By Isaac Chol Aguer
The other night, while strolling through Facebook, I came across a post from a friend asking a question so simple it hurt: “Who actually gets the jobs posted on South Sudan NGO Forum?”
I laughed, not because it was funny — but because it was the kind of question that should’ve crossed my mind years ago. I’ve spent years sending job links to friends, urging them to visit the site. “Apply, brother/Sister. Don’t lose hope.” But hope here moves faster than the dollar rate.
If you’ve spent any time on that website, you’ve seen it. Vacancies from NGOs you’ve never heard of positions with fat salaries and neat job descriptions. “Project Officer.” “WASH Coordinator.” “Finance Manager.” etc.
All marked “South Sudanese Nationals encouraged to apply.” And yet, ask around — who’s actually landing those jobs?
Not you. Not the girl selling tea at Custom Park. Not the boy pushing a wheelbarrow or the other driving a Raickshaw in Munuki. Not the graduate in Gudele with a CV thicker than the Constitution.
But someone is. And it’s usually someone you haven’t seen in years. Someone who vanished during hard times and reappeared driving a V8 with tinted windows, politely saying “you know, life is tough in this country.”
Then there’s NilePet. A national oil company, we’re told. Ask anyone when the last public vacancy was posted, and you’ll get silence.
Yet every now and then, you hear of someone’s cousin, neighbor, or distant uncle quietly finding a seat there. No interviews. No announcements. Just a quiet phone call and a new job.
Dar Petroleum? Same story. You’d swear on your mother’s health that the company has never advertised a vacancy in public. But you’ll spot old childhood friends now working there, the same ones who once shared “Taameya” Falafel or chapati and “Janjaro” beans with you in school.
You ask them how life is, and they flash that practiced smile: “Wallahi, things are tough.”
And it isn’t just oil companies. It’s the big institutions too. Commercial Banks, NCA, BOSS, Ministry positions.
Places where doors open silently for a select few, while the rest of us refresh job sites like gamblers hoping for a lucky number.
We joke about it, of course. It’s easier than admitting what it does to you. But beneath those jokes, there’s a weight.
A weight carried by every graduate selling airtime, every teacher turned into Boda boda rider, every engineer hawking secondhand shoes in the market. And we wonder — is this what we raised our flag for?
This isn’t a rant. It’s a reminder. That this country was built by men and women who walked barefoot for it, who stood in line for it, who sang its anthem under trees before there were offices and titles.
And as we face another year, one simple truth remains: A nation that harvests alone will eventually find itself standing alone.
And as we approach another 9 July, I have a simple message:
To those holding the doors closed — open them. To those hoarding the opportunities — remember the barefoot boys who walked beside you when there was no salary, no vehicle, no title. And to those in power — let this year be different. Not in words. In action. Because this country is too small to keep pretending, we don’t see each other.
“Alright, my friends — same page, same time tomorrow. Maybe something better to say.”