Friday, 5th May 2017: The Blackest, Deadliest, and Most Catastrophic Day Ever Recorded on the Juba–Bor Highway

By Bul John, Juba, South Sudan

Read this account to discover how a dark-skinned man in a deep blue Jalabiya, whose name and face I do not know, saved my life that day.

As I was preparing to sit for my Senior Four national examinations, my family and relatives in Bor Town organized an advance visit for me to reunite with them after decades of separation. For some, it would be the first time we ever met; for others, the first time since I was a child too young to recognize or be recognized. This was my first journey to Jonglei State.

On 3rd May 2017, I traveled from Nimule to Juba. It was only my second visit to the capital, the first was in 2015, when I was in Senior Three and traveled under community obligations as a football player representing Dachuek Football Club–Nimule. We played matches against teams from Twic East, Bor, and Duk Counties at Gumbo Basic Football Ground.

On 4th May, I visited some family members in Juba, including my brother Duot-Awet Juach Yool. We spent time together in Konyokonyo ahead of my anticipated journey to Bor. That night, I returned to Sherikat where I was staying, eager for the next morning’s trip.

I woke early on 5th May, checking my phone, I saw it was 4:00 a.m. The excitement made it impossible to fall back asleep. Time seemed frozen as I lay awake, consumed by anticipation.

By 6:00 a.m., I was refreshed and ready. At Bor Park in Sherikat, the place was already bustling. I had my eyes set on a new, clean, fully enclosed Land Cruiser, it looked high-quality and met my personal standards. I usually prefer newer vehicles, whether cars, rickshaws, or motorcycles. I’m always selective.

As I approached the Land Cruiser, a man, dark-skinned, of average height, wearing a deep blue Jalabiya, tapped me on the shoulder. He informed me their vehicle had just two seats left: one front seat at 1,700 SSP and one in the back at 1,500 SSP. He pointed toward a different car, parked inside the park near the entrance on the left.

I always prefer the front seat on long trips, especially to new destinations. It offers a better view, and I love discovering new landscapes. I accepted his offer, bought the ticket, placed my bag on the seat, and walked around to observe the other travelers.

For the first time, I felt at home among passengers and drivers, 95% were from my tribe. That had never happened during my travels in Uganda or parts of Equatoria, where I was born and had moved often.

We departed after two other cars. I enjoyed the beautiful, untouched scenery despite the muddy, rugged road. But no inconvenience could spoil the joy of traveling to the ancestral land of my brave forebears. I had driven on modern highways abroad, but none gave me the spiritual satisfaction of this road to Bor.

Around 2:00 p.m., we reached Mongalla. It had been six hours since all mobile networks (Vivacel, Zain, and MTN) disappeared. We were entirely disconnected. For me, it was especially troubling, since I’d never been to Bor and wouldn’t know how to find my way.

In Mongalla, I met a man in military uniform, a passenger in a vehicle ahead of ours. He said I looked familiar and asked about my background. After introducing myself, he guessed I was from Dachuek, noting that I resembled many of my relatives. He knew my family well and insisted on buying snacks for me, refusing to let me pay. I later learned he was my uncle.

Our cars departed Mongalla, and ours was the first to drive off. The road through Mundari land offered a rich cultural experience. Men and women in traditional attire crossed the road with livestock. Farmers worked their fields under a cloudy sky. Fresh green grass spread across the landscape. It was a sight to behold.

But I couldn’t ignore the number of traditionally dressed youth openly carrying firearms. It was shocking. I asked the driver, and he said, “That’s normal here. It’s the lifestyle.”

Coming from Uganda and Equatoria, where civilians don’t carry guns, it felt almost taboo. Still, I kept quiet.

After an hour, the cars behind us had disappeared. We passed Sudan Safari and Jemezä, where more armed youth had gathered. Our car stopped at a checkpoint. The driver presented documents, and the attendants, armed young men, lowered the rope and let us through. We didn’t know then that this decision saved our lives.

By 5:00 p.m., we reached Pariak. Still, no car had caught up with us except for one that had led the journey from the start.

We arrived in Bor as darkness approached. The other vehicles were missing. At the park, I was stranded. The networks were still down. I couldn’t contact anyone or find directions. My uncle, who had promised to take me home, was nowhere to be found.

After standing for 20 minutes in exhaustion, I crossed the road and asked a Sudanese shopkeeper, possibly from Darfur or Nuba, if I could sit outside his shop. “Fadhäl, äghöt,” he welcomed me. I sat facing Maam Petrol Station, watching every car that entered the park. My hope lay in my uncle’s vehicle arriving.

After 30 minutes, I saw the very Land Cruiser I had originally intended to board, driven by a man in military uniform. There were no passengers. Its windshield and windows were shattered. Blood was smeared across the vehicle. A crowd gathered as the car parked. I joined them.

I saw grief. I saw trauma. I saw disaster. “All the passengers and the driver were killed,” the soldier announced. “More cars are behind with dead and wounded.” He had left the bodies at the State Hospital.

I was trembling. That was the car I had planned to board, until the man in the blue Jalabiya redirected me. Only God knows what would have happened if I had refused him. I tried to recall his face. I couldn’t. Just his blue robe and dark skin.

God saved my life through him. May He bless that stranger wherever he is. Since that day, I no longer argue about which car to choose or what seat to take. I now know: the best car is the one that takes you safely to your destination.

The State Hospital was overwhelmed. Bodies were laid outside the mortuary. My heart sank when I saw my uncle from Mongalla, lifeless. The man who offered me food and promised to take me home was gone. I still had the items he bought me.

There were more than 50 bodies. Among them was a girl of about five, wearing a waistband that spelled “Akur”, the same girl I saw sipping Merinda in Juba before departure. I was told she died alongside her brother and aunt. Her aunt had been decapitated by gunfire. Akur’s mother was fighting for her life in the emergency ward, its floor stained with blood.

Fathers, brothers, and sisters searched through the bodies. When my family saw me alive, we hugged endlessly, grateful for the second chance, grieving for those lost.

Some passengers survived by fleeing into the bush, arriving in Bor days later with harrowing stories. I was shaken for weeks. Then came more bad news: a neighbor from Nimule, a lady from Rocky City, was also among the dead.

We who survived must not remain silent. We must speak for the voiceless, seek justice for the innocent. It would be unjust of me to demand vengeance against an entire community, I am not a tribalist. I am a jurist. The guilty must be found, even if it takes a century. Justice must prevail, by all means necessary.

The shutdown of telecom networks that day was suspicious. Anyone thinking critically will find that detail hard to ignore.

Years have passed, but the trauma endures. The wound won’t heal. May God heal all who witnessed this tragedy, whether directly or through testimonies like mine. I apologize for any distress this account may cause.

Lord, I am grateful for the second chance You gave me and others. May the innocent souls who perished that dark, tragic day rest in peace. May justice, no matter how delayed, be served.

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