The Fiery Fireworks in Bor: 29 years of struggle and on…
Jonglei State is where the first bullet of the current liberation struggle of SPLA was fired, and it is still the same spot where the last bullet is being fired, will probably be fired. The only disappointment here is the first bullet killed a person, and the last bullet is still killing a person in Jonglei. The state, though is held at a high historical echelon today, is still immersed in bloodbath. That explains why civilians (new civilians) almost broke their legs, if not hearts, when the fireworks were spread into the sky of Bor town from AK47s.
I thought it was a dream, because I was sleeping on a family-size bed in one of the rooms near the VIP sections of South Sudan Hotel, the leading hotel in Bor, just for now. Since a dream is, as I feel it, a mirrorring of the past or the future events, hinted or unhinted, we had discussed something related to guns a day before. “What if a tall man extends his arm (God forbid) through this low-lying window!” wondered I to Aborcup, a Murle friend that has become my follower brother. I also told him how I celebrated Antonov being shot down over Bor a another day before, according to the dream. Then this one: rat-at-tat-tat! made me jumped higher than an Agaar dancer on a huge springy sponge, to the surprise of the hovering mosquitoes.
After scrambling with me, myself and Jean Penn (me too) for the ever suspicious and unboltable window, I saw nothing! I saw the same scenario that scared me and scattered us into the dark in Omere in 1994 and Lobone in 1998, a sixteenth-May celebratory shooting by the SPLA soldiers. What a bin-Ladenic fun! But that is not the topic now. I hope I can be excused for forgetting too soon the crackling of AK-47, not withstanding the Pi/bor and Ako/bor attacks.
My concern is: should it be the routine? If so, will our kids and some other oldies, and/or even war absentees, not jump off the skyscrapper windows in the later times of our history? My insinuation in this historical insulation of the traumatic and drammatic war that we had is we should use fireworks. At least, a cheaper alternative this time, not the other ‘500,000-dollar’ fireworks imported for our independence celebration. Year, it was Gen. Kuol Dim Kuol who warned in his 16th-May speech in the 1983-event commemoration held — not in but — just 5 kilometres from the spot the deadly sport took place in the 16th dawn of the world’s revolutionary month (May), 1983. “It is ‘fousa’ (meaning silliness). If our invitation team finds out that you are one of the ones who engaged in scaring our sleeping population and wasting our resources, you will see.” The general warns that the indisciple soldiers who compensate from the cut of their salaries all the bullets they had shot away, each cost 100 SSP! Hii, general, you are right, given the way my peace was broken into pieces that night! But what is the alternative next May? Or you mean no celebration?
No celebration as usual? This is the event that had poorly been celebrated or even postponed, altogether. I can hardly remember when it was celebrated on time since the ill-fated Alicopter crashed. Corrrection: Helicopter…sorry…for this literary indiscipline. I had witnessed it transferred to another freer date three times since 2005. What a f…, our old guard folks so addicted to postponement, also delayment, to the extent of adjurning history!
On the 28th Anniversary of our liberation struggle’s birthday, there was a great disappointment, not only when the day was pushed three times, but also when the President, the history maker of this day (perhaps this month) failed to attend. There was no much reason other than mourning the forcible occupation of Abyei by Bashir’s forces. I thought our top man would find the best time to shout out all our war cry in the cradle of the still ongoing war of liberation, call it now ‘self-defence’. Imagine your dad forcifully postponing your birthday! Unless he was born on a day other than yours.
The same complaint was painfully recounted to The Star newspaper in 2009, which I happened to edit. The Letters section contributor echoed the reasons that led to the abuse of this date, too disheartening to repeat here. Of course, there are so many lieutenants in the current government that did not share in that day, including those who even tried to make it not happen. Please, do your own research; lest I am come for!
The Manual Chart for Malual-chaat: Could this be a site for the heroes’ monuments? If I were a date setter, I would say: Independence Day to be celebrated in Juba every July 9 and may May 16 be commemorated in Bor annually. But with more decent fireworks next time, better than the sparks you will find in the following poems, please!
POEMS for May 16th from Chapter I: ‘Heroism and Nationalism’, from the book The Black Christs of Africa, by this author.
The Black Christs of Africa
You, O saviours, I salute,
With due honours absolute
To you, whether here on earth,
Or who weather there in the hearth.
No vain salvation with blood.
We the heirs of your vein flood
Believe our crises have been atoned
By you our Christs that have been stoned.
Being black is not being blank.
Our Herods crucified our heroes,
But their Bloc can’t block the Black.
Hail Jesuses, to heaven your souls sail,
But Hell Judases, to oven your souls sell;
As we, here in Africa, err,
Remain heir in a free care,
Our Martyrs, it’s you we owe,
Our murder land, it’s we you awe,
Our Motherland, it’s you we own.
I don’t mind if my life goes in the service of the nation. If I die today every drop of my blood will invigorate the nation.
Indira Gandhi (1917 – 1984)
Indian Prime Minister.
Said the night before she was assassination.
The Blood Donors of Africa*
The donors of blood
Are redeemers of life
Of patients who cry flood
In bitter search for sweet life…
Till they breathe last—get floored
On their earth deathbeds, they strive.
He who drains a vein
To irrigate your dry life
Is no daring saviour in vain.
Our land is a hospital of strife,
Where bloody bannered war van
Is burned with a million donors of life.
Blood’s the cocoon of life
And they that offer blood,
Donate with it their own life.
The rivers and floods of blood,
With multitudes of Christly life,
Have redeemed our beloved Bilad
The struggle for black freedom has been tied to their history by cords of anguish and rivers of blood.
Vincent Harding (1931 – )
The Other American Revolution
St. John Garang
His name is John,
Who baptized us with blood,
Fire and spirit of nationalism
In Red Sea, Nile and Mount Senile.
A practical Pastor,
Who preached the message of unity
And peace on the podium of rigidity
In the stadium of dignity.
A dogmatic Doctor,
Who prescribed medicines of freedom
Against injustice and serfdom
With our own toil on our own soil.
A firm farmer,
Who sowed seeds of prosperity,
And self-determination for posterity,
With a nuclear tractor.
A gallant General,
Who led a resistance against the wall of Jericho,
And felled it down,
With a hundredfold armies by a thousandfold enemies.
The Black Christ of Africa: he is
Prophet Moses II,
Martin Luther King II;
He is John the Baptist II,
Beheaded for being big-headed
Against illegitimate inheritance of our Mother.
St. John II is whole alive,
For heroes ne’er mortally die,
They – into political hibernation – dive,
And – in historical metamorphosis – lie
In an actively fossilized volcanic ambush,
To erupt into another hero in arms and bush.
Saint John Garang,
A political martyr and missionary,
The Sent, John Garang,
A historical revolutionary and visionary.
Sudan will never be the same again,
Said John Garang.
That new saint, than whom nothing purer or more brave was ever led by love of men into conflict and death…will make the gallows glorious like the cross.
Attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 – 1882)
U.S. poet and essayist.
Referring to John Brown’s execution.
Abandoned, the Blacks became abundant and
Redundant. He saw them resorting to their socio-economic
Idol worshipping as they were damn
Idle. Yet their miserable life that had
Cordoned them off into their health-gagged ghettos (was)
Condoned by their overwhelmingly wealth-gagged geckos.
Reasons, as such, made him braved
Prisons, where he met his comrades
Rot for the very cause. Of course, he’d
Not surrendered to the racial abuse (of)
Apartheid, whose architects’ political
Appetite was the Blacks’ gaping abyss.
Nelson Mandela was the native African
Nail sown under the oppressive, suppressive, exotic cushion.
Because he was annoyed with the unholy spread of Afrikaan racism,
Of course he was anointed with the oily spirit of African nationalism,
Rust or rot never destroyed his vision and mission in captivity as he did
Trust not the harmnesty from the faces of the fascists and the racists.
Downloaded his roles from our African Dinosaurs
–Nailson Man-dela –
Uploaded these roles to our African die-innocents:
Hail Samora Michel.
Hail Garang de Mabior, and all the
Black martyrs of Africa, (the)
Black Christs of Africa.
“I will never ask for amnesty. Not now, not tomorrow, not after tomorrow.”
PW Botha, June 1999, Truth and Reconciliation Commission (of South Africa).
Martin Luther King II
Martin Luther is King.
He’s not a losers’ king.
The seeds of freedom he has sown,
The seat of reformation he has shown,
Like the white Martin, Luther I,
Who filtered Protestantism from Catholicism,
The Black Martin Luther II,
Fostered protectionism against Racism.
It was from his footstep
In 1955 that Rosa Park,
Of Southern USA, Rose not to pack
For a white passenger.
Turning into a wild messenger,
She defied the white man
And defined the black man
In the history of mankind in America
With the story of man coming from Africa.
It was from her footstep
That women put their fullstop
To mark their marginalization,
To make their realization
In the world all of a sudden.
Like Katipa Banat of Southern Sudan,
Since 1955, the women battalions,
Warrior wives of battle lions,
Who played their roles in the fights,
Paid and paved the way for their rights.
It is better to be the widow of a hero than the wife of a coward.
Dolores Ibárruri (1895 – 1989)
Spanish politician and journalist.
The Gangs of Hollow Wood
The sneaky niggers,
At them sleazy cowards,
Who dive in holes with moles and rats.
The hot gang,
At them too timid,
Who lie in burrows with rabbits.
Rap, rap-up, rip off, hip hop…!
The holly gang
Of our hollow wood,
Who dies for us for our paradise.
Hail our commando,
Led by John Commander,
The best actor and director,
Of the holly gang of hollow wood,
For the saddened peoples’ libation armistice,
Or the saddened peoples’ libation moment.
I don’t know what effect these men will have on the enemy, but, by God, they frighten me.
Attributed to Duke of Wellington (1769 – 1852)
Irish-born British general and prime minister, 1810.
In The Battle of Holy Wood
The Elephant Grass,
Mowed down by foe’s sickle,
Withered but did not waver;
They fell – were felled – for us,
In The Battle of Holy Wood.
The Giant Ebony trees,
Hewed down by foe’s axe,
Did it and became the weaver
Of a Freedom Palace for us,
In The Battle of Holy Wood.
The Gallant Scapegoats and Rams,
Sacrificed on the Altar of Justice,
So that today, after today and forever
We survive budding in their chorus,
To further on The Battle of Holy Wood.
The virtuously insane Saints,
Crucified at the Calvary of Slavery,
So that today, after today and forever
We build our Secret Sacred Shrine,
With their pallid, solid, hollow wood,
Fetched from The Battlefield of Holy Wood.
For all have not the gift of martyrdom.
John Dryden (British Poet, Dramatist and Critic of Literacy, 1631 – 1700)
In the Noon Moon
When our men got annoyed
By the spirit of racism,
They also got anointed
With the spirit of nationalism,
With which they got drugged
To the extent of betting by their land,
Allowing their valour to have them dragged
Like termites into the swimming parlour of fire.
We owe Bul Koch and the rests who risked for our land,
For which they braved the grave and swore by bonfire,
That they licked as it licked them in the noon moon.
Long live the Anya-nya gallant warriors,
That got drunk
Against the spirit of serfdom.
They stood up to dunk
Their might in the spirit of freedom.
Addicted to national alcoholism,
They challenged rains of fire,
In search of liberty in colonialism.
They spent the simmering summers of the noon,
Enjoying the African heavenly fire
with the romantic feeling of a noon moon.
Once plagued with a tragic sense of inferiority resulting from the effects of slavery and segregation, the Negro has now been driven to reevaluate himself. He has come to feel that he is a somebody. With this new sense of somebodiness and self-respect, a new Negro has emerged with a new determination to achieve freedom and human dignity whatever the cost maybe.
Martin Luther King, Jr.
The Testament of Hope.
The Moods in the Woods
When we deserted our town,
And laid our serfdom tool down,
And rushed for our freedom tickets,
In our own native impenetrable thickets,
The machines jangled in the jungle of Jonglei,
With the epic poems of the jungle by jongleur,
Ringing thr’out the vastness of the Africountry.
The war cry and freedom bell of the century,
Rung by the biblical tall and smooth-skinned
Folks, feared far an’ wide as wrath-skilled.
The men that then transpired fire
And perspired scarlet water
on faces making kids falter,
had the moods of doom,
in the woods of boom.
Lo, as if out of tombs
With their bombs,
They dared death
And saved birth.
They saw blood
like the flood
of their lives
and their hives.
The object of war is not to die for your country but to make the other bastard die for his.
General George Patton (1885 – 1945)
Goons of Boons
Yes, go ahead; push me,
Load onto my head even three,
Only when doing it for my good.
Even if I’m working with no food,
As I’m trudging on bare foot,
Yes, kick me with your boot.
Unlike them I won’t call you goons,
For them you are my fellow baboons.
Though I’m damn sweating,
I know my future is awaiting,
Only that you later destroy it not by spoons,
Thence will I call you my goons of my boons.
“Alah! arah, move! Boy, you are too young to ask why and know where you are carrying this. Soon you will,” said a Sudan Peoples’ Liberation Army’s freedom fighter of the Lion Battalion to this poet as he was being herded and loaded with boxes of explosives from his village in 1986. Four years later, he was able to know and join them in the bush.
FINALLY, somebody made justice to our history here, please click this link and watch the best part of our nationalism in action. I am proud that I am involved in one of the songs linked!