At the start of the civil authority of the New Sudan, my uncle Enock Manyuon Malok was demobilised from the army and returned to local government service. Uncle Enock was one of the longest serving local government administrators and worked all over Sudan. By the time he left for the 'war of liberation,’ he was assigned to Renk by the Sudanese government. There he started a vast farm. Around 1985 he left his farm and government work and joined the SPLA. Now under the beaming ‘New Sudan,’ he was tasked with rejuvenating local government alongside some Kawajat and those of Uncle Anei Mangong Anei and Elder Achol Deng Hot.
One day I told my uncle that I had found a sponsor in Uganda and that I must go there to study. Money was scarce at this time, so my uncle told me he would speak with lorry drivers to take me to Uganda. Achol Deng (my mother) and Maan Matuet, Madam Aluel Mangok Mabok prepared ambre or dry kisra, some groundnut paste, thou, and madamas for my journey. My uncle told me that he would send me money after I reached Uganda.
So, in Rumbek, I sold my masijil and Panasonic radio. Then I took a lorry to Yei Town. There I was taxed by a man they derogatorily called ‘Muony Bor.’ He called himself an ‘immigration officer.’ He was smart, dressed in dull sharakia, and wrote very well from what I understood. In his office I saw many people with papers in hand, mostly students. They were angry and quarrelling with him. I also quarreled with the man, chiding him sarcastically. “If you guys have started corruption by taking money from poor students,” I said, “what is the future of the country that we claim to liberate?"
He didn't respond as he was busy writing. I thought maybe he was used to insults. Then he raised his head, tapped the pen on the paper and asked a question that wasn't directed at anyone. "Why are you running away from war in the name of school?” he asked. “It is your age mates who are fighting.” At this question, the whole room, a small office made of papyrus, went dead silent. He was a military officer. He could just say, “Hoi, ajam del!” and we would have ended up back in Jesh Amer around Equatoria.
A young lad was being beaten nearby, and I suspected that it soon may be my turn. So I made my anger short and paid his immigration claims. He stamped my papers, and I left his office. I took a matatu from Yei which brought me to Oraba at the border of Uganda. I was cleared, and I proceeded.
I came to Koboko in February 2001. I was on transit to Adjumani. It was around 10 am. By that time, Koboko was a busy centre with several manyatta shops rented by Congolese and South Sudanese alike. There were small canteens set up in bamboo shelters, their tops covered with ma'shama. I went around looking for a place to order some food. My eyes landed on one open restaurant. I asked the woman to give me shorba lahm with rice. I was served. I ate. When I had finished the soup, I asked the lady to give me a wasala. But Instead of giving me a wasala, she said, “Dinka and soup! This is not your house to be sucking soup and ordering more.” My eyes turned red!
First of all, in the Sudan or in Maridi Western Equatoria where I lived since 1994, we could call wasala as much as we want. The Moru women were the best cooks in town, especially when making 'nyagwa,' (greens cooked with ground nut paste and palm oil). Secondly, it was a new thing for me to be called Dinka. I abhorred the word Dinka because, where I came from, I was called ‘muonyjang.’ I felt insulted by being called Dinka. Thirdly, I was also deeply humiliated that a woman made it so loud that I was asking for a wasala of a meat soup - insulting my ethnicity because of a mere soup. Now everybody had heard my small request. The Ugandans raised their heads to look at the man asking for more soup and were laughing at me, and she was also rocking with laughter.