By Isaac Chol
There’s a strange quietness in Juba this week. Not the calm kind — it’s the kind of silence that sits in your chest, making you wonder if you’ve forgotten something important.
It lately happens every year around this time.
The Secondhand clothes “Aly-wara” vendors at Konyo-Konyo still call out their prices. The Boda boda riders still argue about fuel. The shops still adjust dollar rates like they’re playing a game only they understand.
But beneath it all, there’s a question no one asks directly: Will there be Independence Day celebrations this year?
It’s the first week of July. And in a country like ours, that means one thing: waiting without knowing what for.
You won’t see official posters yet. You won’t hear announcements on the radio.
And nobody dares predict what the government is planning — because most times, the government itself doesn’t know until the last minute.
But the people know how to read the signs. And the signs are there. In Hai Thoura, old speakers have been pulled out of storerooms. A group of youth tested a generator last night, and though the lights kept flickering, the music played anyway. A woman selling boiled eggs nearby swore she’ll have chicken for sale on the 9th — whether anyone comes or not.
In Atlabara C, boys are practicing dance moves in empty lots. No official competition, no promised prize. Just the unspoken agreement that on July 9, someone has to make noise. Even if it’s just the beat of an old speaker on a borrowed fuel for the generator.
And over in Sherikat, there’s talk of fireworks. Not the state-sponsored kind. The other kind. The ones handmade or people smuggle in from across the border, saved for moments like this when silence feels heavier than bullets.
It’s not about politics. Not anymore. It’s about remembering we once had a day worth marking.
Even those who don’t plan to join, know something’s coming. You can hear it in the way tea vendors stretch conversations late into the night. In the way boda riders’ joke about who’ll get the first client on July 9. In the way the price of chapati rises a little — because some things never miss a chance to climb.
And the truth is — whether there’s an official celebration or not, South Sudan celebrates in its own way.
Some will blast music on old radios. Some will gather around a cup of tea, sharing the same stories of “that first 9th July.” Some will remember the flags. Some will remember the faces now gone.
And many, without saying it, will wish for small things: A meal that doesn’t finish too fast. A day without bad news. A promise that maybe next year will be easier.
Hopeless people stop wishing for big things. They wish for the kind of small joys no one notices except those too tired to ask for anything more.
This is the week before the anniversary of a country that still calls itself young, still trying to figure out how to celebrate itself. And though no one will admit it — we’re all watching.
Waiting to see what kind of day, 9th July, will be this time.
In some places, it’ll be quiet. In others, it’ll buzz. And through it all, a stubborn people will find a way to remind themselves: We’re still here. And that, for now, is reason enough.