(As verbally but fictitiously dictated to Jon Pen on phone)

My Dear Daughter,

I am writing to kindly request you, please, don’t show up at your workstation tonight. I say, don’t appear, at least live!

This is not a threat, though. Just fall sick right now — yes — of high blood pressure on our behalf.

We’re your Uncles and Aunts of the ITGONU being replaced with a RTGONU (I don’t know them in full).

We are going to be gone in a matter of hours. I mean sacked innocently. And the decree suppliers will make you appear as if you were responsible for our pain!

Problem is your voice. Your face, too! Your sweet name ‘Rejoice’ should make people rejoyce, but, you see? Alas! Kalas!

For the last 10 years, you have terrorised (correction: made to terrorise) those who are being fired unaware, though entertain those being hired.

If you were a man, they would call you Amos, a prophet of doom. This is because they make you announce hard heartbreaking news, the type that can attack our ageing hearts, those who have no alternative but death after the desk.

Please, in order not to inherit our curse, just switch off your phones upon reading this message. And don’t forget to change your position, as well. They can go and collect you!

At least, let another face appear, even if that of Gadet Dak or any other opposition mouthpiece, we would stand it.

A homegrown terror is an own goal, my daughter of my comrade. Keep away from it. You can even resign and cross, no problem! I mean cross the river. Haiwah!

And this is the main reason. I am diabetic, which has also triggered a hypertension. Not me alone, by the way.

Imagining the very hyper tension with the decrees looming tonight, you can now say, ‘die-abetic’! So do you want to be a murderer of an old man, my daughter?

Don’t tell me to hang out till late, I am not a boy. Plus, this condition makes me go home, latest 7pm, lest it catches me midway.

And, in the evening, I cannot switch off the TV because my brother-in-law is a decree hopeful. But I am not one this time round! This is my last round.

Please, don’t send me from my office boardroom through my bedroom to the cemetery. Just get lost at the last minute, and some shaky news reader will appear…at least with a new face. I can face that.

Take note, my daughter. Since the hijacked Valentine Day, Juba has run out of chill pills for hypertension, diabetes, and the like. Damn the 32 governors and their bloated, bloody governments for that.

Now, we are at high risk of Chinese, Indian and East African pharmaceuticals rushing in fake drugs due to this high demand. And, alas, we have hungry (corrupt) sentries at the ports of entry!

We are consuming rebranded goods and services from our neighbors. That could also explain why we fall sick, besides our old bullet wounds and trauma of the liberation war.

I mean the entire nation is multiply sick. So avoid accelerating the existential threat!

On behalf of the outgoing Government (minus H.E. the President), my daughter, don’t say I didn’t warn you, ooh!

So help us God!


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