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By: Pasta Abunerry, Ayella
4-2-2026
Torit
In South Sudan, meeting Kiir is like threading a needle through a horse’s nose. In fact, it is even easier to do that. It is like trying to touch your nose with your tongue; the distance seems shorter, but it is actually farther than you think. The only people with the easiest access to the J1 Palace are bre-ast-ful women like Natasha and other foreign profit-making prophets. Ask Da-Ter Manyang, the citizens’ rights activist, who knows and understands this reality.
In her glamorous Edenic gown and splendid, soft-style serpent walk, Natasha surprised King Kiir naked on the day. It was like a drama. No guards could stand at attention because of Natasha’s mabele that hovered over her chest like ripe papayas calling for knives. Her nyash danced like Lomude, the Pojulu cultural celebrity; every Adut on TikTok wishes to bang. The scent of her perfume burned the hearts of the guards like the flame of the Eastern Equatoria gold that controlled Lobong. She arrived, guarded by pageants that made it difficult to look away. The gate to the palace opened widely like the grave that buried the Nasir people. No questions, no checks, no negotiation—just romantic romanticism!
Rev. Dr. Atasha, sorry, Nyastasha, ouch! Akasha, well, Lucy entered the J1 humorously. As if he had missed her for a honeymoon, Kiir straightened his walking stick with dignity and royalty, laid it on Nyastasha’s shoulder as a gesture of royal welcome, and, in his baby Swahili, jovially said, “Karibu nyumbani, nakupenda sana, the sent one.” The whole house, including our beautiful and humble Mama Ayen, trembled like Jubek’s footsteps passing over Jebel Kujur. Who could be such a guest that had resurrected the king from his whisky-insomniac bed? Silence captured the room. Eyes moved motionlessly toward the adulterated hug as the mystic anointing oil dripped between the legs.
Ateny, the caretaker and press and info minister, could not contain his greed; saliva dropped from his mouth like a hungry hyena wrestling a lion from its catch. Tut, paralysed on his belly, ignored the temptation pretentiously. Wow, let us sit and relax. With her sophisticated shabakarate cruising-land-teksamoney incantation, Nyastasha drew the chessboard into prayer.
After a long, gold-y mass with a profit-ic courtship, Kiir received a wowing anointment, an anointment that promised salvation from the willful march of those interested in J1. As a condition to secure the fraudulent success, Kiir bought the scammer’s oil made of her bajainal fluids, manufactured by the Mombasa Ashtoreth. Although she agreed to sell the fluid for $20,000, the finance office offered $200,000 to sustain the christopreneurship.
Finally, the J1 also offered an estate in the Kubri Habouba suburb to Nyastasha, a promise that the estate will be a weekend spa and fitness center for all the hyenas that wrestle over Junubin oil and gold money.
In return, Nyastasha promised the head of Rt Hon Oyet of the IO. She promised to track the opposition figures using her pendulous but unproductive baby foods that hung on her chest aimlessly. She believes the IOs can fall for her pawpaws and nyash since they are hungry for enjoying freedom.
Nyastasha reminds the entire Konyokonyo street and cattle camp gangs to prepare themselves for overnight crushing and cruises. In the dockets of the dance floor are the lubricated Kejis, Ayens, Nadias, and Halimas ready for a bed catch. If Agel, Juol, Wani, or you (reader) also wish to join the cargo, you can go every Monday for leftovers instead of crushing on Konyokonyo’s Iyodos, Idongis, Foni, Utuas and Illes. There is peace brought by the Empowerment Christian Charge!
END
Brutal Rwaita, Eklesiyastical Critic, Frilunch Tichar and Invincibol Aktivis
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