These are the choicest poems out of the South Sudan’s largest anthology of poetry; of 333 poems on 333 pages from 33 chapters by a 33-year-old poet. The sample poems published below are purely – or are surely — in common with the 2011 Referendum for Freedom of the marginalized Southern Sudanese. Read and absorb them before, during and after your voting for independence. What is so un/fortunate thereof is they are being published after the elections, referendum, independence and after the death of Bin Laden: all prophesized accurately therein.  Enjoy!







by Tearz Ayuen



You broke ass son of a hunter

Do you know who you’re messing with?

Do you have an idea who the fuck I am?

You seem to know nothing about me, uh?

Okay, listen

I am the son of the president

Did you hear that?

My dad is the president

Read my lips, preee-ssssi-denn-t

We run this country

We rule you, motherfucker

We own everything in it;

The airport, the police, the army, the rivers and mountains, the wildlife,

The oil, the banks, the hospitals, the media, the mountains,

The roads, the whole city


Even yourself!

We own you and your poor parents

We’ve got your lives in the palm of our hand

We decide who lives and who dies

That’s our responsibility,

Our mandate

It’s written

We can raise taxes,

Quadruple food prices,

Ban imports,

And hoard basic food items like flour,

Sugar, bread and milk

If we like,

Just to cleanse the country of roaches like you

I could call my dad right now to instruct his boys to do it

And believe me, by the end of six months,

You would have starved to death

As a wild fire consumes savannah grassland in summer,

So would hunger and diseases feast on your siblings

Or there are so many ways to kill a rat

We could just shut all the windows of survival,

With exception of only one

Guess what it is

It’s your sister, fool

We could mold her into something else,

An idol

Something monetary,

A sex trade commodity

We could turn her into a hawker,

A professional prostitute,

Who would satisfy my dad’s business friends’ sexual adventures

Imagine how much she would be getting in exchange of her body

With only one source of income, you people wouldn’t die quickly though

But slowly and painfully,

Both physically and emotionally

So, what makes you think I can’t enter this club with my Nine?

Like I told you earlier,

We own everything

This nightclub is also my dad’s

I have access to it,


Any day,

Whether I am carrying an RPG or 50 Cal

It’s none of your fucking business

Now get the fuck out of my way,

Before I put a bullet in your dumb head

And have your body dumped in the river

I said get the fuck out of my way!


You have the guts to push me, uh?

I see

You are planning to commit a suicide, right?

Dude, I won’t let you do that

Coz you are already dead,


Poverty killed your other half

And it is about to take away the remaining half

In fact, you were born like that – half-dead,

Half-human being

Fully poor

A son of a pauper

Thanks to your uncle, Grinding Poverty!

The only blood brother of your father

And now you want me to stain my hands with your stinking blood?

Hell no

No way!

I am not going to waste my bullet on a worthless thing like you

I would rather shoot a dog or a baboon

Yes I am a drunkard and so what?

What do you expect of a big boy like me,

A big boy whose father is the most powerful man around here?

We got all the money, man

In my house, we do not use toilet rolls

Toilet paper is a symbol of poverty

It indicates how poor one is

I tell you,

In my place, we wipe our asses with dollar bills,

Hundreds, to be specific

So, what comes to your mind?

All I do is drink,

Smoke weed, shisha, cigars and cigarettes,



And sleep

So, how does my drinking concern you?

Or are you jealous of the liquor brand I am drinking?

Dude, this is called Cognac

I believe you can’t pronounce that, Mister Never-Been-To-School

Now read my lips again, ko-ni-ak

Cognac is a French brandy, fool

You have never tasted it,

And never shall you taste it

It’s very expensive, dude

It would cost you one of your kidneys to buy a cognac,

You broke ass motherfucker

I don’t even know why I am talking to you,

You knucklehead


What do you mean, get a life?

Do I look like I got no life?

Look me in the eye

Check me out,

From my toes to the head;

My designer jeans, my UGG boots, my Heuer Carrera,

My dreadlocks, my tattoos, my iPhone, my drawers

Now tell me,

What life are you talking about?

I ride a Chrysler 300 C

I own two mansions,

One in Kampala, one in Nairobi,

Another in Sydney

I got millions of dollars in the bank

Isn’t that life?

I have been to many places,

Cities you have never dreamt of

I have been to Havana, Dublin, Oslo, Rio de Janeiro,

Jamaica, Buenos Aires, Atlanta, Lagos and Antananarivo,

To mention but Just a few

If it is about school,

Forget it, man

Yes I discontinued my studies

Because I saw no reason of learning

In fact, I shouldn’t have enrolled in school in the first place

School is for poor dudes like you

A vehicle for escaping beggary,

A means of keeping wretchedness at bay

For me, my destiny is set

From day one,

The very day I was planted in my mum’s womb

Like father like son,

In few years coming, I will be the president

Yes, I am a prospective Commander-in-Chief of armed forces,

The would-be controller of everything in this country

The heir of my father’s business empire

The inheritor of this country

And remember I don’t need scholastic crap to rule you

The fact that my father was once the president is enough

It mandates my future presidency

Automatically, it gives me all the qualities of a leader

Even if I don’t succeed my father,

I will succeed one of his protégés

Shortly before the end of his tenure,

Dad’s protégé will visit us in our family house

He will explain to mum and my uncles his intentions,

That it is about time I am groomed for presidency

Shut the fuck up!

And put that fake phone away

Let me finish

Yes, we will all welcome the good news

Immediately, we won’t wait to celebrate,

To pop bottles of champagne

This would bring my drinking,

And my smoking to a pause,

As I concentrate on the campaign trails

With my father known as a hero,

The former president,

The man of the people

It would not take that long to win voters’ admirations

The paupers who take pride in names,

Things that are devoid of meaning

Folks who scramble to submit in their votes for my presidential candidacy

With the sole hope of being rewarded with the crumbs

That fall off the table,

Hope that never materializes

By the way, this is the only time you’re considered valuable

During elections, we value you

You become a valuable customer,

A political customer

All we require from you is a vote

Nothing else

After that, we forget your ass until another election season

That’s how we do it

We, the born to rule


Who the hell are you people?

Let go of my arms

Stop pulling me



So you are cops, uh?

So, this filthy dude called cops on me?

I see

And you idiots got the balls to lay your hands on me?

Silly smelly cops

You little rats,

You just got your asses fired

That, I promise you

Wait till my dad learns of this…….


COMPLETE THE NEWS STORY PART OF THIS ‘PRESIDENT’S SON’ ON: https://weakleak.wordpress.com/2014/03/29/broken-news-kenya-social-media-is-awash-with-the-arrest-of-our-presidents-violently-drunken-son/



The Black Christ of Africa 3rd Draft-1

By J. Penn de Ngong

Poem 22

Petition for Partition

Painfully but gainfully, these poems reported themselves to me while I was in hibernation, that is, by the time personalized insecurity and synchronized poverty put me under house arrest. For a project to stop gainfully, it must start painfully. Lo, we go!

Painfully but gainfully, these poems reported themselves to me while I was in hibernation, that is, by the time personalized insecurity and synchronized poverty put me under house arrest. For a project to stop gainfully, it must start painfully. Lo, we go!

Bitterly in this mandatory motion, I dispute this predatory notion in the name of Poetry, which is automatic, not mathematic— it has no formulae; like the war-time roads of southern Sudan, seemingly impassable to drive on but not impossible to deliver on. Of course, as from my mental computer through my metal computer onto these pages, poesy is supposed to flow, to flow from the conscience of the transcendent paths of the poemusicians of the present day; it is not supposed to follow, to follow the transient paths of the poemagicians of the ancient past.

Bitterly in this mandatory motion, I dispute this predatory notion in the name of Poetry, which is automatic, not mathematic— it has no formulae; like the war-time roads of southern Sudan, seemingly impassable to drive on but not impossible to deliver on. Of course, as from my mental computer through my metal computer onto these pages, poesy is supposed to flow, to flow from the conscience of the transcendent paths of the poemusicians of the present day; it is not supposed to follow, to follow the transient paths of the poemagicians of the ancient past.

(Illustrative Quote to ‘Petition for Partition, Poem 72)

If a man should rob me of my money, I can forgive him; if a man should shoot at me, I can forgive him; if a man should sell me and all my family to a slave ship, so that we should pass all the rest of our lives in slavery in the West Indies, I can forgive him; but if a man takes away the character of the people of my country, I never can forgive him.

John Henry Naimbanna (1767 – 1793)

Sierra Leonean son of King Naimbanna.

Poem 21


Out of Egypt at last!

Sudanese Christians crammed into hell:

“To all the countries except Israel”,

 A Sudanese passport is rubber-stamped,

Even that held by Bishop Garang!

To those in the north forcefully camped,

Are you aware of the boomerang?

If you in the north live in despair,

 Here is your last chance for repair.

For your endless suffering’s reparation

Is the ongoing drive for separation.

Why then are you now desperate

When you are able to be separate?

Now we have all the findings.

Just for your last glad tidings

From the very mouth of Gabriel,

To pack your bags back to modern Israel!

Or are you no longer able to accept

That you are at last out of Egypt?

Poem 17

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

Poem 22

The Season for the Reason

Time, time up for treason

To be committed without prison.

Here, hear we’re free to shout

Without being told “shut

up before you are locked up”!

like in a football club

our sabbaoths are teaming,

teeming up with ecstasy— beaming,

beaming to throw in cards,

cards marking the end of the yoke of carts.

We’re in the bush no longer monkeys;

We’re in the town no longer donkeys,

For we own the door keys for eternity,

And modernity and prosperity of our posterity.

By voting for secession in succession,

We are putting to an end our oppression,

The end of suppression by the beginning of separation.

We are doing this in the season,

The season now ripe for our reason…

Poem 50

When I vote, I voice

Whenever I vote

In whatever I devote

Wherever I rejoice

In my choice,

I vote to voice

Out all my rights

Now rotting in my throat.

This time will ne’er be fought

For as ever sorted out in the fights.

Here and now, I’m to vote

For to what I devote.

To devote by vote to my choice

Is to divorce my boss with my voice.

Just let me choose

Between the cock and the goose,

With an agenda of gender on the gander,

To end their proper propaganda,

That I’m unable to rule myself

Regardless of my placing this book on their shelf.


The old South has gone, never to return again.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

The Testament of Hope.

Poem 24

Dear Cartoons in Cart-tombs

I know you do not know

That you are still in Egypt.

That’s why I invite you now

For an exodus to in masses exit.

I know you do not know

That you are the wall of the great Jericho,

The human shield around that blazing snow,

In which you do not hear any external echo.

I know you do not know

That the political geckos cram you into social ghettos,

In tomb-shaped structures like terraces of potatoes,

Easier for indoctrination with their Shari’a law.

I know you do not know

That we have already resolved in the South,

To part way with those turbaned cartoons of the North,

Who force your women to dress like our war widow.

I know you do not know

That in their class lists you fall third row,

That they make you in your homed cartons

Live like animated Cart-tomb’s cartoons.

How about those people? How about those guys? How about those ones? How about those other guys I see with their heads wedged among aliens?  How will they be? Will they not have their testicles sliced off like the proverbial man who had wedged his head into the elephant’s (carcass) stomach? Better, better the elephant hunter, for he avenged himself with his sharp spear? How about you, what will you avenge yourselves with? Eh, count me out if…!           

Akutkuei Music Group.

How About Those Ones…? (Translated from Dinka by the author).

Is it possible that my people live in such awful conditions?…I tell you, Mr Wheatley, that if I had to live in conditions like that I would be a revolutionary myself.

George V (1865 – 1936)

British monarch.

On being told Mr. Wheatley’s life story.

Poem 63

Will we really reach there?

The first answer to be given

By Tsars who want to reach rich,

The second solution to be driven,

By Sirs who want to arrive alive

At the end  of the spiral tunnel

With their siphoning funnel.

Will we really reach there?

Against us the world conspires,

With our Herods who are our sires.

Due to our lakes of oil and minerals under,

Our legs over our soil have been thrown asunder;

Right to the south and left to the north in affiliation,

That will lure our drive for autonomy into humiliation.

Will we really reach there?

Depression always occurs within a social context. Relationships, work, poverty, hopes, children, parents and so on, can all play some role in the generation of a depressive episode.

Lewis Wolpert (1929 – )

British biologist and writer.

Malignant Sadness

Poem 64

Yeah we can!

This is our day of choice.

It is ours, a day to rejoice;

To shout, ululate and scream

A stream of tears of our dream.

It is ours, a day to rejoice;

To celebrate our vote, our voice,

To scum, skim our long awaited cream,

Our sweat harvest from our ancestral dream.

Now that we’ve had our debut access

To our century long sought-after success,

Negotiated in the first place by means of bullet,

Let’s now sing our new hymn: ‘Forever Free by Ballot!’

Congratulations, kudos to you men of the mud skin,

For gallantly lifting the yoke off our beloved kith and kin,

And by the  very way by our will declare to the Republican,

A heart-generated cry of our very valiant leader: Yes We Can!

You’ve seen that Blacks cannot rule themselves. Give them guns and they will kill each other. They are good at nothing but making noise, dancing, marrying many wives, and indulging in sex…

Does any one of you believe that the Blacks can rule this country?


P.W. Botha

Former President of the Republic of South Africa

National Address Speech

August 18, 1985.

(See: Croco-dialed Tears: Tributes to P.W. Botha; poem … page …)

Poem 65

At our Harbour of Labour

We’ve been for centuries pregnant,

Like a mother, damn expectant;

Waiting, waiting for our hour of labour,

At our very own harbour of labour.

But not without construction for obstruction

Right at our port of delivery;

At our altar of justice and canal of procreation

Are legitimacies for slavery.

That we are unable to determine ourselves,

In South Africa King of Apartheid’s order,

“You’ve seen that Blacks cannot rule themselves.

Give them guns and they will kill each other.”

Alas, the world’s ill-legal standard of duplicity

Mars our rights by complacency of complicity.

But this, will severally be countered with fight,

A fight of a mother at her hour of labour plight.


The Black man is a symbol of poverty, mental inferiority, laziness, and emotional incompetence…

 We are not paying those people to help bring Black babies to this world but to eliminate them from the very delivery moment.

Pieter Willem Botha,

President of South Africa (from 1984 – 1989)

Poem 15

Our Dead Line

Our dead line

Lies somewhere there

In between

Them and us.

Our dead line

Has lain dead

For ages and ranges,

Marrying them into us.

Our dead line

Is our death line,

With millions of lives

Donated to retrace it.

Our dead line

Is not our dead lie,

For it has a deadline

By which we’ll redraw our date-line.

Let them withdraw their dead lie,

Of turning into their history our ancestry line,

The Ngok chieftains, all Nine; Nuba Hills tribes, ninety-nine,

All mine: plus the major Beja, darling Darfur, southern Blue Nile…

The truth for which we are killed is this: the salt of our land, soil like salt…

We are not sojourners pillaging a foreign land/ we are the real owners of the country.

The soil which has taken our blood, will mend our wounds/the land will come to our rescue;

Is there a soil which does not know its owner?/The country resembles us…

Let us call upon God to join us on  earth/God who created human kind and gave each their own land,

And created boundaries upon the earth/so that we become free by ourselves/now and forever, and ever.


A revolutionary hymn by Mary Aluel Garang,

Translated by Rev. Marc R. Nikkel (1955 – 2000) 

Dinka Christianity (Paulines Publications Africa, 2001)

Poem 1


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

Poem 2

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 – )

U.S. historian.

The Other American Revolution

Poem 3

Mother, what really is your name?

You gave birth to me,

You gave me a name,

And you gave death to me,

But, Mother, what’s your name?

They think you’re an Arab Republic of Sudan,

We think you are an African Republic of Sudan.

Nay, I do know you existed here not all of a sudden,

I do believe you’re an original constituency of the Eden.

For millennia, they know you by the original name of Cush,

Hence, for centuries, we have been trying to pull and push,

To bring you back to your first biblical fame of Ethiopia,

That, we deadly believe, will be our ideal state of utopia.

Finally, we beseech Her Majesty, Queen Candace

Of the fossilized Kingdoms of Meroe,  Mankuria, Nubia…, so that

She pleads with God to bring back our stolen Grace,

To install in the land of whirring wings the virgin ‘Republic of Sudd’.

My vision is to derive a formula to define whether the country I am envisioning is peopled by Arab-Africans or African-Arabs. I am not a pastor but I know The Bible (Genesis 2:8-14) bears witness that Sudan is part of the Garden of Eden. That even means the Garden might be located somewhere around a small place called Wankulei in the Sudd region, where I come from.

Dr. John Garang de Mabior,

Quoted by the author in a Public Lecture after the signing of the Sudan Comprehensive Peace Agreement organized by Pan African Movement, February 28, 2005, Hotel Equatoria, Kampala, Uganda.

Poem 4

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.

Poem 4

Nailson Mandela

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).


Poem 5

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.

Poem 6

The Lion of Jubah

In his days came

The Lion of Judah,

Armed with armistice and justice,

A lawyer-cum-liberator of Judah,

To lift off the yoke of law

From adulteresses on the list of stoning,

To see free his people

From the spi-ritual yoke of slavery.

Though unto the earth his sole was nailed,

His soul unto heaven was hailed.

His mission today we enjoin,

His vision tomorrow we’ll enjoy,

Continued by his flag bearer,

The Holy Guest.

But before came a Lion of Israel,

The great liberator-cum- prophet,

Who roared in the face of Pharaoh,

And offloaded the boulders of pyramids

From his people in serfdom in Egypt.

He led them across the great Sea of Reed,

Into the Promised Land of freedom in Israel,

Though his body crashed on Mount Carmel,

His vision, his mission rushed in his people,

Furthered by his flag bearer, Joshua.

In our days existed

The Lion of Jubah,

The Lion of Nubah,

The Lion of the Nile,

To relieve his people

Of the buckets of human dung,

Of the yoke of slave trade,

To batter serfdom with his knife,

To barter freedom with his life.

With the message of salvation

From the wilderness of Jordan,

John the Baptist came again

To the wilderness of Sudan.

His vision and mission,

Our chronic drunkenness,

Refueled by spirit of nationalism,

Championed by our Joshua,

Gen. Solver Key.

In the Israelites’ days lived

Other lions of Judah,

On the obverse side of the coin,

With the adverse side of the toil.

Those Judases of Judah,

Once furnished with flakes,

Were punished with plagues,

Or the Promised Land of Canaan opened her mouth

And them were swallowed

Before they opened their mouths

And have Her swallowed.

Lo, Judases of Jubah,

Armed with teeth of injustice,

Once furnished with cornflakes,

And punished with conflicts,

Behold and be warned,

Shouldn’t you shut your mouths,

The Promised Land of Canal will send her moths.

Ultimately a hero is a man who would argue with Gods, and awakens devils to contest his vision.

Norman Mailer (1923 – )

U.S. novelist and journalist.

The Presidential Papers

Poem 7

Of our Holocaust

Hello, hero,

Hello heroine,

Never yet give in.

Let’s fight on, on, on…

Pick not that hot money,

It won’t buy us that honey

For which now we are dying,

leave behind everything lying,

For should we err… and give up,

We’ll drink bitter the Wrath’s cup

Of the holocaust of our hollow cause.

I herewith commission you to carry out all preparations with regard to…a total solution of the Jewish question, in those territories of Europe which are under German influence.

Hermann Goering (1893 – 1946)

German Nazi leader, July 31, 1941.

Written order sent to Reinhard Heydrich, deputy chief of the SS.

Poem 8

The Gangs of Hollow Wood


Snigger they,

The sneaky niggers,

At them sleazy cowards,

Who dive in holes with moles and rats.


Fire they,

The hot gang,

At them too timid,

Who lie in burrows with rabbits.

Rap, rap-up, rip off, hip hop…!

Rap they,

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.

Poem 9

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)

Poem 10

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.

Poem 11

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

that swept

all bereft

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)

Poem 12

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.

Poem 13

Our Nation-all Anthem

O God, the Almighty Creator,

Who had us shown how to own this world,

Having us sown into the southern half of the Sudan,

We adore you who adorned us with flood of blood,

For which we priced our piece of earth out of hearth,

Hail our gallant freedom fighters!

We praise thee whose veinal flood

Irrigated our soil on which we toil

To excavate the spoil fossilized into oil.

We commemorate and celebrate your rivers of blood

That cleanses our wills and cleanses the ills of our pharaohs.

We eventually arise to arouse

The energies and synergies of our posterity,

 Exhume and instill in them the hibernating Kingdom of Cush,

And invoke our ancestors and provoke our successors into prosperity,

We ask the God of our land to lend us liberty we’ll all together push,

Push  Cush into eternity, and never ever again retreat or surrender.

Poem 14

Freedom Anthem

Donkeys and monkeys,

Dogs and ducks,

Cows and camels,

Chickens and sheep,

        Kick, O ye like unicorn!

        Keep off ye in unison:

Nets off necks,

Bags off backs,

Heaps off heads,

Boulders off shoulders.

Dockers and porters,

Conductors and truckers,

Contractors with tractors,

Builders with bulldozers,

            Shoot, O ye in uniform!

            Shout oyee in unison:

Boulders off shoulders

Boulders off builders,

Heaps off heads.

Chiefs and chefs,

Serfs and servants,

Messengers and passengers,

Women and war men,

            Shoot, O ye in uniform!

            Shout oyee in unison:

Bags off backs,

Boulders off builders;

Sleep ye watchmen and wash-men,

Boycott ye turn-boys and town boys,

Malinger ye drivers and deliverers,

Native citizens: O third class denizens,

Squatter residents, be ye first class dissidents,

            Shoot, O ye in uniform!

            Shout oyee in unison:

Boulders off shoulders.

Brute force, no matter how strongly applied, can never subdue the basic human desire for freedom.
Dalai Lama

Poem 14

Freedom Rosary

Jesus Christ,

     pray for us sinners.

 Mother Mary,

     pray for us toddlers.

Prophet Moses,

    pray for us liberators.

Martin Luther King,

     pray for us slaves.

Pope John Paul,

     pray for us believers.

George Washington,

     pray for us leaders.

Mother Theresa,

     pray for us orphans.

Rosa Parks,

     pray for us heroines.

John Garang,

     pray for us heroes.

Fr. Saturino Lahore,

     pray for us martyrs.

Nelson Mandela,

     pray for us prisoners.

There is in this world no such force as the force of a person determined to rise. The human soul cannot be permanently chained.
W. E. B. DuBois

Poem 39

The Tower of Power

                                                        Ours is a story biblical

In history diabolical.

Once upon a time,

There was no dime,

Only nothing but love,

 traded by one noble dove

Among a people of one tribe.

There was not a crime of bribe,

Not nepotism  but  mutual trust,

Not for money or honey was lust.

All were considered of equal folks,

Zero tolerance on  more equal fox.

 When they felt  themselves firmly,

They said, look  we’re one family,

Come, let’s build ourselves forts,

A citadel with bricks our hearts,

Be it called ‘Tower of Power’.

But detractors saw power,

“Behold, oh, one lineage,

Speaking one language!

This is just their beginning!

Nothing will be impossible for them,

Come, let’s go and confuse their language,

That they understand one another’s speech as a babble.”

So Lo-see-far scattered them all over the earth, failing the building.

There, because of this confusion, the project was called The Tower of Babel.

The Babelization of great capitals and their cultural relativism are to me the unmistakeable sign of modernity.

Juan Goytisolo (1931 – )

Spanish novelist and essayist.

Poem 40

The War of alpha-bets

Man has two legs,

Which stride alternately.

English language has 26 legs,

And if they go alternatively,

They clash and crash like eggs.

When on others’ way stands A,

B topples it unto C, sparing D,

The result is an insult: BAD!

When M avenges A,

Overthrowing B, sparing D,

The whole process runs like: MAD!

Any attempt to abandon the Antecedents,

And go for the Precedents,

Meaning toppling M,

Makes M crushes legs-up like this W,

Who substitutes D with its western neighbor, R,

Turning the whole reshuffle into WAR!

This woe is blamed on the power-hungry alphabets,

Among which A is a legal leader.

But when it involves middlemen, namely: L, P, H,

The A wins by majority votes,

And since he is the ALPHA—

He bets for power with the leftist, the Omega,

And the arbitration culminates into an infinite wrangling

Referred to as ‘WAR of the ALPHA BETS’.

One of the saddest lessons of history is this: If we’ve been bamboozled long enough, we tend to reject any evidence of the bamboozle. The bamboozle has captured us. Once you give a charlatan power over you, you almost never get it back.

Carl Sagan.

Poem 41

They are crostitutes!

From south to north,

From east to west,

From south-east to north-west,

From north-east to south-west,

They do cross,

And crisscross,

Confusing us between here and there,

Confusing them between there and here,

Between north and south,

Between east and west.

With this rate of political prostitution

By means of geopolitical crostitution,

They are not prostitutes,

They are hot crostitutes!

Whoever wishes to avoid becoming dizzy must try to find out the swing’s law of motion. We seem to be faced with a pendulum movement in history, swinging from absolutism to democracy, from democracy back to absolute dictatorship.

Arthur Koestler,

Darkness at  Noon.


Poem 42

Judas versus Jesus

At last, our land is being nationed!

Alas, our wealth is being rationed!

Between their North Pole and our South Pole,

Between the East and the West,

By their North pals and our South pals,

The self-proclaimed magi from Eastwest.

Here, the dollar donor

from Midwest

counters the dinar donor

from Mideast,

wherefore the donor dinar

encounters the donor dollar,

whereby jealous Judas auctions genius Jesus

and brutal Brutus Junius is jealous of Julius,

The senior Caesar Julius, stabbed by junior Junius,

just in order to alter the altar of justice.

But who to blame for the game,

whereon we are not again the same?

We name and blame politeachers,

of the condemned feast codenamed politics,

wherein the West wastes the East

as the East eases the West.

Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted souls for this offence!

William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)

English poet and playwright.

Richard II, Act 3, Scene 2

Poem 18

Obama invites Osama

January 20, 2009.

Dear Mr. Osama,

I am Mr. Obama.

Come out of the bush.

I am no longer Mr. Bush.

My other names are Hussein Barack,

My other aims are not in the Barrack,

Alternatively meaning blessings or Baraka.

But watch out, it also sounds like barracker!

I wanna walk my talk –

From the American town of Omaha,

I’m gonna talk my walk –

Upto the Japanese town of Obama.

Just imagine, Mr. Bin Laden,

Why the human race has been laden

With every condition that is problematic,

Simply because this era is Osamatic.

Oi, dude, the world is gonna be automatic,

Since America has now gone Obamatic.

While the news headlines still read:



Before they otherwise turn to read:



Please, let’s give the earth the peace

That we have been keeping apiece.

In the Holimighty Name of Godallah,

Yours obamatically,

President Barack H. Obama.

Oval Office, White House,

Watchington, USA.

E-mail: blackman@whitehouse.com

The problem for Al Qaeda is not that Obama is just like Bush. The problem for terrorists fomenting hatred toward the West is that Obama, born to a Muslim father and schooled in a Muslim country, is popular in the Arab world. Johanna Neuman, L.A. Times.

Poem 19

Open the Windoor of Peace

Yesterday, I watched a child,

In an IDP clinic, running amok and wild,

With stunning noise from running nose,

With no nurse to diagnose,

Sniffing and sneezing in vain,

Pressure bulging his eyes and jugular vein,

Breathing through his lips, agape

Like a chick choked with a grape,

His nostrils plastered by gummy stuff,

Panting for a helping hand of any staff,

To open one door of life into his lungs and heart: Please,

please, open the window of peace!

Another one squatted yonder,

But nothing dropping under.

Having been fed on water lily and weed soup,

The evening before she joined the weak group,

Now pushing her bowels out with constipation,

Culminating from the rampant ration confiscation.

The minor next to her had his eyes sealed off

By an excruciating blindness, caused by flies of

The garbage, from where he scavenges for his daily bread,

Having been forced by the have-nots’ hunger widespread.

Groping for a helping hand to open one door of light to his soul: Please,

please, open the window of peace!

Yesteryear, a steel angel of death spread its fiery faeces,

Throwing up the husk of the earth into our dreary faces,

As we groaned and groped out of our artificial blindness,

We received not in kind any act of kindness.

‘Twas as if the smoke from the pit of the abyss darkened

The whole world, that turned us deaf ears, instead of having harkened

To the lonely cries of the innocent toddlers that were acting Christ

In the mercy of the marauding mujahedeen’s Operation Iron Fist.

We wallowed in, and swallowed, the impenetrable smoke.

The only word all this group of sufferers and survivors spoke

With their open hands and hearts to authors of war and peace: Please,

please, open the wind door of peace!

If I was the head of a country that lost a war, and I had to sign a peace treaty, just as I was signing I’d glance over the treaty and then suddenly act surprised. “Wait a minute! I thought WE won!”

Jack Handey

Poem 20

To Tutu

My dear friend, Tito Tutu,

Where is our bro, Kuwa Kuku?

Now, I do share my tukul with Tuku,

And so do Dudu and her brother Duku.

Remember how nostalgic and strategic the hills of Kakwa and Kuku!

Did you hear? I crossed to the immediate land of Juju and met Tuju.

I can’t recall but regret why and how we parted,

I can’t remember where and when you departed.

What I know is you were led all the way from Nuba Mountains by Emma Tong,

To join me in 1990 in a course for a cause in the darkly bambooed Imatong.

Do you know how and when the ranges of Nuba and Juba will ever meet?

Me, I do, in/after 2011 – by means of ballot or bullet – the duo must greet!

We need a common enemy to unite us.

Condoleeza Rice,

Former US Secretary  of State.

Poem 19

To Mister Sinister Minister

                                                  Dear Honorable Minister,

Congratulations! I no longer refer to you,

Like during the bush, as my dear horrible monster.

From the Diaspora, I am being forced to write to you,

Enquiring if your internet invitation is no longer sinister.

I can hardly believe that all that you say in the media is true!

Have you ever been bothered by all you made us passed thru?

I went there last year, but could not duly to your office enter,

For I would behave like we were still in the training center.

Or if I did, I would be forced to ask, “Where is my sister?”

Remember, before you became this sinless minister,

Remember the treatment you used to administer,

You or your men took my only sister, spinster!

Now that you’ve come back in a big way,

Where is my sister, anyway?

Think no more of it, John; you are only a child who has had evil counsellors.

Richard I (1157 – 1199)

English monarch.

Said at his reconciliation, at Lisieux in May 1194, with his brother John, who had attempted to overthrow him while he was held prisoner in Germany (1193-1194).

Poem 20

The Trouble Permit

To whom it may concern

This is to certify

That the Sultan of Militialand,

And all his men of valour,

Have been issued with this permit,

To pass through any territory

Without delay or hindrance.

They have also been armed

With all types of guns and ammos,

To shield off any aggression,

While executing their mission.

Any reinforcement offered to them,

Shall not be interfered with.

And if done so, it shall be regrettable.

This orders come From Above.

Designed and Signed by

General Doubletrouble,

C-in-C of the Sultanate Armed Forces.

When a King has Dethron’d himself and put himself in a state of War with his People, what shall hinder them from prosecuting him who is no King?

John Locke (1632 – 1704)

English philosopher.

Second Treatise on Civil Government

Poem 21

Chiefdom of Militialand against Kingdom of Civiland

To H.E. Gen. Dr. Al Hajj,

 Protector-General of the Chiefdom of Militialand.

Your Ex-cellency,


With due honour,

We hereby write to you

Condemning the horror

Your installed Commander-in-Thief

Of the Armed Forces of the Chiefdom of Militialand

Is unleashing on the people of the Kingdom of Civiland.

We have the names of the commanders of mischief,

And the atrocities thereof, sent in vain to US, UN, EU and AU.

Your Ex-cellency, mind you,

This letter is the last in our series of complaint,

And this marks the beginning of the end of warning,

Not forgetting the news that our forces are warming,

Warming up against any proxy war with zero restraint.

However, for Your Ex-cellency’s info, this isn’t that time

You used your Commander-in-Thief to administer a dime,

To partition our nation into Chiefdom of Militialand against Civiland.

Finally, restrain your marauding stooges

Before they undergo the wrath of this Land in stages.

From Commander-in-Chief,

The Armed Salvation of  the Kingdom of Civilland.

Cc. General Doubletrouble,

C-in-C of the Sultanate Armed Forces.

The great battleground for the defense and expansion of freedom today is the whole southern half of the globe…Their revolution is the greatest in human history. They seek an end to injustice, tyranny, and exploitation. More than an end, they seek a beginning.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy (1917 – 1963)

U.S. president.

Supplementary State of the Union Address

Poem 25

In court with God’s lawyer

Dear Heavenly Father,

Are You aware of deals going farther;

That a man claiming to be your lawyer,

A man famous as an acclaimed liar,

Is condemning me to hell on earth,

That I brought life out of wrong birth?

Are You aware of the Final Judgment going on here?

Dear Almighty father,

Are you aware of his all mighty feather,

A crown with which he coerces the crowd,

In the name of Your Law into a fire cloud,

Of the early judgment into earthly hell,

May you please check the powers of his spell?

Are You aware of the Final Judgment going on here?

Dear Holy Father,

Are you aware that he has gone further

To bring all but me to book,

While it’s clear from my book and his look,

That I blasphemed not against my God’s,

That I committed this sacrilege against his Guts,

Are You aware of the Final Judgment going on here?

In any country there must be people who have to die. They are the sacrifices any nation has to make to achieve law and order.

Field Marshal Idi AminDada (1925? – 2003)

Uganda soldier and politician (Dictator: 1971 – 1979).

Poem 87

Congratulations, our Guilt President

We voted otherwise,

’cause you told us other lies.

We conceded defeat,

Before you announced it,

Because we don’t want the repeat.

We don’t want the repeat,

Because we will still lose the re-run.

For in this system, we’re given no receipt.

And you members of Camp Opp, we’re done!

 Mr. Guilt President, of course, no loss to an incumbent.

Your coalition to appease us will confuse this small varsity,

Tho’ we’ve no reps, well, congratulations our Guilt President.

We’re waiting for our turn, only when your turn is over ninety.

But, please, please, take everything but not our rights, our lives.

Poem 178

I’m Pennique, You’re Younique

Unclench the palm that’s yours,

And I will unfold you that’s mine.

Print your finger and I’ll print mine,

Even my figure print is not like yours;

So why am I a failure if am unique?

If my brain matches not yours in thought,

You judge and declare my head a naught,

Don’t you know that I’m Pennique?

Lo, I am Penn, hence pennically different,

You’re Yousif, hence youniquely different.

I was originally created Homo sapiens,

But someone wants me Homo copyens!

Why is it a shame that I have not your name?

You decreed that my creed is crime—that is greed!

When my tongue isn’t programmed the same,

You force me to imitate yours—yet I’ve not agreed.

If you want our being together as a solution,

Avoid legalized myopic socio-cultural dilution.

Our Abrahamic adversity calls for our living in diversity,

Especially – mind you – now that we’re in one university.

To be pennically jealous, just as I would not want Juba defined and designed with Sheik Zubeir’s architecture, I would not want my pages pasted and passages plastered with Shakespeare’s literature, neither would I want my messages massaged with Achebe’s achievers flavours, nor my tales tailored with Tutuola’s tutorials… Here, I am discussing style, which is as unique as a print of a human finger or an imprint of human figure.

Dear Ready Reader

‘The Signpost’ (The Prologue)

By the author.

Poem 179

Hell’O, Leave Me Alone!

Hello! Who’s calling, and whose letter?

You call yourself my big punisher?

Well and good, sooner than later,

You’ll turn into my big furniture.

What do I do you wreck?

Please, get off my neck.

Leave me but all alone,

I owe you not a loan.

My enemy, your envy is obvious.

You’re just jealous and mischievous

Against my hard-earned achievement,

That will hardly earn you any improvement.

Yes, go on keeping me witch-hunted,

That will be keeping you haunted,

For you are Mr. Evil-sent

Against Mr. Innocent.

Thence, woe to thy audience,

With their croco-dialed tears in sadistic ambience,

“Oh, the poor sod is innocent!

Alas, bygone, good riddance, the sod is in, O Saint!”

Tiel gut wun amoknyin. Dinka proverb similar to:


Envy shoots at others and wounds itself.

English Proverb.

Envy is the art of counting the other fellow’s blessings instead of your own.

Harold Coffin

Poem 181

My Penn-killers

As I look for pain-healers

Through real painkillers,

They give me numb

To dump me dumb.

In their self-based pretense to serve,

They tickle and tackle my sole nerve

And in my reaction to my nerve rattle,

We’re now in Israeli-Palestinian battle.

Yea, he who calls me black Semite,

So do I regard him my racial termite.

Often by his sally soldiers I’m harassed,

And also by his silly sisters embarrassed.

They make noise

To mar my voice.

When I need painkillers,

They give me Penn-killers!

Poem 181

My black male’s blank mails

Mine are many mates—

One of whom spoils my dates.

My many mates are any men—

Most of whom make out of me specimen

For experimenting on their political sale.

The most dangerous of them is a black male,

Who spreads out black but blank mail.

He is black in the heart.

He is blank in the head.

His mouth is a septic tank

That houses a sceptic tongue.

In full, he’s a septic sceptic

Of my every survival logic.

Poem 182

My Black Crime of Africa





All have equal rights to colour this world.

But why is being black my crime?

Instead, my black skin should be my crown.

Without blackness,

Where would they access:

Night for sleeping?

Blackboard for teaching?

Black paint for bleaching?

Yes, my blackness is my Africanness.

The sun and the Nile’s black earth bear me witness.

Though modern apes are victims of trespass

On the macadams of the coal-allergic cities,

I, cold-allergic citizen, will never regret being me

Till I am disfigured and transfigured ,

Deported and transported

Into the black dungeon

With Mr. Brown,

Mr. Red and

Mr. White


“I am one of those who believe that there is no permanent home for even a section of the Bantu in the white area of South Africa and the destiny of South Africa depends on this essential point. If the principle of permanent residence for the black man in the area of the white is accepte,d then it is the beginning of the end of civilisation as we know it in this country.”

Speaking to parliament in 1964 as Minister for Coloured Affairs (The Guardian, 7 February 2006)

I suffer from an incurable disease—colour blindness.

Attributed to Joost de Blank (1908 – 1968)

Dutch-born British churchman.

Poem 183

Master Refuge ‘G’

I am John The Baptist,

The desert-roaming artist,

With a proper prophecy to say.

My name is now Mr. Jay,

Then, ’twas Master Refugee,

Refuge Gangster, Mr. Refuge ‘G’.

For I walked all this continent’s

Four corners with a countenance,

Pertinent to its main four capital D’s;

Our African pestilences of no remedies:

I wandered and encountered Despair in the West.

I drifted  to be encountered by Disease in the East.

I wondered but bumped into Destruction in the North.

I stopped not there and thinly missed Death in the South.

Poem 183

Prescribed to be proscribed

Be not surprised.

It kicked off for my good.

I was prescribed in  my mother’s womb,

And then proscribed unto my father’s tomb.

As if that was for good.

Be ye not that surprised.

I was proscribed from my mother’s boom

And subscribed unto my father’s doom.

I can blame it hardly upon my God’s,

I can blame my self-claimed gods,

Who for me prescribed

Ways of being proscribed.

The kaffir (kuffar) are the enemies of Islam. They are less than human unless they revert to the one true way. It is acceptable to be rude to them – regardless of where you live, for they are less than us.

(post to Muslim-wife blog in Florida in response to a query as to why she would refer to her neighbours as Kaffir, 08 October, 2007)

Poem 187

Back from Hibernation

If you celebrated,

And accelerated,

Now mourn,

For I’m back in full,

Back with a bagful,

Filled not with corn but scorn,

For those who wished me fall.

But I didn’t fall, I did fold,

And back just in the Fall.

Let me have you told,

That witches’ wishes fail

When a victim has no guilt trail.

You supposed I would quit,

Not knowing that I am a wit,

As amphibious as amoeba,

Very poikilothermic like mudfish,

But I ain’t as you thought sheepish.

I hid not in Cuba, I did that in Juba.

Awkward if I quit my struggle for liberation.

Well, I did it smart the reptile style,

I took a holiday into recoverable hibernation,

But remained an active volcano in the file.

Yes, I did hibernate from the Church,

but stilled my spirit and mind in charge,

Like Rip van Winkle, I overwintered,

and outwitted the bastard.

I am back to the media,

With which I’m familiar.

Out of hibernation,

To serve my nation.

I even lost my hope on this case because the youth of Bor Community, particularly those who were in Kampala, are beating drum saying Akuach had a long tongue and pride of education.  Most of our youth have hated him and his former friend, the Journalist, Ngong Aluong Alith (John Penn) over pride. John Penn de Ngong has a history of being kidnapped two times. John Penn becomes a poet, no more politics and he loves social and cultural writing,” said Ajah-Ager (a pseudonym), quoted from the news article: “Deliberately Murdered – The Death of Bridegroom Now has its Roots”

Sunday, 22 February 2009 23:20, Bor Globe, Jonglei State News


Freedom of Explosion!

It is too rough,

Yet they laugh!

One of them says,

Sadists of nowadays,

They want freedom,

Freedom of explosion,

But we want freedom,

Freedom of expression.

Theirs is that of oppression

On the innocent by suicide operation.

They hate our freedom of association,

They turn it into theirs of assassination.


The No-fly Zone

In an IDP camp, I ain’t alone

When King Nebuchadnezzar,

The autocrat of new Babylon

Ordered with a voice  bizarre,

‘Let there be no-fly zone in the south!’

Rang a hoarse voice from Omdurman,

Where the warmongering ombudsman

 ruled all but only the tightlipped north.

Effectively  then, the terror blended with alcohol

Made man mad so that we scampered for the hole

Once a dragonfly passed magnified into a gunship.

Whenever our Nile hippo surfaced: lo, a warship!

The official fly was  an Antonov drone,

Yet, the south was a no-fly, no-go zone.

Now that it’s an all-go zone, where else

Will the monarch dig their wealth wells?

Now that we’re destined to go,

Will them, him still behave so

While going  to inherit desert?

 No more time to eat a dessert!


Garang for granted!

Who over pays

Is whoever says

Garang was murdered

By his friends

Or his fiends.

Whoever defends foul play

Must fence that foul mouth.

Whether be bad weather

Bad hell-i-copter

Or bad Alicopter,

The incident was accident,


Being a hero is about the shortest-lived profession on earth.

Will Rogers (1879 – 1935)

U.S. writer, actor, and humorist.



I am in shackles,

My house is in shambles.

Of this earth I can’t move an inch,

I am in undefined pain of a pinch,

Of a hereditary infirmity,

A localized calamity,

Framed on me alone.

I can’t even dare a loan,

For lack of collateral security.

My child a victim of food insecurity.

I am in a property island,

In prison with freedom on my motherland,

With none to bail me out.

The whole nation is moving about

In search and display of their wealth.

I beg and dig just to buy a wreathe

For my old man who to poor health succumbed.

This son of man is to blame for all this curse,

For he chose or was chosen for a cattle course.

Don’t ask me why my head is uncombed,

For combing is but for the free heads of the rich,

Who impoverish me for them to flourish.

They know my head only a tool for carrying firewood,

For that is my career imposed upon me from childhood.

O you I curse, have me bailed, god of poverty!

O You I beseech, offload me, God of property,

For not only am I such broke, I am also broken.

But to anybody nothing I spoke, expecting a token.

‘Tis You only, and if You upon my crimes harden,

Then who will unto my cries harken?


 Where is Ni-mule?

Straight from Europe street,

He crossed the Suganda border,

Waving at Nimule residents to greet,

Ignoring them, passing on to climb yonder,

Up the Gordon Hill high, he stopped to sigh,

To a charcoal-laden man staggering like a mule,

Poking him with his noisy nose, “where is Nai-miul?”

For Nimule, raised by war propaganda, was so high

In the ears and eyes of the beholders from the West,

Potentially ripe for poverty projects of photography,

To counterbalance their  monotony of pornography

In the cultural cosmos, rather seen as, of the waste.

“Ita sibu wara ke!”— You left behind, that’s Nimule!

With a finger pointing back, mused the Nile mule.

Doubts the phototourist, “What! that ghettotown?”

“Yes, go back, that is our Nimule downtown.”

This is how not to take to town the people,

But how to take towns to the people.

In this village versus town debacle,

The question is: Is it a miracle?



From the look, it’s economy,

Void of the laws of economics.

Until the end of our partial autonomy,

Run we shall a jungle law of economix,

A mixture thereof with socio-politics.

With the experience of rudimentary

Economy of rations of sorghum and unimix

For refugees and IDPs, we are sedentary.

Now in this economic suffocation and sabotage,

With our saboteurs posing as rapporteurs,

Let there be light to our entrepreneurs,

To sense and net Mr. Fox in his camouflage.


 The Bastard Seed

Mr. Messiah of Judah taught us

 Who did not heed

To plant a mustard seed

But Mr. Mathayo of Juba

And Mr. Matta of Nuba

Tried but did not succeed

For someone rushed in to exceed

Them to plant their bastardly seed

And planned their dastardly deed

That then crowned their bastard seed

To become the biblical mustard seed

Now sitting on our politically mastered seat

With their militarily mustered heat.


  The Black Prize of Africa


Her extorted son,

Am of black skin

And red blood.


My exhausted Mother,

Is of green skin

And black blood.


My exotic brother,

Who’s red of skin,

And red of blood,

Is never my blood akin.

For he’s betrayed my black Mother

To them of faces slit by eyes;

Them too many to die

To have their red blood ooze

Into the stomach of the earth,

To make black blood of the earth.

Them that die but burn their bodies

Into powdery blood,

Blood chalky enough to choke their cars,

Blood smoky enough to block their noses,

Dusty enough to lock their ears,

Powdery enough to blur their eyes;

Them the mosquitoes

Siphoning black blood off my Mother –

The price of my land,

The prize of my hand –

Sparking off turmoil,

On my soil,

Where I toil

For them to spoil

My oil:

Oh my oil, my oil…!

The black blood of Africa!

The black price of Africa!

Or the black prize of Africa!

For the Black Christs of Africa!


Master Brown

Mr. Brown,

I’m sure you’ll frown

When I say I’m gone.

Blame me not,

For on our common pot,

You know that you make me lack,

I have declared, I, Mr. Black,

Forever, bye bye,

I’m leaving by and by.


Black Towers

Biblically mysterious,

This towering folk,

Black skinned,


Were some day

Being – and will one day

Be – feared far and wide

By the races of Red and White.

Lo, stand they like coconut towers,

With total prowess and powers.


The Maverick

I’m not unmasked

But not unmarked.

I am still blanketed

In mystery and marketed,

Branded as I stray and loiter

Into the arm of an exploiter,

Who is there to sadden.

I left all of a sudden –

My name is Thui Dan –

From Sudd Sudan

Through Abyssinia

To Virginia.

They call me names

But I know my games.

They think they employ

Just a solitary lost boy,

Who is now their maverick,

Who molds them mud brick.

I do this for my distant father

Whom I can explain not further.


 No LCM nor LCD

If we equipped ourselves thus violent,

Then we are non-equivalent.

Mathematic, you know,

Automatic, it will show

You even odd and even numbers

Are non-compatible members

Sharing one least common multiple.

Bearing in mind that our socio-eco gap is quintuple,

Now show me our least common denominator,

When you are the most common dominator.


Politics, Poli-tricks or Pa’tricks?


Can I see the Minister?

        No, you’ll first see the undersecretary.

Pat, are you trying to insult me?

My status is not even for you secretary,

Leave alone your undersecretary.

I am an international diplomat,

Not with an internal diploma like you.

OK, let me see the deputy minister.

         There is no deputy minister,

         We have His Excellency,

        The Undersecretary, sir.

His what?

From the county to the country level,

All is labelled His Excellency, Her Excellency…

Are they really doing excellent things?

What is wrong with your government?

Why rank the whole vice minister

Under the mere secretary of your likes?

The whole major general

Under the left-tenant general,

Two presidents in one country,

Two countries under one president,

Several vice presidents or vice vice presidents,

Plus several assistant presidents,

Two central banks in one country,

One central bank in two countries,

Two capital cities in one country,

One capital city for two countries,

Two rivaling governments in one country,

One fibrous government for two countries,

Three-plus-one independent armies in one country…?

Politricks and the politeachers,

What a confusing game of words and numbers!

        It isn’t politics, sir,

         Dr. Patrick, it is the CPA,

         The Comprehensive Peace Agreement.

But to me, looks like

The comprehensive piece agreement,

Everything handled in pieces.

      But sir, all the same,

      Peace or piece agreement,

     We are non-losers at last.

Because you’re playing real politics with them,

But, of course, they are playing poli-tricks with you,

Miss Patricia, just as you’re playing a Pat trick with Patrick.


Statutes by statues

In our longing for our own sanctuary,

That has taken us more than a century,

Uduk-uduk, kurmuk-kurmuk, shouts our drum,

The incessant drumming for our referendum;

But before we deliver it through Caesarean,

We’re met head-on by laws Draconian,

Characterized by Presidential Decrees,

Driven by personal greed and creed of adverse degrees.

These ‘laws’ against the Nile current will form an estuary,

Silted in the South upstream from their northern statuary.

These statutes are legislated by statues,

Those who have no attitudes and values.


 Africans in the Egg

War, Stop it!

It’s no longer a project.

Breaking down cities,

Causing many atrocities

On chosen ethnicities,

Making them live like in an egg.

For this, I beg with a broken leg,

Let there be, and let there be peace,

Or each warlord and woe author shall face it apiece,

With the Good God too far to worship and appease.

With the current world’s double standard

On the current world’s double hazard,

As seen in their daily dilly-dallying game on Darfur

And the same game on the Gaza Strip so far,

There is no more immunity

Through the usual impunity.

It’s squarely on African leaders,

Let them consult with us readers.

Those whose war projects are fake,

Those whose war objectives are vague,

Must explain with their life opaque

In the ICC dungeon of the Hague.


Of Despondent Respondents


My nation,

You must pay attention

And repeat word by word from me,

Or else failure to obey the law of swing,

you shall surely fall out of my wing.

For they who tiptoe the sentry paths

Shall definitely possess the entry pass.


                  A, B, C, D…






                Your Excellency,

                The respondents are despondent,

                Maybe because your televised address

                Is creating this game of resident-versus-president.



If they fail just this sound testing,

How will they pass my election contesting?

              Everybody must be ready now:

              Our total community unity Oyee…

              One nation for one notion oyee…


Teach him

That the difference between a resident and a president

Is a ‘P’, that we can remove so he become just -resident.

               Our unity in units oyee!

               Two nations from one nation oyee!







It’s my opinion, sir, that this meeting is drunk.

Charles Dickens (1812 – 1870)

British novelist.


Politically Stung

There are political boys

Armed with verbal toys

To have me harmed by their venom

In the name of their speech freedom.

Though socio-politically stung,

It will not help them have me hung.

So doing, my ardent political scorpions

Have proved to be rumour champions.

Thus, a blank bark of a watchdog

Does bother not a lot a warthog.

Let them day and night on me by pinch think,

But their Judasism will not make me an inch sink.


 So Bor is a Bore?

In Bor I was born.

In Bor I was borne.

I was born in Bor,

Before it turned into a bore.

In Bor I was born,

For Bor I have borne,

Borne blunt the brunt of war.

To all Borians, woe!

Woe ye that shouts oyee,

Oyee in Bor while not a payee!


That’s why I’m order-less

I’m all but porous,

That’s why I’m furious.

Of course, I’m borderless,

That’s why I am order-less.


I’m used less

I grow illiterate

And thus become useless.

I enroll on the street,

Not because I am useless.

I get married too early

As my brother get graduated,

And I thus become useless.

When I grow up and then down,

They in my umpteen shoes

Brand me as useless oldy,

But I’m just being youthless.

I’m useless because I’m used less.


MP vs. PM

From eight PM

Unto eight AM,

They whisper him

All throughout the dim,

So that he is brought down.

They conclude at dawn:

“Let him, the Prime Minister,

Carry the cross of a crime minister,”

Mumbles the lead MP

Against the leading PM.


The Rift Between

Inspect your very self,

Examine all the pairs

Of your own body.

Look at your eyes.

Look at your arms.

Look at your legs.

Though twinned and twined,

They connect not

Into one hip knot.

Each connects independently.

And when you walk,

They go alternately:

Each at a time

Each at a turn,


But why,

why do you,

how dare you,

want me to follow,

to flow on your footstep,

like the leg of a bicycle,

that trails the footprint

of the one in front?

Don’t you see the Nile,

Passing through me first,

Then through you last?

If you think we’ll be ever together,

Then first, let the wheels gather

From their four trails to one rail.

If you want to convince me,

First convince the biblical Abraham

Who tells the tycoon in hell’s torment:

Between you and Poor Lazarus

Is a gulf, a gap too deep to cross,

Too deep to reconcile and close.

Just let me go all at a go

With some bits of ego.


Our Euro Eunuchs

Castrated to run their errands

Calculated to ruin our lands,

Africa has lost her bulls.

Turned into her bullies,

They are euro-paid,

They are Europe peons

But they’re not Europeans,

They are Africans akin by skin,

But  Americans by skill.


You must expire!

You may aspire

To dig out our sapphire,

You may upon us perspire

the biblical dragon’s fire,

You may against us conspire,

but it will against you transpire,

You make worst occupier inspire

more of your kinds to conspire,

but you all must one day expire.


I can see…

I can see monkeys

Abandoning their trees

Taking over doorkeys

Sleeping on mattresses!

I can see donkeys

Abandoning their carts

Taking over carkeys

Cruising on the macadams!

And the world chanting silence.

Long live the long-loathed gorillas!

Long-live the super power guerillas!

Long live the budding Kingdom of Gorillas!


Democracy robbed, roped, raped, rapped!

Coups! Coups! Oops…!

Coos the peace dove

On seeing the pierce dog

After the ill-action

Of election

Or selection

For African democrazy,

Or you can call it Afrocracy,

That looks like democracy

Robbed and raped,

Roped and rapped

By armed chameleons,

For their uncles and aunts,

Who abhor and abort,

The opposition of position,

Both political and apolitical.

Then s/he that sweats and frets,

In the face of verbal adversary,

Is a leader void of anniversary,

A leader in vain.