A Fly on the Wall

A piece on the evolving perception of change in South Sudan. Much ado about nothing.

 

A Fly on the Wall

 

“No, father, you are too small potatoes. Nimule is no longer my home.  Iam going to Juba”, Tiangwa speaks with an air of decidedness. He mocks his father, Yonama, who is living out his retirement.

“Is it so hard to keep your head straight on, son?” the old man questions. “I should be waiting to worry about you”, he adds with resignation.

“That is fun to say around family and friends.  I don’t belong here anymore. I must leave for the city where my dreams will come true”. Tiangwa draws his line in the sand for his father to see.

“It is all out there, Tiangwa. Success takes patience”. Old Yonama rises from the ground, barely wiping his behinds.

“Nimule is dry. It can’t lead ants to peanuts. To work that little bit harder on the SPLM thing is way too much for me. Peace has come. Our country has oil; we are rich. All I have to do is go to Juba and come back with our share”

“It is as usual, all about money. The liberation is over. I guess, the transition is not yet. I wish you could stay home and look up to the job you have now with SPLM. Remember, Iam living through you. At least, here you have time to breathe”

“I studied Marketing at Makerere. Iam doing marketing now in an unusual way. Iam not really a Party Information Secretary. This is much ado about nothing. They will still treat me like dirt, father. You can now go to sleep, father. SPLM has made life to cost a whole lot less. When I come back home in two months’ time, I will get the whole village drunk and laid”

“I know the itchy fingers of easy money. Is the money in Juba not for us all in this country?”

“It is for us all but in Juba. Money will never wash up here. Iam going to Juba to tail it from close behind”

“End of class, son. Sleep well”, shaking his head and waving at his son.

He has not expected father to let him off easy. The old man has got to the point where he could not wave his stick around again. He would rather wait for an apology, Tiangwa chuckles. After all, he is old Yonama’s only surviving son in 21 years of war and life in refugee camps in Uganda.

That little conversation has given him a good excuse to leave first thing tomorrow morning. A vague sentiment of anxiety washes over him. If he does not leave then, father will be shot at alongside him. He knows why and who will. Now, that is a long story. He should not sit still for his offended friend, an SPLM Party Chairman in Nimule.  Nimule is a town that sits on the border with Uganda. It is a County, too. The Party’s Chairman is a commander in the army, the SPLA.

Up until a week ago, they were sworn comrades in running party activities in town. The Chairman is a fat cat friend, with lots of cash to splash. Tiangwa is his conduit for a line-up of pretty girls, local and foreign. Or better still, anything in-between. The best place to meet the Chairman would be down at the end of a bar. He has the dose correct, the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement (SPLM) could do more with less. It is always time to celebrate. Look, peace and liberation are here! He is a great preacher of SPLM in bars, not for those behind bars. He is both the preacher and the choir.  The whole town just looks like a bag of poo.

Tiangwa is young and stupid. He had turned off his phone one afternoon when the Chairman needed him badly. The Chairman has to fight someone close to his power. He wants to see this fellow party member dismantled and on the run.  SPLM is not for a person with a checkered past, Mr. Chairman agitates.

This up-and-coming party member, Alau, is so popular in Nimule that he could at any time dislodge Mr. Chairman. Nobody should overstep Mr. Chairman. He will not hold back. He just won’t. In fact, he is going to write the SPLM General Secretariat in Juba, not Torit. The State Party Office in Torit will just dress up any outfit. Juba has to react precisely.

The National Party Office in Juba is known to set off frantic rush for dismissing wrong elements who draw boos in the party. It only has its ignorance to blame, muses Mr. Chairman. This is why he likes the SPLM. What a treasure of a man he is to the party!

This ambitious Alau should feel the sharp end of his anger. He will straighten out the rascal. He has already penned a long memo to Juba about this young man blathering like an idiot in party circles here in Nimule.

“Instead of being part of the SPLM brotherhood at a sitting for men”, he writes, “This rascal has drunk every chance he gets. This shameless rascal has no feeling from the waist down. In fact, he pisses and pisses like a donkey.”

Of course, Mr. Chairman won’t stop here.  Juba will laugh at anything. He should profit by each moment. He should chop his rival down to size quickly. That is how SPLM works.

He picks up and says that this rascal is buying off Nimule Border Station officials to turn a blind eye to serious illicit trade in fake dollars. He must fall hard and fast, Mr. Chairman adds. He sits back in his hotel room where he has been living for the last two years. From here he can peer out over the streets of Nimule. He has to spare a thought for a gulp of his favorite beer, Nile. There should be a bounty on the head of this rascal, Mr. Chairman thinks.  He flashes the V-sign for victory. SPLM Oyee!

It falls back to same old assertion. He must read out more charges against the rascal Alau. He needs a big fat lie to rub up Juba the wrong way. A lie like this should line Alau up closely with The SPLM-DC, the archrival of SPLM.

Just then a knock on his door comes through. He can tell this is one of his many informants. Something must be pressing. Could this be Lona?

Mr. Chairman gets up and walks to the door. There standing like a pot about to boil over into the cook is his confidante, a pretty woman face. Lona is her name.

“Anything unsettling, Lona?”

“Yes, Comrade Chair. The rascal Alau is plotting to cut our heads off”

“What?”

“Our SPLA Intelligence is fairly sure Alau and Tiangwa are wooing the LRA to cut and slash at people in Nimule. The intention is to make our town gain infamy for death and destruction”

“So, we may skirt a direct hit from them”

“The official word is it is treason, Comrade Chair”

“We have weathered these ups and downs before. Alau and my trusted errand boy Tiangwa want to get ahead today”

“They are playing a petty game, Comrade Chair”

“Let us make them look that bad. I want you to call an emergency party executive meeting tonight”

“Right away, Comrade. Shall I invite our eyes and ears, too?”

“That goes without saying. SPLM is SPLA; SPLA is SPLM. They have the incriminating evidence. Besides, we have to silence doubters”

“Yes, I understand. That other bit of doubt. You have the direct line to the top, Comrade Chair.”

“What goes under the table is between you and me, as usual, dear Lona. After this meeting, we will stay up late. I will leave you pinned underneath, promised”

“I miss that, dear. I want to show off my waist! But first, let us beat the crap out of Alau and his errand boy.”

“When the cards fall, Juba will show no mercy. We will press for the death of enemies in the camp”

“SPLM will break their backs. We will roll them up army trucks never to be seen again.”

“I miss our conversations, Lona. Now, be quick and get the stage set. Good luck, Comrade.”

“I will gladly, Comrade Chair.”

“Don’t forget! Just change the locks when Alau and Tiangwa are gone for good”

They break into a mild laughter.

Mr. Chairman sits down again and writes Juba with fervor. “It is hard to pin things down, Juba. But I have just had reliable intelligence that our member in question is at a breakneck pace to recruit the notorious LRA against our party and people. A good many of LRA militiamen have been spotted near Nimule already. There must be more to it. Rascal Alau should not be allowed to backpedal. How long should people like him speak out of both sides of their mouths? He must be dealt a stinging blow. This move Iam proposing is backed by a roll call of all party executive members here in Nimule.

This is a shocking thing to wake up to in our party’s glorious history. The sooner we take a crack at this slithering tangle of dissidents, the better. Let us leave them no choice, Comrades! In fact, as I write you now, Alau is drunk to the marrow”

Mr. Chairman has fallen in love with his lines. He continues like a ravaging fire. “Just some kid off the street looks like he is part of the cast of SPLM proper. A dung beetle wants to challenge me, a storied military leader in the SPLA! This is far from the bits of notoriety to crop up in our CPA era. We have to frighten off many like him by chanting SPLA Oyee! Comrades, may be it is fair to wonder why our party is packed in like sardines. We have many like Rascal Alau who cannot even carry their own water! These useless members are more concerned about having control than compromising. That is not our spirit, Comrades. They should not be allowed to sneak back in. Alau has raised his middle finger at SPLM at every chance. We must do away with that joke. He is a fly on the wall! Thank you, Comrades in Juba”

Mr. Chairman patrols the ink drying on the paper and laughs at himself. It is so cheap and doable.  He must now prepare for the meeting to address speculation.

Later on, he will have his hotel room set to fun music. Lona is coming to spend the night. Her dress’s sparkle will catch eyes. Well, this seals it. He will make runs over her. He will fling himself on everything edible. All he needs now are an assortment of condoms, not freedoms. This fun will be over his head before they finish their first cups of tea tomorrow morning.

He goes out, carrying himself with a trickster swagger.

Tiangwa comes back from his recollection and shivers from fear. He knows Mr. Chairman is not in for yet another of his many slaps in the face. This time round, he will die unless Mr. Chairman chooses to pardon him. Unless he escapes, he is dead. He dashes into his small hut and sucks down a pint of Kwete, local white stuff. A moment later, he flares out just right.

 

He must go and talk his friend Alau into escaping right away.

“The picture is not quite like it looks, Tiangwa, my friend” Alau assures on hearing.

“Mr. Chairman may tonight even get us in jail for burglary, Alau! We could get beaten to pulp”

“It is beyond me, Tiangwa. But I agree with you. We must leave Nimule”

“Yes. For now, we must learn to leave things alone” Tiangwa admonishes.

“A little spark can cause a massive fire. What will the SPLM of tomorrow look like?”

“Is there tomorrow to start with?”

“Our questions may have the underpinnings of anger, my friend”, Alau rises above.

“That would be nice for a change, Alau. Is this not what you are standing for?”

“Our party is fast bypassing or turning off its controls. They will keep letting rotten eggs like Mr. Chairman in for backside profit. My fear is that they may wind up with a revolt on their hands”

“That is what it looks like”

“Keep a close watch on your tongue!”

“Too much cash within our arm’s reach, I guess. I now feel remorse for running errands instead of doing real party work”

“Boy’s life is hard, I guess, Tiangwa. We will get back in the swing of things one day. Don’t worry”

“I hope we will live to see the light of day, my friend”

“Let us be quick. It is time to go back home and pack for our journey. Lead us out of this dark, Good Lord!”

They each plot a course straight back home for their secret escape. Melodies float from every doorway along the Main Market Road. Tiangwa watches the nocturnal hues of the town come to life. Nimule looks so dark and menacing.  But it also looks so well put together. Here, Tiangwa and Alau have grown up and celebrated births and weddings. It is here, too, that they now have their wings clipped at home. It is money, power and blood at work. The ruling party of the country even smells like money.

 

Fear is whizzing in the air. They have fallen out of favor with their Chairman, a powerful little pope who just wants to sin. Another reason Mr. Chairman wants to devour Alau is the simple fact that he has fathered a girl with Alau’s sister. He has asked that this be kept under wraps. Alau’s family wants to account for the baby girl that has come from their daughter’s rubbing knees with Mr. Chairman.

The family will be a hearth full of ashes, Mr. Chairman has warned solemnly. He does not need a lesson on how to look up a skirt. They should do well to recall he is a liberator, not a benefactor. He will piss poor at everything. Alau has since kept his head down.

Getting off easy has been his way of life since he became the Party’s Chairman in Nimule.

“Is that so much to ask for?” Tiangwa does a little pondering. “Why does it take Mr. Chairman all this stubbornness to treat his people with humiliation?”

Tiangwa is a Diploma holder from Makerere University, Uganda. He has come back home to add up to those with their eyes open. Just like him, Alau has got back home from the USA where knowledge is a feather in the cap.

Now, Tiangwa cannot loop around anymore. He does not have all that fur of the educated to hide under. What an irony! Here in Nimule, people need to enjoy their money and their liberation war. So, when offered a chance, he could not turn down that role. He became Mr. Chairman’s favorite boy for his familiarity with East Africa’s Two Ws: Wine & Women. To his credit, Tiangwa knows how to find a bargain. Girls come up behind him. Mr. Chairman pays a pretty penny for every bit of it. Party work continues.

Tiangwa gets back home and does his packing. Yes, he could score with them in Juba. He knows a few good connections there. It is all about that in Juba. Patience is such a lost art in the countryside. He has to be in Juba. Father should never know why. That is why Tingwa has not said a word too many.

A tiny patch of sky brings dawn home to Nimule. Tiangwa wakes up and swears off staying in Nimule beyond 6am. He is right. Just then a phone call from a friend confirms SPLA soldiers have arrested Alau in a tour of boots on the ground. The soldiers are said to have cuffed him. They will parade Alau around town. This news is never good. Not one bit.

Tiangwa is shocked. He knows he will be the next in their gun sights. Alau and he have one thing in common: a laundry list of misconduct. It is the Party’s darling. He will be crippled out with torture. He rushes out and is gone in a minute. Tiangwa feels the chill of empty spaces in the early small minutes of Monday morning as he rushes to catch a Tipper Truck to Juba. He will pay 100 pounds for the ride.

“They will starve my friend into sickness and blindness” He cries.

A close graze by the sun brings him back to life and His eyes begin to glisten when he gets on board the Tipper Truck loaded with sacks of charcoal on its way to South Sudan’s city, Juba. There are three other passengers with him.

The wear and tear on the Tipper’s wheels is cause for celebrating the start of his journey to Juba. These trucks could kill a bunch of folks going by their reckless speed. Tiangwa thinks something might fall apart on this one anytime. Indeed, it may stray into the terrain. What, with a half-drunk driver in the early hours. The turns and twists of Juba-Nimule Road may be too much for him and his truck.

The landscape opens out like a window. All around them are lovely hillsides where many goats are grazing. There are locals on the farms. Heading to Juba is like visiting a lawless city. In Juba, when someone gets really desperate, they go out with a gun and rob innocent people. When they don’t kill someone, it is a mistake. Children run around in sandals. Some go to school; others do not. No one will ever get a straight answer about anything.  The rich snub their noses at the poor. Yes, people go to work 9 to 5. They point fingers in all directions. Weekends are a boost for love birds. A few steer clear of drinks. Nights stretch into days. Hotels do not turn out the lights.

People pile on to cheer on SPLM. Some are married to their left hands for the rest of their life. Police can punch you in the mouth anytime. The army wants something to yammer about. If you choose to thumb your nose at this country, it will not matter for long. Politicians come up with a new lie for every occasion. Officials steal right up under their noses. They buy a new car at the drop of a hat.

Everything else is the same here as before. The media steels its nerves with lies.

 

The journey picks pace as Tiangwa dwells on Juba. Their truck hits a problem on the road. A couple of gunmen in military fatigue snarl road traffic by holding their guns at the ready. They quickly force passengers in three trucks to disembark. Instructions are that all must hold their hands on their necks. One of the gunmen walks up to Tiangwa and holds a knife to the throat of the young man. The gunman turns to the next passenger and punches him in the stomach.

“We go days without food and water. We are real SPLA soldiers left on the sidewalk of this peace you are now enjoying”

The other one comes closer to see what the fuss is about.

“Everybody spit out your money or get a bang for your cash!”

“LRA cuts off the hands of people like you. We grab a bag of money or you are as good as lined up and shot dead”

“We will get to it in a minute, Comrade!”

The traffic has long shuddered to a halt. In a frenzy, all passengers start emptying their wallets for dear life.

“We will only leave you the grass to fight for! The government pays us little, late or not at all” say the gunmen haltingly like drunkards.

“Comrade, let us not waste our time. Just let these civilians pay us through the nose for SPLA. When they get to Juba, they can laugh all the way to the bank”

All passengers surrender their money. They are then huddled together under a tree. By afternoon, they are looking like sun-dried tomatoes. Somehow news has trickled out about this robbery. The gunmen suspect so, swerve up onto the roadside and disappear with a slit of cash.

The army arrives but finds no one to shoot on sight, every last one. Tiangwa gets a little restless. He would not pray for death. What if some of the Patrol’s soldiers could recognize his face? This robbery, so sudden and swift, has knocked Tiangwa’s advantage on its back. Good enough, the patrol vehicle drifts around and turns back for Nimule.

 

“Keep an eye on goings-on, civilians heading to Juba!” shouts the commander, a tiny lieutenant who looks like a militiaman.

The frightened passengers scramble back onto their trucks. Tiangwa and his fellow travellers climb up the Tipper. Their driver offers up some advice on the journey. They will pull over at the next roadblock and have lunch. He would rather travel to Juba around 5pm in the evening. The dark of the night will be a good cover, scary as it may be.

“Iam not going to lie to you. If we head straight to Juba right now, we will in effect wave off help. There may be other gunmen down the line. Pay day was yesterday, remember”

“We are not going to reject this out of hand. This is South Sudan. Bad things are bound to happen” says one short, stout passenger.

A woman among the robbed civilians lets loose a rant for ages.

“These criminals must go the hangman’s gallows!” shaking her head in the wake of the happening. She has just got the fright of her life.

“Look around, mother.” says a young lady with her. “Rub the dust from eyes and let us get back on top our truck. We are going home.”

Her voice is quickly lost in the hullabaloo of the trucks starting their engines for the journey to Juba. The Tipper slams into reverse and hits the road again.

“That old woman was going to spit her gum out of her mouth” jokes the driver.

“Her killing would have been a little consequence” remarks the passenger sitting next to him.

“It would be oil poured on fire” concludes the driver.

“These soldiers are the spitting image of their mother, the SPLA”

Don’t ever say such things or we will split over it now” the driver’s tone echoes unease. They look at each other, waiting for the other side to blink first. Nobody does.

 

“Any back-up for your words, Mr. Driver?” asking with a raised eyebrow.

“It is not the end of the world, Mr. Passenger!”

“Don’t be such a b***h!”

“I would have them catch you, stupid.”

“And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse” says the passenger in utter alarm.

“These soldiers can kill a housefly like you with bazooka. Mark my words. I have driven on this road for 4 years. Do you think I have never seen things like what just happened to us?”

“I do mean low”

“We may have to tough these things out, my friend” assures the driver convincingly.

“Somehow this is just creepy”

“Memory tends to live short”

But will these things thin out as we go up?”

“I don’t know, to be honest. We look way too old for that. Let our children reason this out.”

“We have to step back from the brink, though. Let us go home, my friend. Drive safely!”

The sun is peaking out. Dark, rainy clouds are hovering around. They are close to Aru Junction. The station ahead injects a semblance of order to the stressed travellers. Never running low on people, Aru Junction is back out in full force. This is a junction at peace, a rare and candid space for mingling and resting. From here, trucks will then head out to the city, Juba. It is like God has put it away for safe keeping.

 

It is approaching 8pm in the evening. They come around a bend and the Tipper bumps into the tree right next to a signpost for a country lodge. The driver, born a hunchback, gives a cry of excitement. His passengers are terrified. They have yet another misfortune. It seems fate is making these up as they go along.

The driver cuts the engine and his truck trundles down the narrow way to the lodge. Again Tingwa and the three other men with him hear another loud bang. Everyone cries out loud.

“Now I know that every dog is different!” the driver mocks with glee.

“Every which way to Sunday, you crazy son of an idiot!” Tiangwa cuts through with anger.

“It is a slippery slope to start, my passengers. I can assure you that you are in safe hands”

The short stout passenger jumps down instantly and stands there, eyes blood-shot, panting for a fight with the driver.

“Stop speaking with a forked tongue! Can’t you bring yourself to say anything more responsible?” he mutters and walks over to driver. The Tipper Truck is laying nose-down in the tall grass.

“You are more of a man who makes a living out of his words than a driver”

“Nice catch! But don’t chop me up for this”

“I can give a punch on your sweaty face” He gets into a fight with the driver. For a while the driver ducks and blocks punches with his arms. But the short guy soon boots him in the face and punches his lights out.

“I can also make you eat grass like oxen, stupid driver!” pointing at the driver’s short stature.

Tiangwa gets in and breaks up what is a useless fight.  He then takes a piss on the cold grass himself and says with sarcasm, “All girls fight like that.”

 

Another fight breaks out between Tiangwa and this short, stout passenger. Fast, fierce and forceful, blows and knocks mingle in the dirt with obscenities. It begins to rain then. It is like baptism gone wrong. They fight and fight in the night. Slowly, the stout passenger falls for slow footwork in the fight. Tiangwa slams his head to the ground. He gets back up. Again, Tingwa knocks and drags him across the grass. The other passenger loses it with slaps and one backhand smack on the nose.

“Enough, ya shabaab! We will do little else fighting like this. Let us find a place to spend the night” says the passenger who sits next to the driver, now reduced to an on-looker.

“We mean that with all good intentions”, adds the other.

“You have to consider our point”

“Provided the driver pays our bills” shouts Tiangwa.

“Deal” cries the driver with a straight face as he rises up. That is what gets them a laugh all the way to the Country Lodge. They march in lock steps like soldiers, when they are not.

A bundle of crunched pounds has survived the robbery this afternoon. This is cash money hidden in underwears and God knows where else. It is smelly, crunched but safe. They each have their little money tucked away. The driver of all men is up to the tricks.

They jostle for space at the Lodge. Their host serves them some hot soup and foo- foo which they whisk between their hands and mouths. They sit around a fire. The people headed to Juba lay off their coffee and take a deep breath. It feels good again to be alive and kicking. The bad genes that have come from the driver are long forgotten. The red dirt is now beneath their safari boots.

They retire into their small, hut rooms with a treat. These Wewes who wear next to nothing have come. They ask for as little as fifty pounds to sleep around. This place is cursed with women beyond beautiful. Everybody pays for a woman that night.

The girl who walks into Tiangwa’s room bares almost all for him. She grows her hair back out. She parts her mouth a little. Tiangwa starts it off with winks and glances. Eh, Juba must be a great place; this is just on the way to Juba! The lady sits down and crosses her legs at the ankles. She is as slender as a pen. When she introduces herself, her voice gives old Yonama’s son chills.

He can’t hold back a smile. She quickly gets her deal; Tiangwa pays as he would after a homily at church. They lock lips right away. This is a night of drinking and carousing. Nimule is behind; Juba is ahead. South Sudan is the name of the country.

“I knew a girl like you once” mesmerized, Tiangwa dramatizes.

“I never heard of a guy like you until now”

“Looks like you have a good future ahead of you”

“I may be a lot of things, boy”

With you, I want to fall squarely in the middle”

“I can get you to worry about the future for me”

“Let us go back to keeping it simple”

“How?”

Marry me, Viola!”

“The unborn future?”

“We have been up for hours now”

“Do the math. You just paid me 100 pounds for this night”

“You will suck all my money dry”

“Your little money”

“Marry me for love and loyalty, Viola”

“Only with cleaner fingernails, my big boy”

“We seem rather mellow”

“You just want a reason for your paychecks and a wife in your life”

“Not counting going home again”

 

“A perfect day to run wild and free, huh?”

“Iam all for such a thing, Viola”

“I will fall for anything from you, Tiangwa”

“You have just given me a shot in the arm! I love you”

“I love you, too!”

“This is going to happen a lot with you”

“You are falling straight down, big Nimule boy!”

“This is like a big meal close to bedtime, my girl”

Go easy on the beer tonight”

‘Are we heading into the clouds?”

“I think so”

Saliva dribbles from Tiangwa’s mouth when she smiles. It looks like the only curve in her body.  Tiangwa gets all into another curve and she loves to see the pleasure on his face. Viola runs her fingernails up and down the backs of his legs and on his butt. They have pronounced themselves husband and wife.

When they fall asleep at long last, Tiangwa dreams that he is being dragged through the streets of Juba and torn to shreds by an enviable mob of SPLA soldiers and SPLM cadres. They have one thing in common, a political party and recklessness. He wakes up with a start and thinks about this. Love is many things, he chuckles.

His darling Viola wakes up and wonders,

“What drew chuckles from you, dear?”

“Oh, nothing really. Just a fly on the wall”