The death of Garang has unfortunately unleashed emotions of

Host: The night air over Juba was thick with dust and sorrow. Fires still burned in small pockets of the city, the kind that glowed low, steady — not with destruction now, but remembrance. The river Nile, dark and endless, flowed quietly beyond the broken streets, carrying the reflection of a nation that was trying to see itself again.

The square outside the presidential compound was nearly deserted, save for two figures standing in the amber wash of a streetlamp — Jack and Jeeny. Between them lay a torn newspaper, its front page marked by a headline that seemed to echo across history: “Garang Dead in Helicopter Crash.”

Host: The city mourned not just a man, but an idea — one that had dared to unite, even in the language of division.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How one man’s death can open every wound in a country.”

Jack: “Not strange. Predictable. When hope is fragile, even grief becomes ammunition.”

Jeeny: “Salva Kiir said it best. ‘The death of Garang has unfortunately unleashed emotions of anger; some genuine, others cultivated by elements who wanted to pit one group of Sudanese against another.’”

Jack: “That’s the curse of leadership — your death becomes a stage for everyone else’s agenda.”

Jeeny: “Or their fear.”

Jack: “Fear and power always share a bed. Especially in nations built on wounds.”

Host: A truck passed by, its engine echoing off the walls of the compound, carrying soldiers back toward the barracks. Their faces were silent — tired men holding onto peace like something breakable.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when he came to power? Garang. The hope in people’s eyes?”

Jack: “Yeah. He was more than a leader — he was a bridge between worlds that had forgotten they were connected.”

Jeeny: “And bridges are always the first thing to burn.”

Jack: “Exactly. His death wasn’t just an accident — it was a fracture.”

Jeeny: “Kiir’s words weren’t just politics. He was warning everyone — that grief is contagious, and if it mutates into anger, it becomes war again.”

Jack: “That’s the hardest part — keeping mourning from turning militant.”

Host: The wind picked up, lifting scraps of ash and paper into the air. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang once — slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat echoing through loss.

Jack: “You know, what Kiir said — ‘some genuine, others cultivated’ — that’s the whole tragedy of every divided nation. Real pain gets hijacked by false prophets.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Genuine grief is clean — it wants healing. Manufactured anger just wants blood.”

Jack: “And the people caught between the two… they can’t tell the difference.”

Jeeny: “Because both wear the same face: rage.”

Jack: “And rage is seductive. It feels like purpose when everything else feels broken.”

Host: She looked down, her reflection faint in the puddle at her feet, distorted by ripples of wind.

Jeeny: “Do you think there’s ever a way to stop that cycle? The anger after loss, the manipulation after anger?”

Jack: “Only when people learn to separate memory from manipulation.”

Jeeny: “You mean to grieve without being used.”

Jack: “Exactly. Every fallen leader leaves behind two legacies — one written by truth, and one rewritten by power.”

Jeeny: “And power always writes faster.”

Jack: “Unless the people remember slower.”

Host: The streetlight flickered, the moths dancing in and out of its uncertain glow. The world seemed balanced between darkness and light — the same way nations balance between mourning and madness.

Jeeny: “You know what I find remarkable? Kiir didn’t deny the anger. He acknowledged it. He called it what it was — both genuine and cultivated. That’s courage.”

Jack: “It’s also wisdom. You can’t lead people out of rage by pretending it doesn’t exist.”

Jeeny: “That’s where most leaders fail. They suppress emotion, instead of channeling it.”

Jack: “Garang understood that too. His strength wasn’t just in vision — it was in compassion. He could speak to bitterness without feeding it.”

Jeeny: “And now that voice is gone.”

Jack: “No. It just sounds different now. It echoes through the people who remember why he fought.”

Host: The silence that followed was deep — not empty, but reverent. The kind of silence that belongs to history when it pauses to weep.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how death tests the living?”

Jack: “Always. It reveals who wants peace — and who wants power dressed up as grief.”

Jeeny: “You think Kiir was afraid the country would crumble?”

Jack: “He was afraid of something worse — that it would fracture again. That anger would be easier than unity.”

Jeeny: “That’s the truth of humanity, isn’t it? Anger’s simpler than empathy.”

Jack: “And louder. Empathy whispers; anger shouts.”

Jeeny: “But shouting doesn’t build nations.”

Jack: “No. It only drowns out the ones who could.”

Host: A banner fluttered on the fence nearby — Garang’s face, faded but noble, eyes fixed toward a future he never got to see.

Jeeny: “You know what’s heartbreaking? Every generation in this part of the world grows up with its own lost hero. It’s like history keeps recycling hope just to break it again.”

Jack: “That’s because people follow personalities, not principles.”

Jeeny: “You sound cold.”

Jack: “No, just tired. Principles outlive people, but they don’t trend as fast.”

Jeeny: “Garang was both. A principle and a person. That’s why his death cut so deep.”

Jack: “And why his ghost still walks in every speech, every street.”

Host: The river wind moved through the trees, carrying with it the faint smell of rain and ash — the smell of a nation between mourning and rebirth.

Jeeny: “Do you think Kiir was right to name the manipulation? To call out those who were using Garang’s death to divide?”

Jack: “He had to. Silence would’ve been surrender. Naming the poison is the first step to surviving it.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even he couldn’t stop it completely.”

Jack: “No one can stop grief from mutating. You can only keep telling the truth until it outlives the lies.”

Jeeny: “You think it ever does?”

Jack: “Sometimes. When enough people are brave enough to remember pain without weaponizing it.”

Host: Her eyes lifted toward the statue at the end of the square — Garang’s likeness standing tall, cast in bronze. Even in shadow, he looked unbroken.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Kiir’s words weren’t just about Sudan. They’re about all of us — every society that’s ever tried to rise after loss. Anger’s the easy language of grief. Understanding is the hard one.”

Jack: “And yet, we keep speaking anger first.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s louder.”

Jack: “But truth is steadier.”

Jeeny: “And in the end, steadiness wins.”

Host: The lights along the riverbank flickered, one by one, their glow stretching across the dark water — like fragile bridges between what was lost and what might still be saved.

Because as Salva Kiir Mayardit said,
“The death of Garang has unfortunately unleashed emotions of anger; some genuine, others cultivated by elements who wanted to pit one group of Sudanese against another.”

And in that truth lies a lesson written for all time —
that grief without wisdom becomes fury,
and fury without compassion becomes history repeating itself.

Host: And as Jack and Jeeny stood in the silence of that wounded city,
they understood — the real monument to Garang wasn’t in bronze or banners,
but in the fragile, stubborn hope of a people learning to rise without rage.