The Making of a Dinka Woman: A Survival Manual Disguised as Culture

Even though I don't agree with feminists in most cases, we can agree on one thing; the closest living thing to a donkey isn't four-legged. It's a Dinka woman.

Let's unpack this, shall we?

The donkey training begins at 9 years old, a fragile age where she starts hauling 5–10 liters of water across 0.1 to 1km; depending on whether lady luck planted her home near a borehole. By 10 she should know how to cook all Dinka soups, Akoup, Awalwala and Ayoot (kisra), cooked over a doka (pan) that radiates enough heat to grill your ancestors. At 11 years, she begins to do all the household laundry, including those of her arrogant, wrinkled, and not to forget ugly, uncles wife who hasn't smiled since the days of the SPLA, and her elder brother who only bathes every full moon, and changes clothes when they begin to grow natural dirt-printed military stripes.

By sixteen to eighteen, she's the de facto woman of the house.

After a long day of unpaid labor, society expects her to look presentable if not attractive for loor; because as Dinkas put it, it's apparently where "good men" are hunted. If by chance she is a good dancer, her life gets worse. Suddenly a coven of sweaty smelly men with frog voices surround her singing senseless songs, promising not to leave until she agrees to the dergel or mayok (Kangaroo dance). After the dance, comes the most anticipated loor rush hour, where anything breathing believes it is entitled to a beautiful girl's attention. Out of sheer respect for our Dinka culture, she must tolerate even the ugliest of men (men who give mirrors nightmares) and with the never ending begging she has to give her phone number if she has one, if not, she has to lead the ugly creature back to the gates of her homestead.

By the time she drags herself back home, the soup has gone cold. She reignites the fire to reheat the food before her ugly pair of brothers and cousins come home hungry from the dance. She lays out the food, and takes it to the table where they sit and in some instances pour water over their dirty hands like they're some tribal monarchs, when all they've ever worked for are two pairs of worn out Manchester United underwear.

In most cases when the men are too many, she serves all and starves herself in the hopes of whatever that remains when they are done. Sadly, most of them will eat like Trump has signalled the trumpets of World War III not sparing even an orphan of kisra, leaving only stained plates. She then has to swallow her hunger and wash the plates. It's now past 10pm. She mixes flour for tomorrow's lunch.

And as if that wasn't a stressful day, one of the ugly men who had taken her number earlier has been calling her like she owes him a kidney. When she finally picks up, he bombards her with marriage talk, (lol, this coming from a man sleeping on a shared mat in a rakuba with his mother and six siblings.) It's always ugly men who like to talk when they have nothing to say. The thing starts talking about all the nonsense residing in his triangularly shaped half balded head. Complementary to being ugly, the man is a terrible communicator and a worse storyteller. He drones on for two hours , but the little innocent girl politely endures listening to the nonsense of this lazy glutton like it's a church sermon. By the time his airtime that he rounded up begging every living man who knows him is done, it's 1 am, and she must retire to bed.

By 5am, she's up. Lining up jerrycans at the borehole, before coming back home, to prepare breakfast for her brother who's running late; not for work, but for his daily poker game. She then drinks strong tea, because her gluttonous brother ate all the donuts like it was his last supper. She then resumes her washing duties and goes back to carry all the jericans, before preparing lunch.

If by 22 she is lucky enough, to dodge the 23-toothed elder from Bor eyeing her like livestock, the neighbours start whispering about why she's not married. If she's bold enough and decides to take the short-cut and marry the young man of her will, the small poor smelly village will make her the headlines for a month, forgetting their ugly yellow-black daughters who have slept with almost all the poor, ugly, lazy, unemployed, and senseless dudes in the neighbourhood, and rotated more beds than mattresses in a refugee camp.

If she decides to play the unspoken rules and please her community by waiting for a Dinka-approved 'luxury' marriage, and in the process reaches 25; people begin to see her as a witch, even families that are historically known for top tier sorcery (peeth) that even the devil wouldn't consider dating in.

It's hard being a Dinka woman; in solidarity with them, I'm bringing one home this August. She has a degree, FYI. So run your mouth on her age if you dare; (that mouth that has never spoken to a lecturer) & I'll make sure she's there to hear it, and you won't enjoy the response.

Yala Sunday School (domjot) dismissed.