At last, at least, I am one of the founders of this nation!
Thank God, we’ve arrived at the end of the journey, the final day of voting. All these days, but the first, have been blessed, washed with the tears of voters, which represent the blood of martyrs. May God put at His right hand side in that heavenly haven those who voted for our freedom with the red ink from their vein, as well as (us) those who voted on this earthly haven for this freedom with the ink on their fingers. At least, I did. I am proud to be one of the founders of this nation! Woe to who has not taken part in either red ink or blue ink decision making (bullet or ballot).
At least, my first tears dropped openly, publicly and officially on the day our fatherly founder of the new nation dropped from the sky! At last, my second tears dropped openly, publicly and officially on the day I voted to claim his real blood compensation. I have voted, like any other Southerner; and felt like this guy:
ISAIAH ABRAHAM: So when I saw brother Massimino Alam Tiyaha somewhere with tears over his cheeks, my tears felt too, due to huge relief within our hearts because forever, the chains of oppressions are gone. . Personally, like many of us, I started with my bare hands in the seventies, by throwing stones (demonstration), then to the bush using a machine gun, and now with a voting card, what would my heart say about my dear people with whom we cherish similar cause but are with us today,? Of course mixture of sadness and joy! Oh God, may you stop anyone in Khartoum from interfering with the outcome. We have spoken loud and clear for the last four days, a decision that will be live in our memories for ages!
Isaiah Abraham was not alone. The man in the picture (Gen. Joseph Lagu) dropped his tears on saying, “This is the day I have been waiting for…!” Even our Joshua, Salva Kiir (I remember the day I addressed him Solver Key in The Sudan Mirror) also dropped tears which almost disrupted his polls opening speech, repeating the same statement, “This is the day the peoples of Southern Sudan have been waiting for. This means our martyrs did not die in vain…”, he remarked in front of hundreds international and local cameras with an handkerchief over his face. This is the man who had never dropped anyhow any tears over our emotional crave for freedom, not even from the scorch of the bullet in the bush. But he did this from the score of the ballot in the city. The gain, something more powerful than the pain itself, made us voluntarily cried on that 9th day of this year, just to fulfill one of my poems I wrote two years ago, now published poem number 17 of chapter 4 (The Referendum Agendum) in The Black Christs of Africa, thus:
Saving enough tears for that Day
Save not many money,
Save your tears for years.
Waste not for me your joke,
For I will not shed a drop.
Wield not your tormenting whip,
For I will not drop a tear.
Call not a clan to console me
Upon my father’s death news,
Too premature to let go my wail and tears.
So I’ve locked my high lips and blocked my eyelids,
In both scream for pain and scream for gain.
Be it for victory or defeat, I will cry, cry, cry…
Cry my voice hose, cry my eyes dry,
Cry the Niger and the Nile of tears that Day:
The day I was born for—the day I will die for,
The end of my serfdom—the advent of my freedom.
Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
King James Bible, Psalms 30:05