, they only twisted their necks at the precocious
announcement that was made and clearly demonstrated by the young beautiful
hostess. I strictly avoided being noticed as an African boarding an aircraft for
the first time ever. The plane lifted its weight in the air. I crashed my teeth.
My guts disappeared at my narrow throat. I closed my eyes. Ten minutes later, I
glanced at Khartoum bellow, it was only in dots of lights.
“How would I see Mama, Baba, brothers and sisters
for the first time ever in nineteen years?” My weary mind went with thoughts I
couldn’t control. I ignored the engaging “School of Rock” which was
running on the screen slightly above me. Next to me was a white young lady,
probably in her 20s. Her presence never bothered me. When she knew I was
captured by the movie, she sent her sweet voice to me: “May I see your book?”
Her long face revealed she was coming from far away. I met her request;
“Oh take it.”
“It is a nice book eh.” She praised.
“O yes.” I said.
My attention was fully with School of Rock
after presenting her with the soft cover book. Shortly after, I saw her jotting
down the publisher’s address from John Briley’s Cry Freedom I was reading
before the movie, exactly twenty minutes after overcoming my flying fear.
She ignored the other book, Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye, despite its
top position on Oprah’s Book Club that year.
The white girl stretched herself and sat straight.
She never gazed at the “School of
Rock.” Almost everyone onboard laughed at the funniest moments of the film.
Jack Black made it!
“You are going to Kenya?”
“No, to Uganda.” I replied.
Tired passengers were already waking from the
reality of their long journey, Cairo, Khartoum, Nairobi, Entebbe, Cape Town etc.
Africa is big. For few of us, we prayed to reach safely. We tastelessly accepted
the drinks and food given to us by the Kenyan hostesses. The girls were so brown
that we would have called them Arabs back home in Sudan. And they would have
been happier to be called so. Sudan was a perfect country for racial flattery.
While the movie was ending, my white lady friend
turned to me and said;
“My name is Paula.”
“Are you French?” I asked.
“No, Italian.”
“We have many Italians in Sudan.” I replied.
“What are they doing?”
“Comboni schools, Sisters, Brothers and Fathers.”
“Ah I see.” Said Paula.
“What is your name?”
“Oh I’m William.”
“A Christian?”
“Oh yes.”
“You live hard life in the Sudan.”
“Yeah, it is our way. What can we do?” It took
Paula some moments before she began to talk to me again.
“I’m a UN staff in Cairo. Many Sudanese friends of
mine are there.”
“That’s great. You still take them for
resettlements?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Not many at the moment.” She answered.
“Uhhh”
“What about the peace process?” She inquired.
“Well, the Sudanese vice president, Osman Taha and
Dr. John Garang of the SPLA\M are in Naivasha, Kenya, for the final touches. We
hope for the best.” I wished proudly.
“Yes, yaa William.”
Paula shook her head with approval.
Both of us resumed what we were doing before our
beautiful exchange of hidden knowledge inside us.
“Ladies and gentlemen, in ten minutes we shall be
landing at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport.” Our soft elusive celebrity’s
voice came out in person from behind the scene. Her voice was blaring with pride
well earned. How we yearned to see the face behind the voice! She chewed Swahili
and English with ease. She gave us that final dose of her Kilimanjaro’s romantic
voice:
“For those proceeding to Malindi, gate no. 8. Those
to Cape Town, gate no. 5. Entebbe must go through no. 9. Gate no. 3 is for
Kinshasa only. Good luck and safe journeys with our prestigious Kenyan Airways.
Your rightful choice.”
My gorgeous Italian seat sharer turned to me with a
face rejecting abrupt separation. And unwillingly bid me her last smile.
“Safe journey to your mum William.”
“Thank you very much Paula.” I too, wished her best
stay in Kenya.
“I hope your mum will be happy today after nineteen
years of pain?”
“Oh, she will dance if she possesses the strength.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, we Africans demonstrate our pain and sorrows.
Our way of life.”
“I see-e-e-e.”
We were at the tail of the long queue descending
through the plane’s steps.
Fog over Nairobi. Everyone at Kenyatta Airport was
busy as if someone was blowing a whistle from behind. The not so slender hostess
looked at us as though we consumed her precious hours for nothing.
“Karibu Kenya!” Welcome to Kenya.
# # #
In the waiting lounge after finding our gate no. 9,
I saw many old and young tall Sudanese. I understood their Jieng. They spoke
Jieng-Bor dialect that sounded not sweet like my familiar Jieng-Malual. “These
people are spoiling Jieng language.” I condemned them deep in my heart. I was
scared to approach them in a strange country. They were refugees in Kenya. I
could have just simply greeted them; “Koch panda cibak?” People from my land how
are you? I guessed, probably they were joining other relatives in the west. For
resettlement program I supposed. Back home we would have talked ill about them
as: “people who weren’t coming back to Sudan anymore, lost clan’s members we
must forget about.”
There were Somalis, Indians, Norwegians, Arabs and
Congolese in various waiting sections of the airport. Most were busy peeping at
the incoming and outgoing flights.
“The whole world is here.” I said to myself. Most
of the whites at the lounge were aid workers going to, or coming out of war torn
Southern Sudan. From time to time, I heard some were questioning themselves;
“When will you be back Jack?”
“Oh next week Kevin.”
Our ears finally accepted what we were waiting for:
“Those traveling to Entebbe report at the exit no. 6 please?”
The low voice over our heads disappeared in the
ceiling. I gathered courage to go and say goodbye to my fellow countrymen in
Jieng language before I boarded my plane. They were waiting for their British
Airways. When I reached in front of them, I felt shy. Nonetheless, I bid them
farewell from my heart. As someone who had remained in his or her motherland for
the last twenty-one years of our civil war, I felt obliged with my silent
action. Courageously I raised my head and said to them silently from my heart;
“Wabiyok. Lak kek door Nhialic.” We shall meet. Go in peace of your God.
# # #
Forty fives minutes later, we landed at Entebbe
International Airport. Kampala was normal, modern and truly African. Shortly
after my arrival, I was issued an MTN Sim-card. It was chilly. I missed again
for the second time both Network Africa and Focus on Africa
programs. My cell phone rang. Nathaniel picked it for me. “He is very tired.
Call him tomorrow.”
Waking up with red eyes, I discovered my siblings
were eagerly waiting for me.
“Why haven’t you carried on with your programs?” I
protested to them. All of them disagreed with my false protest.
“Is nineteen years short for us William?” asked
Nathaniel, my third brother after me. I responded to his melancholic question.
“Ah no.”
Nathaniel’s phone cracked with sharp tone from time
to time.
“I don’t like Nokia very much.” I said without
intention.
“We use it here in Uganda.” Answered my uncle. Each
holding his phone tightly. 8pm approached faster. My uncle’s wife brought in
rice, beef and avocado for our supper.
“Eat William.”
“I’m OK. I shouldn’t even eat. Today is a great
day.” I said.
“Indeed my nephew, you are right.” Responded my
uncle.
“Eat,” urged his wife. I picked the fleshy fruit
and submerged my desert teeth inside one of them.
“Or you’re still tired?” She asked me with half
smile.
“No, I’m fine. If you were in Southern Sudan Mummy,
you would have known today what an uncle’s wife should have cooked for a person
like me.” All laughed loudly at my statement.
Another age-mate who was also a refugee had left
the house before the meal. He timely entered when we were picking pieces of meat
from our teeth. Green nylon was on his left hand. He was holding a torch in the
other hand. Before he could greet us again, he was accused by what he was
carrying. Bottles rambled. We all smiled.
“What are you drinking?” My uncle’s wife asked. Lit
opener in her hand. I was startled. And my brains were to coin an answer. Before
I could say a word, my age-mate began the debate.
“Let him drink Bell. It is only 4.75.”
“No, no, no, Club is good for him.” Said Nathaniel
my brother.
“Let him try Chairman.” Another female guest said
calmly.
“These people don’t drink in Sudan. Sharia.” My
uncle’s wife intervened. I had to end the debate.
“Let me try that one. Where is the one 4.75?” I
demanded. Bell was handed to me instantly. I keenly read the colorful wrapped
label. The debate ended amicably. Before we could retire somewhere at midnight,
I had done away with four Bells. It seemed I wasn’t a learner. Somewhere in
between our boozing, I was hooked to a talk show on an FM radio station.
“That is Capital FM. DJ Columbus Olanya is hosting
the show.” Said my uncle’s wife. Beer was penetrating my mind, bit by bit. I
missed certain questions on Sudanese issues I was asked throughout our feasting
hours.
“You have FMs stations here?” I asked no body. But
they all heard my question.
“Ah, everywhere.” My ignorance got an answer.
“We don’t have even one station in Sudan.” I told
them. They were surprised again at my exaggerations. It was true for the south
of the country.
# # #
Kampala was foggy. The sun was delaying over Lake
Victoria. Big thermos was put in front of us early that morning. Huge bread,
400-600grams? I guessed. I ignored reading the ingredients on the package. The
mugs were abnormal in their sizes. Very athletic in designs. I got scared deep
in my skin with their contents that must go down my throat. My uncle’s wife put
three small spoonful of sugar in my mug. That spoon resembled that of the nurses
at health centers across the Sudan. All five picked their mugs except mine.
Steam was coming out of it faster. We used tiny glasses for tea in the
motherland.
“Take tea, take tea William.” They said uniformly.
I pretended to pick yesterday’s Monitor from the
table next to me.
“Add him more sugar Madame.” Urged my impatient
uncle.
“Oh sorry. I forgot, you Sudanese drink sugar with
tea, not tea with sugar.” Said my uncle’s wife jokingly. A reality whose secret,
was only known among the Sudanese. My heart rested at last. Yes back home in
Sudan we took a lot of it.
“You see all of you must go home after peace,
because our sugar is the best in the world.” Proudly I said to them.
“Yes, things from Sudan are always stronger and
durable.” Said my brother.
“There are good gold in Sudan.” My uncle’s wife was
waiting for me to confirm her statement. I only nodded like a lizard, with their
thick bread blocking my mouth.
“This guys are all homesick.” I said quietly. Their
tea in a mug and the huge loaf would have made a complete breakfast for over
nine men in Sudan.
“Kampala is very cold, you have to eat well.” They
quickly defended their gluttony to deter my assault.
# # #
There were thousands of hills rising with beautiful
brick houses dotted everywhere. Back home no one would risk building houses on
top of such hills. But we were in the heart of Pearl of Africa. Sunlight, Lake
Victoria and fresh fruits I couldn’t memorize their names. One of those gigantic
fruits, Ugandans called it Mapenesi. We Sudanese however, never found
proper name found for it, finally our ancestors settled for “Elephant’s swollen
testicles.” The name stuck like super glue. The Italians first planted them in
Lerwa in 1930s in mission compounds. When the Italians left southern Sudan, the
fruits were entirely enjoyed by monkeys around Lotti Mountains. Ugandans sold
the fruits in the city center. A piece was fetching 4000 shillings at downtown
Kampala.
Nathaniel invited me for a walk I couldn’t resist.
I thought the walk was going to be near Mengo’s Square, however, my boots were
ready for any physical combat with the hills ahead of us. After several laps, I
sweated profusely. Hills after hills. I trailed behind like an old man.
“He came yesterday from Sudan.” I got introduced to
other refugees we met around Mukwano Complex. Good number of them in the city
center. Arua Part was their cruising spot. It offered services of their
interests. Restaurants, bookings, news; political, immigration, scholarships,
etc.
They had mixed feelings for someone like me fresh
from the jaws of motherland.
“Welcome to Uganda. How is Sudan?” constantly they
asked me. From some, I read their unexpressed negative feelings; “why have you
remained there until now. These are the types who cooperate with Arabs. Traitors
of southern Sudan are many, even in form?”
When I got withdrawn from their common talks, known
only to them and Nathaniel, I heard them questioning themselves.
“Not yet?”
“Not yet.”
Some of the refugees were ending their inquiries
with familiar signals. Sponsorships, vacancies, and immigration chances in
their minds.
# # #
We crossed Bishop Luwum’s Street. Countless
Boda-Boda cyclists to dodge. I was still very fascinated by rainbow Africans
of the equator. There were half-naked young women all around.
“They are Baganda girls.” Said my brother after
discovering how surprised I was, seeing the young beautiful girls in those mini
skirts. Some were really walking freely with sleeping garments our women used in
Sudan.
“You are good here ah.” I remarked.
“What?” asked my brother surprisingly.
“I mean in Khartoum, these girls could be stoned to
death with such cloths. How can they move naked like these? The fundamentalists
in Sudan are…” I said. I made it hard for Nathaniel to digest what I had said. I
wanted to refrain my tongue anyway.
“These ones are good William. In Kenya the dress
code is different. It is worse there.”
After crossing the Post Office, I had completely
known that the generation of refugees in Uganda was culturally finished!
“Will it cross to Sudan once peace was attained?” I
silently hid my monologue activity from my brother. He was exactly of their age,
the youth in bras and vests we saw along Kampala Road.
# # #
At downtown Kampala, I began to see everyone was
pressing on to herself or himself with all individualistic concern under the
sun. My mind flashed back home. And to it, I understood why most, if not all
non-Sudanese who visited my homeland continue to talk of its generosity and
warmness nostalgically.
Music continued booming unceasingly around. Its
rhythm consoled me downward my toes. It conquered all the airwaves and the green
landscape. I got attracted to a familiar tune I heard over BBC months back in
Sudan.
“That is Jose Chameleon. But George Okudi got best
awards in South Africa.” I was informed.
Of course Chameleon and Okudi were household names,
the two hot young upcoming East African musicians were in every heart, young and
old. But for older generation, it was an East African musical renaissance.
“Is that song Dorothea?” I asked my brother.
“You know Dorothea?” he asked me surprisingly.
“I heard Chameleon’s songs in the Sudan.”
After that surprising question from my brother, I
understood how unwise was he by considering me as an outdated thing.
We strolled further into Owino Market. I was taken
aback by the type of the people we got there.
Indeed Nathaniel my brother saw me for the last
time when he was only four in 1986. Dr. John Garang had captured the whole of
Eastern Equatoria. Strings of insignificant villages were under his belt. His
enthusiasm-ridden Tingili Battalion army was putting their feet to every inch in
other parts of Equatoria, Bahr El Ghazal and Upper Nile.
My brother couldn’t recall such violent moments in
the history of our motherland. He led me everywhere. I bent to read headlines
from magazines and newspapers banned in the Sudan by state-controlled press
regulations. Focus on Africa, New Africa caught my eyes. I was
hooked by Sudan Mirror. Oil-rich Abyei was in the headline.
“They are available William.” Nathaniel rebuked me
with my sluggish movement. If I were to be younger than he was, I would have
received several knocks at my head, or he would have ordered me; “move quickly
you fool.”
“I want to see bookshops with Sudanese published
books.” I calmly inquired from my brother.
“Plenty of them here.” Replied Nathaniel. We
entered one. Inside were Catholic nuns. From counter to shelves.
“What section sir?” one of them asked Nathaniel. I
was confused, my brother remained bold at their question. East African business
people, style with their customers.
“You have something on Sudan?” I insisted.
“Please come here.” I obeyed and followed her.
“This one, this one, this one, this one.”
“OK, OK, we shall look for them.” I pleaded. We
walked away with only three. They were not expensive ones. Poetry of Abe Enosa,
Another Song captured me most, not of its literary output, but sheer
madness for lost nationalism I have come to seek among the refugees.
We sweated on our way somewhere behind Jinja road.
We bumped on few familiar houses of fortunate Sudanese refugees.
Nathaniel knew them well. Almost all of them we met never enjoyed their state of
living in Kampala. But they couldn’t reduce themselves to staying in the camps
like the other millions. It would be a humiliation. A reference they would hate
to hear; “so and so who were rich in Sudan are also living in the camps today.”
Such statement would kill their children.
As soon as we began to make gestures of leaving
those houses, they asked us immediately; “why can’t you stay for lunch?” We were
left to decide. Back in Sudan, we knew when it wasn’t 1pm yet, one was asked a
different question; “have you taken your breakfast?”
# # #
Our mobiles refused to die down. “When are you
arriving? Have you not taken off yet? What is delaying you?” Questions we
avoided. Kampala was offering me more. I was graphically told about MM Pub, Sax
Pub and Ange Noir. My expectation of visiting such gorgeous places rose wild.
I looked at my cell phone screen. Nathaniel was to
be blamed by my impatient mother dying of seeing me. I was the guest of two
decades.
At 2pm we were already cruising Kampala-Gulu
Highway northward. Caution mongers insisted, even my brother, it was the last
hour of the day for the buses travelling to the north to take off from Kampala’s
New Taxi Park. War was intensifying in the north, extending to Southern Sudan.
In Uganda, UPDF and LRA kept fighting each other.
At the top were Yoweri Museveni and Joseph Kony in the ring. Across the borders
to the Sudan, SPLA and the Sudanese army were pointing guns fiercely at one
another. Omer El Beshir and Dr. John Garang were front-runners. Non of the four
men was showing sign of tiredness. They all satisfied the bill of our ancestors;
“he who leads takes the blame,” atrocities went unabated in the two
countries. Tribes across both countries spread themselves without boundaries
created by the British.
The 200km to the north of Uganda weren’t far
enough. Most of the folks in the bus were snoring. Busses in Uganda fly in their
rat-paths, right away from Entebbe airport till somewhere in Lord Resistant
Army’s infested northern Uganda.
Our speeding old TATA bus turned corners and slopes
faster than a young man’s arrow.
“Kiryandongo is very far.” My brother complained
about the long journey. I laughed at heart.
“In Sudan we drive 12-18 hours with few intervals.”
I whispered back to him.
“Sudan is very big like that?” he put it to me.
“The largest in Africa of course.” I assured him.
We reached Luwero, fruits and palatable smell of
nyamuchomo, roasted meat, banana, pineapples and all the wild fruits of
Uganda paralyzed my senses. The system was; you buy whatever and put in your
mouth. I never ate. I was hungrier instead amidst ubiquitous food around. I
couldn’t take courage to eat while other passengers looked on. It was their way.
In Sudan, all passengers onboard equally shared whatever was bought on roadside.
I was mistaken that afternoon in Uganda. Our old bus jerked, small dying hills
multiplied ahead of us.
Knowing I was not showing any signs of sleep, an
elderly man to whom I revealed my self earlier asked me:
“Didn’t you see Kampala, how does looked, compare
to Khartoum?” He was a refugee himself. The question was obvious for the
refugees who escaped the 21-year old civil war in Sudan.
“Kampala is just like one of the state’s
headquarters in the Sudan. Entebbe airport is like any regional airports there.”
I assured him. He thought I was belittling Uganda too far.
“Ah, is it true?”
“Yes.”
“Many people talk to us like you, those who come
from there.”
It was clear at least for me. I didn’t come to
promote my country’s image to the millions of refugees around neighboring
countries.
Our newly found oil revenue kicked in their hearts.
They became thirsty for motherland.
“Is the oil really found in the South?” they asked.
“Yes.”
They doubt me without expressions. I knew I
narrowly missed being among them some nineteen years ago. I could have been
another Thomas of their color in East Africa.
5:45pm, I looked at my plastic Casio watch. We were
heading towards Bweyale. My brother advanced from the rear.
“Here please.” Said my brother to the conductor. He
whistled to the driver.
The bus jolted with coughing sound. I laughed and
remembered our modern buses in Sudan with meals, Pepsi, Stim, 7 UP and sweets
inside.
# # #
Boda-Boda bike came to speed away with us in the
bush. Real home of the Sudanese refugees. I stood silent while my brother argued
with the short owner of the Boda-Boda. We were away from Kampala-Gulu Highway.
At last Nathaniel settled for a taxi. In Sudan we called it Hafila. For
the Japanese who made it, Toyota-Nissan, mini-bus was theirs. My brother and the
car’s owner negotiated unendingly. It was unkind to argue in front of a guess
like me; no matter how much the favor being done was going to cost. I avoided at
all cost eavesdropping. Nonetheless, my eyes couldn’t resist seeing the gray
Uganda shilling notes my brother was pulling from his pockets. They were like
animal’s ears. I never knew how many of those notes could fill one’s pocket.
“That is our home!” My brother pointed to me. My
eyes were fixed at the blue horizon across.
“The one we are coming to, is our grandma’s. She is
still very strong.” Insisted my brother. I was still silent.
Ululation ahead. “Stop, stop Sebo.” Said my
brother to the driver.
Some elderly women accompanied my grandmother, all
assembled in front of the taxi. Confusions.
“Let him come out,” they demanded loudly.
“No, no, no.” Some disagreed.
Finally they agreed among themselves.
I was dethroned and pulled by my hands. I almost
laughed when my grandma threw away her walking stick she had carried along from
Sudan.
“Cawura, Cawura are you the one?” She called me
sharply with my childhood name I had forgotten. I was told that she gave me that
name after my birth in exile some thirty odd years ago. When my grandma
repeatedly called me, I began sobbing seriously. My eyes were lowered to the
ground. I remained in front of her house where I was surrounded.
“Put your legs on these eggs.” She ordered. The tip
of my Chinese boots was shy. I made other trials. I settled after fourth one. I
got sprinkled up, half-bath. Grandma sang my praise poem alone. I had forgotten
it. I last heard it nineteen years ago before the exile. By the time I embraced
my grandma, my tears dropped. We sailed the memory boat alone, two of us.
“He can now go to the house of Akwongo.” Said my
grandma.
# # #
Mama was still at the well when I was escorted to
her house. Guests assembled hours before my arrival. Some were sitting on chairs
and logs scattered allover the place. Other visitors simply placed their
buttocks on bare ground.
Mama entered with a jerrican of water on her head.
Her hair, not Afro like the time I last saw her way back in April 1986, the year
war engulfed Southern Sudan. From a distant, sadness refused to depart from our
faces. I hugged her in front of other on-lookers. Mama disappeared in my large
chest. I cried, wanting to extend it loudly if we were only two. I wanted her to
hear that childhood voice now eroded with suffering and yearning.
“Should we cry William?” Mama asked me. I was still
crying.
“Should we all cry?” I was now silent. I was
already an old man in front of Mama.
“If we are all to cry, this home will become a
funeral place today.” Mama murmured with tears wetting my ears. She was still
hugging me. I too, last heard that faint, sorrowful voice exactly nineteen years
ago.
An elder separated us.
“Sit down. Let him sit down Akwongo.” He called to
Mama annoyingly.
Mama marched inside her house. My eyes fixed behind
her as if we should rewind the yesteryears without interruption.
Beer, other strong drinks followed, ululation began
to make way. Someone pulled me from my chair. Even elders refused to sympathize
with my lack of Luo dancing knowledge.
“Let him rest people.” Auntie Anna pitied me at
last.
“He should dance.” They shouted.
Persuasions. My brother Nathaniel put words to my
ears:
“Try a little. Try a bit.”
I twisted and moved my legs differently from their
rhythm.
“The boy is lost. The boy is lost indeed.” My
paternal uncle was mocking me before that sunset.
I tried to answer them in Luo. They pretended to
have understood it. They turned their attentions somewhere.
“Cawura, even the language you forgot? Your mother
tongue?” asked again my uncle. I smiled. Not meaning it really.
“You have spoiled our name, our tribe, Luo nation.”
My uncle continued assaulting me. My silence intensified.
# # #
Dave and Garang other brothers entered and greeted
me. I lovingly touched their hairless heads. They said it was the style there.
All of them were taller than me. Children in war grew faster. I was tired again
for the third day in Uganda. Many hurdles to cover with my memories.
In my dream that night for the first time ever in
Mama’s house, I remembered her way back in April 1986, the year war swept across
our homeland like fire. We had fled the war to the border town of Pajok. SPLM\A
forces were advancing towards it. They wanted to grab it from Sadig El Mahdi.
His military Commander in Juba sent Major Clement Wani to rescue it.
“Go and take the guns left there by UNLA defeated
army in Pajok.” He was told. The young brave Major assembled few armed men and
headed for Pajok. His Nilotic eyes were in the skies across, history was
repeating itself. Yoweri Museveni’s Kadogos were pursuing Tito Okello’s
weeping Kadogos. Yoweri put his nose into Sudanese territory. The
decision had to be taken over Limur River. Southern bank was Uganda. Northern
side was Sudanese land by right. The British decided so since 1956.
Yoweri Museveni was scared by the presence of Major
Kilama and Brigadier Odong Latek who were posing threats to his new government
in Kampala that he had occupied on 26th January 1986. Defeated Acholi
and Langi military officers moved freely in Pajok and they drank in the open
air. They were very nostalgic about their luxurious hotels back in Kampala.
Former Ugandan soldiers greeted their Sudanese folks; “Jotwa wapwoya ba.”
Our kinsmen how are you? Looted cars scattered like rains.
Major Clement Wani entered Pajok at broad day. He
became small a god. Fellow Majors; Angelo Butis and Charles Ogeno briefed him on
frontline situation with the presence of the Ugandan refugees around. SPLA
advancing rapidly with thousands of recruits just back from Ethiopia.
Five days later, hundreds of people joined Major
Clement’s convoy to Juba via Nimule. We were scared to death. We headed for the
capital city of Southern Sudan.
“Don’t let my son go.” Mama urged my father that
day, it was 4th April 1986, night had befallen on the besieged town
of Pajok.
“He is a man. Let him go to study like the rest in
Juba.” My father told Mama boldly. She stood her ground.
“These Anyanya are killing people, don’t you
know?” Mama was firm to Baba with her syllogism.
We made it to Juba after twelve sunny and rainy
days. On our arrival, rumors had spread through VHF that we were all massacred
by the fierce SPLA soldiers somewhere between Pageri and Moli in Madi land.
There were many Ugandan refugees in the convoy. We enjoyed Nubi Arabic that was
mixed with other languages.
I wanted long sleep, naked and free for the first
time in Mama’s hut. I was in her house with lost shadows. There, I was a man
with all modesty, defeats and shame of this world before her.
As soon as I was out of Mama’s hut the morning
after my long dream, she held me by my hand. I had seen some graves in front of
her hut the day I arrived. I knew those siblings died. Some recent, others were
archaic. She walked me around the graaves that dotted her compound.
“That is your nephew Patrick. Omac your grandfather
is there. Here is his wife Gemma, your grandma. Taban of your sister is here.”
I reserved my Hail Mary for each of them, another
time. My brothers knew what Mama was doing to me.
# # #
Different mobile tones rang. Dave ran to pick them.
“He arrived.” I heard him saying. I was still in my long dreams of nineteen
years. Kizito from Utah persisted he must hear my voice from Mama’s compound for
the first time in two decades. He too, was a child when war started back in
Sudan. It was the same, as we never saw each other before. Our childhood eyes
and memories deleted completely. He pestered us with his call.
“I’m fine brother.” I answered with my rough voice
that I was trying to smoothen while speaking.
“Many people came to see you?”
“Yes they came.”
“Who are they?”
“Opiyo, Omondi, Monica…”
“You can remember these people?”
“O yes, I was fifteen when I left Pajok.” I assured
my brother that; I was not as young as he was when war broke out. I went back to
Mama’s hut and tuned my highly sensitive Sony radio. It was my normal frequency
of the BBC. It failed me again and again. Mistakenly I touched the green FM
button on my radio.
“This is Radio Kitara on FM 101.8”
I got attracted to the presenters mixing Swahili,
Luo and Nyoro. I was interrupted by serious laughter, which was coming from
Mama’s hut unceasingly. I buried my head in a soft blanket. The laughter did not
want to die down. They were my brothers and sisters of course, in company of
Mama. I rushed out of Mama’s hut, my eyes cloudy. There was laughter still. I
stood before them with my large pajamas.
“What is it?” I asked. All laughed again.
“What is it?” I pressurized them. At last Mama
answered me with a smile:
“Dave and Garang thought you were their father who
came from Lokichokio yesterday.”
I went and sat among my younger brothers and
inquired why they thought I was their father, our father.
Garang continued laughing. Dave, our last born knew
how we would have been playing together as one family if it weren’t of the war
back in Sudan. When lost brothers meet again, there should be heavier
celebrations.
“You see William, when you came in, I first thought
it was Baba who was coming home.” Said Dave with broad smile. I turned to Dave
and simply said;
“But Baba’s hairs in the last photograph he sent me
were like Mandela’s.”
“We thought he had dyed them there in Kenya.” Said
Garang.
Between our discussions, Mama intervened;
“Boys, don’t you know what war can bring?” We were
silent. She knew she had stopped our traumatic healing process.
“Go and catch that cock Dave.” Ordered Mama.
The sun chased us under the mango trees in front of
Mama’s hut. Four of our cell phones rang from the drying wire bisecting the
houses.
“Uganda’s MTN mobile company is really the best in
Africa.” Said Dave, my philosophical brother trying to convince me. “MobiTel
Company in Sudan offers the best services in the world.” I convinced them with
my Sim card from Sudan.
# # #
Ten days had lapsed. I was still a stranger, an
Arab to my brothers in Mama’s house. My brothers’ thoughts were strange to me.
Freedom, laziness and individualism were their way. At one moment I told them
with their suspicions on me; “do you think New Sudan shall need people like
you?” They were astonished. “You see, he is thinking exactly like them.” One of
them mocked me. I constantly reminded them that; “building a new country
requires a lot, like the Eritreans do to their country.”
“What are they doing?”
“They are hard working. Less wasteful spending.” I
said to them. They began to avoid me. I sought consolations at different levels.
“Mama, these people have become Ugandans,
criminal.” I too, mocked my disobedient brothers at their absence. They were
travelling to Bweyale for school. Refugees are without choices in Africa.
“Bring me Vision and Monitor. Not
Red Pepper.” I would say to Dave who was becoming my friend lately. He was
already fourteen. Jokingly I told him one time as he was getting familiar to me;
“What is the name of your girlfriend?” He laughed
at the top of his voice. I went on.
“I see you are going to marry a foreigner?” I
pulled his legs.
“How can I William?” He asked me. When I was trying
to find out more, he quickly disappeared into cassava fields being devastated by
dry season pigs roaming around. Garang, who was our second last, became a
stubborn bull in the house. Theresa our youngest sister, was the only perfect
logician around. All events had to satisfy all logical principles to qualify it
to her ears.
Refugees poured in each morning after hard labor in
their fields. They wanted to learn about the new things they heard about in
Sudan. They wanted confirmation from every visitor from the motherland.
“They are erecting big buildings, roads and
hospitals, flashy cars all over.”
I told them about our newfound oil wealth back in
Sudan. They remained attentive.
“The Arabs will finish the oil.” They began to
comment as soon as I introduced the topic.
“Building with the petrol money?”
“Yes, petrol and…” I answered them.
“Are they also building the South?”
“Well, for the south no, not yet. They are trying
also…”
“What about the oil problem?” One of them asked me.
“The pipelines and some oilfields near Abyei are
all being drilled.” I told them.
We politicized together on our other economic boom.
A thorny issue came up.
“What about Abyei, the disputed area?” They asked
me with concern.
“Yes, it’s our land.” I assured them.
“How big is it?” I declined to answer that
question.
Visiting the area frequently for the last eight
years would have given me enough time to lecture on Abyei to my refugee-guests.
Squarely they knew only East African history and geography mixed with other
truths. Back in Mama’s hut, I thought to myself; “What could they gain on my
vast knowledge of Abyei and neighboring oil-rich areas? Wasn’t discovering oil
in Abyei enough for them?
When the
day was set for the great feast of our reunion, guests came from as far as
Nimule in Sudan. We danced on rains for three days. Lastly, shocking news
arrived from Nathaniel who had earlier gone to Kampala to arrange for booking
prerequisites. When he called me, I was twisting myself among the crowds with
Luo dance. I was no more a learner to be laughed at.
“There is no
problem. Your visa is out.” Nathaniel insisted.
“Was it not
difficult?” I inquired.
“No, no.”
“You will
travel on Monday at 3:30pm.”
“Fine we are
still…”
We roasted
goats’ head like when we did in childhood, back home in Southern Sudan. Our
bodies smelled smoke and lazily we strolled to the beer market to change the
stench.
“Sudan again?”
I said thinking while at the beer market. Everyone was welcoming us for drinks;
“bil, taste it Wily.”
We walked to
Mama’s house late. She was gloomy because we stayed away for too long.
# # #
I made a calculated guess as soon as we entered
Sudanese airspace. While the beautiful but a no nonsense hostess was carrying
tray to the crew cabin, I hurriedly called her. She bent her soft back towards
my head. I leaned backward. She put her ears near my mouth. It gave me fresh
scent of East African cream.
“Yes sir?” she begged.
“Excuse me, can I have a full bottle of whisky?” I
demanded. She simply laughed and swayed away with her kingly tray. At that
moment I was already wondering what would I do incase we reached late at
Khartoum International Airport. The taxi drivers would chew me up, mistaking me
for one of the peace negotiators coming from Naivasha-Kenya. As I was deep into
my world back in the country, thinking about survival of years ahead of me, I
was patted at the back by a soft hand.
“Have your whisky sir.” I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Thank you.”
I engulfed the purified liquid as if a policeman
was watching me from below. The huge plane was encircling Khartoum. Other
passengers were guessing why I was gluttonous with the whisky. Some of them knew
earlier on, I was calm. From the corner some French speaking youth were moving
inside the plane as if Joseph Kabila was the owner of that B767 aircraft. Of
course they were Congolese travelling to Cairo for qualification games. They
were staring at me awkwardly.
“I have to make myself clear.” I said to myself.
One of their girls in the team kept on looking at me still. Whether it was
admiration or pity I couldn’t say. I held the bottle of my whisky close to my
chest.
“I will never see or taste this thing again.” I
announced to the onlookers.
“Sudanese, Sudanese.” One of them shouted.
“Yes Sudanese.” I shot back.
“Sharia?”
“Yaa, Sharia.”
When the plane touched the runway, we carried our
green passports on our hands. Our heads high as we pierced the blazing heat of
Khartoum that night. It was getting on late.
“Welcome back, welcome back.” Said the immigration
officers. One man who carried pineapples from Nairobi had their green heads
removed violently.
“What is here in the bottle?” asked the custom
officer. He tore the lit and smelled the content. It broke his sense.
“Hi William, this thing is forbidden in the
country.”
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed silently. It was not my
whisky but a hair dye. We left the airport without being followed by any
security agents. Abruptly we poor ones advanced to the parking lot.
“Fifty thousand Sudanese pounds.” Said the middle
aged taxi driver.
“You mean five hundred Dinars?” I asked.
“Ah, who works with your new things?”
“Fifty thousands to Kalakla my boy.” He said with
assurance.
“OK I want to reach.”
“You must be tired?”
“Definitely.”
I never wanted to speak much. My breath was still
evaporating whisky. If he could want to harm me, he could just park his taxi at
a nearby police post and put charges on me. Everyone slept. They had promised to
stay awake till my arrival. Even the sound of the rusty Mercedes couldn’t help.
Noisy endless knocks for six minutes. At last I managed. I went straight to my
bed. Before I could put any brushing stick on my badly smelling mouth the
following morning, I called Mama with the remaining credit card.
“Hallo Mama. How are you?”
“Wu, wu, wu William i ok mabe?” have you
reached well?
“Yes Maa, I arrived safely in Khartoum.”
“My son, I hope it will not take us another
nineteen years to meet.” She said sadly.
“Ahh no. We shall meet soon. Peace is almost Maa.”
“When? When my son?”
“It will come. It will come Mama.”
There was perfect silence as if Mama was affected
by my words. The silence persisted.
“Mama, Mama, Mama?” More silence.
The dial tone on my cell phone indicated that, the
long distance call had consumed all my voice credit card.
END
