“What’s wrong with this country? Must everything be hard?” This was me complaining. My name is Michael Deng. I recently came here from Nairobi after completing my undergraduate degree in business management. This was my second week in the capital of South Sudan, a land with a long history of conflict. It’s well-known for all the wrong reasons. Everyone I know is either busy with work, discussing political matters in a tea shop, or playing dominoes. Such a waste of time, if you ask me.
I was lying in bed, bare-chested, with my red boxers on, receiving a cool breeze from the fan. Temperatures in Juba will make you walk around naked. The place is too hot; at times I ask myself if this is hell.
My phone suddenly rang. “Man, who is this calling?” My eyes were about to shut for a nap, something that I rarely do. I stretched my hand out and grabbed the phone on the table where it was charging. It was my pal Mandala calling.
“Hello!”
“Mike, what’s wrong, bro? You took too long to pick up your phone. Or are you getting laid at this time of day?” He burst into laughter.
I wasn’t having it. “You couldn’t possibly have called to tell me that,” I said to myself. “Nah bro,” I told him, “I’m at home trying to get some sleep. Juba is too hot, and it’s boring too, I don’t know any ladies around here.”
“Okay. Why don’t we meet in Juba town near the mall or at Mama Nyawech’s restaurant? Then I can show you that Juba isn’t boring, it’s you who’s living a boring life.”
“A’ight bro, I’ll meet you there in thirty.”
“Bet!”
“Bet!”
I rushed to the bathroom and took a quick shower. Came out of the shower and put on my grey jeans and a white AC Milan shirt—probably the wrong choice of shirt in a windy city covered in dust. A few days ago, I was walking around when an empty bottle of water flew through the air and slapped me across the face like an SPLA soldier.
I jumped onto one of the crowded buses heading to Custom. Earlier, my bro had told me to take one of the cars at home, or a bike. I declined and thought I’d take the opportunity to see new people and explore different places in the city.
The bus stopped frequently to let passengers on and off at bus stops. A few of the people sitting beside me murmured in dissatisfaction. I stayed cool and didn’t say a word because most of the passengers were speaking Arabic, a language that I hardly spoke.
We had traveled some distance when I saw a woman beside the road stirring a pot of hot stew filled with provocatively large portions of meat. I swallowed some saliva. I wished I could tell the driver to stop here but it seemed Custom was still far away. “Damn…! People are enjoying themselves in this town. Why do they say life is hard in Juba?” I said to myself.
We got to Custom and I alighted. “Hey, the buses to Juba town are over there,” the tout told me. He pointed across the street. “Take raksha, it will go fast.”
I nodded as I said “shukran” and proceeded to cross the street. The temperature was already too hot. It was like the city was giving us up as burnt offerings. I palmed an impressive amount of sweat from my face. I got in a tuk-tuk and soon I was in Juba town, waiting for Mandala. First time I was in this part of the city—a crowded neighborhood with cars, motorbikes, and tuk-tuks honking from all directions, as if they were in a competition to make the most noise. The sounds from the many electronics shops were deafening.
A man in a traditional blue jalabia approached me with plenty of money in hand. “Inta deru faga?” he asked. I looked at him and said, “Bro, I don’t speak Arabic.” He laughed, then walked away. I called Mandala to check where he was. He picked up and said, “I’m here in Mama Nyawech’s restaurant, just ask anyone for directions.”
I walked to one of the boda boda guys and asked him, “Salaam, where is Mama Nyawech’s restaurant?”
“You see that KCB building? Just around it, under those huge trees, there is a restaurant with an open space where you will see gents with suits seated outside. That’s the place.”
I looked in the direction he was pointing. Honestly, I saw nothing. “How much is it to there?” I asked.
“SSP 3,000,” he said while starting his bike. “Shall I take you there?”
“Sure, let’s go. Someone is already waiting for me.”
This guy took the longest route ever, ignoring his own directions. It took us about fifteen minutes to get there. I alighted and paid him.
“Bro, what took you so long to get here?” Mandala got up to greet me. He dapped my hand and we sat down at a blue plastic table in the shade of an umbrella. Each table in the restaurant had its own umbrella. The trees also provided some cool shade. The floor was swept, the tables were clean and occupied. On my left was a big concrete building with seating inside. Straight through the door, behind the building, was another open space, presumably the kitchen.
While we were placing our orders, two black Land Cruiser Prados stopped outside the restaurant. Everyone turned their heads. Seven men in black suits came out of the cars. The whole place fell silent. I had no idea who they were until my friend said in a low tone, “These are men from National Security. Someone will disappear today.”
Four of the men stood by the cars. The others walked straight to our table. One of them said, “Stand up and hold your hands over your head.”
I did so without the slightest hesitation. I didn’t know what I did wrong, but this wasn’t the time to play Johnny Bravo. People around us were giving me sympathetic looks. One lady put her hands on her head in disbelief. One of the men approached and searched me expertly. Satisfied, he took a few steps away from me. I didn’t know what he was looking for, but I’m sure it wasn’t an ID.
“Is he the one?” a man by the cars asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“May I know why I’m being searched?” I asked them.
“You’ll be told when we get to the station,” one of them said and laughed.
“I won’t go with you unless you tell me what offence I committed.”
They all laughed and then ordered me to get into the car with them. Let me rephrase that: one man held me up by the jeans as another pulled my arms, and I was tiptoed like a ballerina straight to the car. I was ushered unceremoniously into the back seat, under heavy guard. We started moving, and the other car followed us. I looked out of the window to try to see where I was being taken. Within a short time, I was in a jail cell, but I didn’t even know which police station.
There were twenty people in the cell. Half of them had no shirt on. In one corner, behind a slim guy, was a yellow jerrican. One man was visibly unwell, and all of them had wounds and lash marks all over their bodies. I was very confused, I didn’t know what I had done wrong to be in such a place with these people. I should have just stayed at home. Regrets started to cloud my mind.
I sat in a corner by myself. I had no particular need to hear what the rest were saying. One guy insisted on knowing why I was there, but I was in no mood for a storytelling session. I came to this country for a job and with dreams of making money, but now here I was, locked in a police cell awaiting a case I wasn’t even aware of.
“Where is this police station located and what is its name?” I asked the nosy guy.
He let out a big laugh, then shook his head and said, “Bro, you’re in the Blue House.”
“What crime did I commit to warrant me a ticket to the Blue House?” I asked myself.
The Blue House was a prison notorious for cruelty, brutality, and lack of proper nourishment. The cell was unclean, people were urinating in the corner, and the jerrican was used for “long calls.”
At about six o’clock, my cell was opened and a constable called out loudly for “Peter Gatkhor,” but no one answered. When no one answered, the constable went away, as he did not know who Peter Gatkhor was. Then one of the guys who was present at my arrest came. He looked so annoyed that I thought he would burst. He opened the cell door and pointed at me, then asked, “Aren’t you the one we’ve just brought in?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Then why didn’t you answer when the officer called your name?”
“He didn’t call me. He opened the door and called for someone else, and when he was satisfied that he was not here, he went away.”
“Who are you fooling? Aren’t you Peter Gatkhor?”
“No sir, I am Michael Deng.”
“But you are the one we arrested, aren’t you?”
“I am not very sure about that. I was arrested about three hours ago.”
“Yes, you are the one. Follow me. Stop wasting my time.”
I walked behind him. I was taken into an office that looked like a slaughterhouse, with six men sitting on metallic chairs. Two of them were in uniform. I was given a seat directly facing them. Two other officers stood behind me. One of them looked aggressive; his throat was swollen with anger.
“Sir, this man said his name is not the one you gave me. When he was called by that name, he didn’t answer.” He was telling this to one of the men not in uniform, who then turned to me and asked, “Did you say your name isn’t Peter Gatkhor?”
“Yes sir, that’s not my name.”
“What’s your name then?”
“Michael Deng Majok, sir.”
“Do you have your ID or passport?”
“I don’t have one on me, but if you allow me to make a call someone can bring it.”
“Aren’t you Gatkhor, one of the stupid Nuer who abused our president online? I hear you are one of the smartest bullies on the internet. Do you people think adopting Dinka names will save you? Think twice before you open that mouth of yours. You might admit it after the boys work on you, talk while you still have time.”
“I can speak in Dinka, that’ll be enough proof.”
Then one of the plainclothes officers took out his phone and showed me a picture and asked me whether I knew the guy. To my great surprise, it was a photo of me. How Gatkhor had come across my photo was beyond my knowledge. I gave the phone back to him. He asked me, “Is that your picture?’
“Yes, it is, sir.”
“And is that your Facebook account?”
“That name is not mine, sir, but the picture is mine. How it got to that Facebook account I do not know. This is a case of mistaken identity!”
I then saw him looking behind me, and before I knew what was up, I felt a heavy blow on the right jaw, and a second later I was on the floor. I was receiving a serious beating. Where they got their whips from I didn’t know. I couldn’t find my voice even if I had wanted to. After several minutes, which seemed to me like ages, they stopped to ask me if I would like to alter my statement.
“Are you beating me to death just for me to take a name that doesn’t belong to me, or are you beating me to make up for your failure in not finding the right man?”
“I will ask one last time, but I want you to think long and hard before you answer. Are you Peter Gatkhor?”
“I told you earlier that I am not. If I were, I would say so. Why would I refuse to admit to my name? What has that name got to do with me being here? Don’t I have the right to fair questioning?”
Then it started all over again, but this time the beatings were harder. I lost consciousness. When I regained it, I could hear very distant voices talking. They became clearer and clearer as I recovered. They asked me the same question again, but I did not reply. I was so annoyed that I decided not to talk anymore. If they thought the body they were working on could speak, then I would also wait to hear it talk. After a short time, I was taken back to the cell.
The guy sitting next to me shook his head and said, “This is how they welcome visitors around here. It’s like Jesus taking those lashes without a cry.” This guy was a real yapper. I looked at him and minded my own business. “At the end of the day, we’re the family you got here, you’ll have to talk to someone. You see that?” He pointed to the corner where the jerrican was. “To use that you need to ask for directions to get there. You see that?” He pointed to another corner. “You’ll need permission to use that place for a short call.” I didn’t want to know why I had to ask to use what I could see. I wasn’t interested in the conversation.
Early the next morning, around 4 a.m., two officers walked in and opened our cell door. One of them called out, “Wol Mijok, Gatkhor, follow me.” A prisoner who was lying in the middle of the cell got up visibly defeated and worn out. I was lying on a piece of carton next to the wall. I knew full well it was me he was also calling, but I couldn’t accept the name. He called out again, this time more aggressively, but that didn’t scare me. I ignored him until he walked into the cell, cocked his AK47, then asked, “Aren’t you the one I’m calling?”
“I doubt it’s me you called earlier, my name isn’t Gatkhor,” I told him while turning over. Before I could lay my head down, I was met with a boot to the stomach, followed by another one. Then I was grabbed from the floor like dirty linen. He pushed me toward the door and in a few minutes Wol and I were stripped naked and then tied to chairs with a hole in the middle, through which our balls hung over the floor. They poured cold water on us. I thought it was an early shower.
There was a surgical table placed in the centre of the room with all manner of tools. One of the officers took two pieces of black string from the table and tied one around my balls and the other around Wol’s. He started with Wol first. He tied the string so tightly, Wol was wailing in agony. The officer laughed, then walked to the table and picked up a surgical knife. He took Wol’s right leg and cut in between his toes then took the left leg and did the same until Wol passed out due to blood loss. He told one of the other officers to untie him and bandage his legs. Then he walked towards me.
“So, you’re the one claiming to have been mistaken for someone else?” he scoffed.
“I’m not claiming, it’s a fact. I’m not who you think I am.”
“This young man thinks he’s an angel. He just called us fools and stupid. What do we do to such clever men?” he asked his colleagues, laughing sarcastically.
“We cut off his balls and feed them to the dogs, then burn a 100 kg sack on the wound,” they answered in unison.
I thought they were joking. He pulled the string he had tied around my balls with fury written on his face, I swear I fainted on the spot. When I regained consciousness I was suspended above the floor with my head facing down and my legs tied apart. They lit a polypropylene sack on fire and let the wax drop onto my buttocks. I screamed from pain until I passed out again. When I woke up I was lying on the floor in the middle of the cell, completely naked.
“Hey, are you awake?” the nosy guy asked.
I looked around. Something wasn’t right. Wol was not in the room. I asked, “Where is Wol, the guy I was with this morning in the torture room?” The guy who was leaning against the wall said, “If two of you went in and only one came out, then that means the other one is face down in the River Nile.” I couldn’t believe that Wol was dead. This country is after its own future. I picked my clothes up and put them on. My buttocks were covered with boils and wounds from the hot wax. Sitting on the floor was a problem; I had to lie on my stomach.
As I lay there on the floor I remembered an American show called Roots. A young man from Africa is taken to America along with other slaves. He is later sold to a slaveowner. In order to break him and put him in line, his colonial master ties him up and has him lashed. He must give up his African name, Kunta Kinte, and adopt the name Toby. This wasn’t exactly my situation, but I was being made to accept a name that wasn’t mine.
Days passed and the number of my cellmates decreased. The silence became louder and death was greedy. It was no longer a surprise to us—we simply didn’t know when our last day on earth would be, and nor would death tell us. Those who were tortured and killed were dropped in the River Nile, some were found, others were eaten by crocodiles, leaving their families with nothing to bury but memories. They were treated like criminals in their own country for speaking the truth in a loud voice.
My old man used to tell me a story by Jean-Léon Gérôme about the naked truth and a lie. “The Lie said to the Truth, Let’s take a bath together, the well water is very nice. So they got naked and bathed. Suddenly, the Lie leapt out of the water and fled, wearing the clothes of the Truth. The Truth, furious, climbed out of the well to get her clothes back. But the World, upon seeing the naked Truth, looked away, with anger and contempt. Poor Truth returned to the well and disappeared forever, hiding her shame. Since then, the Lie runs around the world, dressed as the Truth, and society is very happy, because the world has no desire to know the naked Truth.”
Within these walls we lay naked with our truth stuck in our throats like an Adam’s apple, and the lies on their tongues cut deeper and deeper with each passing day. I had lost count of the days. I kept asking myself when the fangs of death would bite off my heart.
One evening the men in black came back. They spoke no English, no Arabic. Only kicks and blows. They educated us thoroughly, a postgraduate course in pain and a doctorate in torture. By the time they were done, we all understood that speaking your mind in this country is as good as death.
I was dragged out of the cell half-conscious, hallway lights fading away slowly. Two men held me up and slammed me into a metallic chair, tied my hands and legs to the chair, and connected electrical wires to my joints. Electrical current was ordered to flow through my body instead of blood. How long I blacked out I do not know. I was fished out of the River Nile by fishermen who feared me dead, another victim of unknown gunmen, or a victim of armed robbery.
I woke up in a hospital bed bandaged all over my body, surrounded by my helpers. They didn’t know me or what brought me to the water, but they chose to stay by my side. Doctors asked me what had happened, but I chose to remain silent, because in a country where telling the truth is a crime, I dare not speak. I fear for those still in prison.
