Category: Governance

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲

This morning, the Court in Juba is set to hear the case of the now-suspended First Vice President of South Sudan, Dr. Riek Machar Teny, chairman of the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement in Opposition (SPLM/IO), alongside other high-profile figures accused of treason and related charges. It is a politically charged trial with weighty implications for our fragile peace. But as a citizen, one cannot help but observe that on days such as this, justice for the powerful often casts a long shadow over the ordinary.

The precise venue, whether the High Court or Freedom Hall matters less than the pattern. Both lie within Juba’s central business district, a space interwoven with vital arteries of public life. Around these venues are Juba Teaching Hospital, the University of Juba, St. Joseph’s Catholic Parish, the national dialysis center, and countless offices, and small businesses that serve as the backbone of the city. These are not peripheral facilities; they are lifelines. Yet when high-profile trials are underway, roads are barricaded, security personnel line the streets, and pickups bristling with armed soldiers stand ready. The atmosphere is tense, intimidating, and in many ways traumatizing to ordinary civilians who only wish to access care, education, worship, justice, or other essential services.

We have seen this before. In 2014, when the famous former political detainees were tried at the high court, access was curtailed in exactly this manner. Ordinary citizens with scheduled hearings found themselves in fear of being turned away and told their matters would have to wait. Pregnant women due for antenatal care or delivery hesitated to approach the hospital. A parent or guardian with a child in need of an urgent vaccine was likely deterred by the sight of guns. Today, patients needing dialysis will likely face the same fear of restricted access. Those who are desperate and brave will have to contend with the indignity of navigating back roads, roads barely passable even for ordinary vehicles. In these moments, the state’s solemn duty to protect life and uphold justice for all is quietly undermined.

This is not simply an inconvenience. It is a violation of fundamental rights. Access to justice is impeded when ordinary citizens are told, implicitly or explicitly, that their day in court must, or could be postponed because a more “important” case is underway. Access to health is obstructed when the atmosphere of fear keeps patients away from essential services. Access to faith and education is compromised when worshippers or students cannot safely approach their parish or university.

What is striking is the absence of communication. When the government announces trials of this magnitude, there is no prior assurance to citizens that their rights to health, justice, education, and worship will not be impeded. There are no proactive measures such as rerouting plans for patients and providers (doctors, nurses, and others), special lanes for service users, or public guidance to reduce fear. The silence is deafening, and it leaves the impression that ordinary people are expendable collateral on days when the powerful are on trial.

South Sudan must do better. High-profile trials are an inevitable part of any country’s democratic and legal evolution. But they must not come at the expense of the ordinary. Government institutions should recognize their duty of care: to ensure that, alongside announcements of such trials, there are concrete, safe, and dignified parallel measures that safeguard uninterrupted access to justice for others, to health for patients, to worship for the faithful, and to education for students.

Justice cannot be said to exist if its pursuit for a few obstructs the rights of the many. The health of our democracy and the health of our people depend on the same principle: no one should be denied access to essential services because the powerful are before the bench.

One day, South Sudan will have to confront not just how justice is dispensed for the high and mighty, but also how it is quietly denied to the ordinary when the state forgets that its first duty is to all its citizens. Until then, the barricades around our courts and Freedom Hall will stand not just as symbols of security, but also as symbols of exclusion.

𝐀𝐝𝐯𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬’ 𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲: 𝐀 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐒𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲

Advocates in South Sudan have long carried the important duty of defending rights when few dared, and they remain an essential pillar of our fragile democracy. Their contribution deserves recognition. Yet recognition should not come at the expense of principles that safeguard fairness, transparency, and accountability.

The government’s recent allocation of land for an “Advocates’ City,” where each advocate is to receive a plot, is therefore not simply a gesture of appreciation. It is a decision that sets precedent. In policy terms, precedents matter because they create reference points for future allocations and shape how resources are understood, distributed, and justified.

History offers important lessons. There have been precedents where the government of the day allotted land to associations and fraternities, but these allocations were typically for office premises to facilitate collective work, not for private ownership. Another example is the allocation of land in Nyakuron South during the interim government period, where legislators, army generals, and ministers were given surveyed plots upon payment. While many were able to acquire and develop the land, those unable to do so often sold their plots, leading to private transactions far removed from the original policy intent. These experiences caution us that such decisions, however well-intentioned, can evolve into outcomes that reinforce inequality and speculation rather than serve the public good.

This is why transparency is critical. In the case of the Advocates’ City, no publicly known guidelines have been communicated. If such guidelines exist, it was the duty of the Bar Association leadership to make them public, both to educate citizens and to prevent misunderstandings. Transparency in land allocation is not a courtesy, it is a governance obligation that strengthens trust in institutions.

The broader policy question is one of priorities. In a country where many families remain displaced without adequate shelter, and where most state hospitals lack land even to accommodate on-call health workers, often relying on colonial-era buildings in disrepair, the allocation of an entire “city” to one profession sends a troubling signal. Land is not just property in South Sudan; it is livelihood, identity, and survival. When it is distributed as reward and for private ownership, the risks of exclusion, resentment, and conflict are heightened.

Moreover, advocates occupy a unique role in society. They are expected to hold government and elites accountable. If they are instead perceived as beneficiaries of privileged allocations, their independence and credibility may be questioned. This does not serve the profession, nor the wider public interest.

Silence around this issue compounds the challenge. The media has not raised it, civil society has barely engaged it, and professional voices remain quiet. Yet policy decisions of this magnitude should not pass unnoticed. Open debate ensures legitimacy, and without it, perceptions of favoritism will linger.

The issue is not whether lawyers deserve improved working conditions. They do, just as other professions do. The issue is how such improvements are pursued: through what process, with what safeguards, and in alignment with which national priorities.

South Sudan stands at a stage where policy decisions must reflect fairness, transparency, and equity. The Advocates’ City, if allowed to proceed without scrutiny, risks becoming a precedent that normalizes privilege rather than one that builds stronger institutions. This is why it deserves measured but serious public attention. I sincerely hope it will eventually get the measured attention it should have gotten.

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

Poorly disposed off garbage on one of Juba’s streets.

I have always loved clean and organised spaces. There’s a calm that comes with them, a sense of order that sharpens my mind. On the days I leave home tidy, my thoughts flow with clarity, and I often find myself more productive and patient. But the few times I’ve rushed out leaving my home in disarray, the day almost always mirrors that chaos. Things scatter, time slips, small problems magnify, and I return in the evening only to be greeted by the same disorder I carried with me all day.

I have also noticed something else. Whenever a home or office is dirty, arguments sprout easily. People snap at each other over little things. Chaos thrives where cobwebs and clutter are allowed to reign. But in clean, ordered spaces, even modest ones, disagreements soften. People breathe easier, listen longer, and find solutions faster. Hygiene and order are not about vanity. They are about harmony of the mind and community.

Now imagine this truth at the level of a nation. Too many of those entrusted with running South Sudan live in disorganised homes. Cobwebs in the living rooms, dirty bathrooms, garbage tossed carelessly, the same cup passed around for water, are all what characterise their homes. If disorder is normal at home, is it any wonder that our public life mirrors the same? That traffic officers are chosen not by competence but by kinship? That implementing a peace agreement has failed? That garbage fills streams or spaces under bridges, or that spitting in public is seen as nothing unusual? Disorganisation, left unchecked, becomes a governing philosophy.

The reset South Sudan needs begins not with decrees or slogans, but with households where every member owns a duty: sweeping compounds, disposing of waste properly, rising early to leave a clean home, making every dwelling livable. For when our homes are schools of order, our communities will inherit clarity, and with clarity, we will resolve conflicts with reason rather than fists or guns.

In the end, nations are only reflections of the homes we keep. If you want to know the future of South Sudan, look first at the state of its living rooms and compounds.

𝐈𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐬: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐬

In South Sudan today, it is not uncommon to hear frustration expressed about Juba Teaching Hospital being “run by interns.” The assumption, often said in anger, is that this automatically means substandard care. But this view is both unfair and uninformed. Having walked the wards and lived this reality, I want to offer a different perspective, one grounded in lived experience and the wider truth of how health systems in our region function.

South Sudanese healthcare workers, whether in public hospitals, private facilities, or under NGOs, are among the least paid in the region. Ethiopia, too, struggles with poor pay, which is why so many of its best doctors migrate in search of greener pastures. What this translates to here at home is a survival economy of care. The doctors cannot rely on a public hospital salary alone. They work at Juba Teaching Hospital or any other public health facility to serve the less privileged, but they also rotate through private facilities where middle-class patients can pay, just to fill the gap left by meagre public income. The result is a schedule stretched across three or four workplaces a week. And yes, this means consultants and specialists may not always be physically present at the teaching hospital. Yet absence does not mean abandonment. Senior doctors ensure they are available for remote consultation, showing up when something beyond interns requires their physical presence, and the day-to-day running of wards is entrusted to medical officers and medical interns.

It is important to clarify who medical interns are. They are not random volunteers or students in training. They are already doctors. They are graduates holding a Bachelor of Medicine and Bachelor of Surgery, licensed temporarily by the South Sudan General Medical Council (SSGMC) to practice. By the time they step into internship, they have rotated across wards, performed procedures under supervision, and mastered the foundations of medicine. Internship exists precisely because medicine is a profession of practice as much as knowledge. The system assumes that, with a few days or weeks of close supervision, a medical intern can competently run a ward. And often, they do. Across Africa, interns are the unseen workforce keeping hospitals alive. Many people today owe their lives to an intern who could not skive a shift because their seniors required accountability, and so they stayed to resuscitate, stitch, prescribe, or simply hold the line until help arrived.

I say this not only as an observer but as one who has lived the life of a medical intern. During my internship in Kenya, I once ran an entire department for four weeks almost alone. The consultant and medical officer provided wonderful supervision and guidance, but they were not always present. It meant I was overstretched, which I would never recommend as a healthy norm, yet it proved beyond doubt that an intern can keep a department running. I also vividly recall a 36-hour stretch where I had to perform thirteen caesarean sections, with only the scrub nurse assisting me. As the intern on call, I had no excuses to hide behind. The mothers and babies could not wait, and I had to deliver care competently, decisively, and tirelessly. These experiences are not unique to me, they reflect what medical interns across Africa face daily. And so, when people dismiss interns, I cannot help but remind them that hospitals run because interns show up, endure, and deliver.

To dismiss medical interns as incapable is to erase the very backbone of healthcare in fragile systems. It is also to misunderstand how learning or teaching hospitals operate. Globally, teaching hospitals, from Nairobi to Kampala, Addis Ababa to Johannesburg, run on the shoulders of interns. Consultants guide, medical officers support, but it is the interns who do the daily grind that keeps patients alive. Yes, they are still learning. But learning in medicine is not an excuse for incompetence. Learning is the design of the profession itself and everyone in it learns until their last breath. The Hippocratic tradition expects every doctor to be sharpened in practice.

If there is outrage, let it not be about medical interns. Let it be about why we have forced a generation of doctors to become part-time workers in their own public hospitals. Let it be about the erosion of policies that once recognized internship as a paid, structured, and respected pathway. Let it be about corruption and uncaring leadership that budget less than 2% for health and then turn to blame the very health workers they underpay and overburden.

The real question is not whether medical interns are capable, they are. The question is how to create conditions that allow both interns and their seniors to thrive. That begins with fair pay and retention so that healthcare workers are not forced to scatter across multiple workplaces simply to survive. It also requires structured supervision, with consultants consistently incentivized to spend more time mentoring interns and guiding them in real time. Equally important is restoring value to internship itself, recognizing it as a paid, protected stage of professional growth rather than cheap labour to be exploited. And above all, the public must demand accountability from leadership: national budgets should reflect health as a priority, not as an afterthought.

So yes, Juba Teaching Hospital is run by medical interns. But that is not the scandal. The scandal is that we undervalue them, underpay them, and then scapegoat or shadowbox them when systemic neglect shows itself. If you walked the wards as I have, you would see a different truth. Interns are not a weakness of our health system; they are its heartbeat. And perhaps the wisest thing we can do is not to sneer at them, but to protect, equip, and honor them. For in their hands, quite literally, rests the future of medicine in South Sudan.

𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩, 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐬 𝐔𝐬

Ms. Adut Salva Kiir, the new Senior Presidential Envoy on Special Programs meeting Dr. Benjamin Bol Mel, the Vice president for the economic cluster within a week of assuming office.

On 20th August 2025, the president of the Republic of South Sudan appointed his daughter Ms. Adut Salva Kiir as the Senior Presidential Envoy on Special Programs (SPESP). Since that day the, the public has heard little beyond the fact that she is the President’s first daughter and founder of Adult Salva Kiir (ASK) foundation. Her speeches have been scarce and, when offered, only hint at fragments: that she was born in hardship, that her struggles were part of the broader liberation struggle, and that she has an economic background. Admirable, yes, but woefully inadequate. These scraps do not amount to the kind of story that inspires a generation.

Sadly, this is not unique to her case. For most appointments announced by presidential decree, the media houses limit themselves to headlines:“𝐒𝐨-𝐚𝐧𝐝-𝐬𝐨 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝.”Little effort is made to go further. The public is rarely given a deeper understanding of the appointee. Their academic path, their track record, their professional contributions, and their worldview are not shared. Instead, we are left with names and hometowns, as though that alone should qualify someone to lead. The result is that people forget that leadership requires more than lineage, connections, or geography. It demands competence, vision, and experience.

When the media does not probe, society pays the price. A girl watching on television, or scrolling on social media, yearns to know not only the title but the journey. What studies shaped her? What obstacles did she overcome? What mentors, disciplines, or defining moments prepared her for this role? These are the details that plant seeds of possibility. Without them, leadership is reduced to titles, not lived merit.

The absence of information does not only rob inspiration, it undermines accountability. Leadership is not just about who you are related to; it is about the qualifications, discipline, and vision you bring to a role. Without critical questions from and answers dug by the media, the public cannot assess whether a leader has the requisite skills or even the basic qualifications for the task. In failing to demand answers, both governance and the standards by which leaders are judged, are weakened.

But the silence is not the media’s alone. Those who claim to have known her since childhood, who have since been busy building support camps in her name, have offered no meaningful insight either. They too perpetuate the gap, preferring loyalty and praise over truth and detail.

And the leader herself bears responsibility. For women especially, telling one’s story comprehensively is not a luxury; it is a duty. When women ascend to high office but fail to share their journeys in ways that are authentic and complete, they deny younger generations, particularly girls a roadmap. The result is a leadership figure who feels distant, inaccessible, and uninspiring.

Leadership is not just about occupying a seat. It is about embodying a story that teaches, inspires, and sets standards. The media must do its job to probe and narrate. Leaders must embrace the duty of authentic storytelling. And as a society, we must demand both. For when stories remain untold, we do not only lose inspiration, we lose accountability, and we allow power to rest on titles alone.

Funding That Defines Health Sovereignty Must Be Preceded by Democratic Governance

This evening, I read the opening remarks by Dr. Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus, Director-General of the World Health Organization, at the Africa Health Sovereignty Summit held today in Accra, Ghana. The summit seeks to redefine African health governance and health systems sustainability leadership. While reading, I found myself deeply moved by both the urgency and clarity of his message. His words resonate profoundly, especially at a time when sharp aid cuts are becoming the common denominator across international development and humanitarian sectors. For fragile nations like South Sudan, the implications are far-reaching.

In his address, Dr. Tedros made several bold but necessary assertions, ones that offer a practical blueprint for African health systems to stand on their own feet. Among his key points, four struck me with particular force:

  1. The responsibility for financing strong, resilient health systems rests with governments.
  2. The most efficient and equitable source of health financing is the national budget.
  3. More money alone is not enough. What matters is how effectively that money is used.
  4. In many low- and middle-income countries, health budgets go unspent due to weak public financial management systems.

As a South Sudanese professional engaged in global health leadership and advocacy, I welcome these calls. They are not only timely but essential. And yet, I must add, with the same urgency, that none of these shifts are achievable without a corresponding transformation in governance.

Sovereignty Cannot Exist Without Accountability

There is no health sovereignty where citizens are unable to question how their taxes are spent, where decisions about resource allocation are made in darkness, or where data is not reliably available to guide policy. If governments are to finance their own health systems, as they must, then transparency, accountability, and civic participation are non-negotiable.

Sovereignty, in the truest sense, must be people-centred, and that includes the right of citizens to engage in policymaking, to demand value for money, and to insist that health spending reaches those who need it most. Without this, sovereignty becomes a hollow term, a banner under which inefficiency, exclusion, and elite capture are allowed to thrive.

Financing Without Good Governance Is Futile

Many meetings have long discussed domestic resource mobilisation and country ownership in development discourse. These are noble goals. But in many fragile and conflict-affected settings, health budgets remain underspent not due to lack of funds, but due to the absence of systems that are capable, responsive, and accountable. Weak procurement systems, delayed disbursements, political interference, and poor coordination continue to sabotage even the most well-intentioned efforts. This is what defines the weak public finance systems mentioned by Dr. Tedros.

In South Sudan, for instance, we have witnessed how donor dependency distorts national priorities and delays urgent reforms. Yet we have also seen how fragile the prospect of local ownership becomes when governance systems are not equipped to manage or absorb funds efficiently. Health workers go unpaid, medical supplies are mismanaged, and communities lose faith. More disturbing is that lives are lost.

This is not simply a health sector issue. It is a governance issue.

Seismic Shifts in Political Will Are Surely Needed

If Africa is to realise the health sovereignty that Dr. Tedros so eloquently advocates for, it must be matched with a seismic shift in political will, one that opens up civic space, strengthens institutions, and ensures governments are accountable to their people.

We cannot make promises at high level summits about strengthening health systems while stifling dissent. We cannot preach efficiency while ignoring corruption. And we cannot champion inclusion while excluding local actors and communities from decision-making.

Health sovereignty is not just about money. It is about who holds the power to decide how health systems are built, maintained, and sustained, and whether that power is exercised in the public interest.

As we respond to these calls for national investment and local ownership, let us not overlook the indispensable role of democratic governance. We must advocate not only for more domestic financing, but also for the political conditions that allow those resources to be used effectively, equitably, and accountably. This is the indisputable prerequisite for health sovereignty.

Only then will the vision of health sovereignty become a lived reality across Africa. Only then will the response to global aid cuts be a dignified one.

A Community That Refused to Wait: Lessons from Juba’s Gudele Block 9

In a country where despair often overshadows hope and institutions too frequently falter in their responsibilities, there are quiet revolutions happening, led not by officials in high office, but by everyday citizens who decide they will not wait. I recently witnessed one such revolution in Gudele Block 9, a residential stretch on the outskirts of Juba, South Sudan.

A Different Kind of Independence Day

It was an ordinary afternoon on June 18th, 2025, when two unexpected visitors knocked on the gate of our organisation’s office in Gudele Block 9. As I was informed they were local youth seeking to speak to the head of the NGO, I’ll admit that a sliver of apprehension crossed my mind. But I stepped out, greeted them, and invited them in.

What followed was a deeply humbling conversation, one that revealed how a group of young people has transformed their community through sheer will, collaboration, and vision.

Youth Organising for Change

The young men had come to raise funds for an upcoming Independence Day celebration. Not a city-wide event, not a grand affair, just something to unite residents in their neighborhood. They wanted to foster community spirit, to encourage togetherness among people who, too often, live as strangers behind high compound walls.

They had no formal budget in hand because they had left it at their office. They had only a request: would our organisation contribute? Myself and a colleague listened with interest, and as they spoke more, we grew increasingly curious about what else these youth were doing.

Here’s what they’ve achieved so far:

  • Road Rehabilitation: Organised residents to raise funds and partner with local government to grade and repair a key access road.
  • Festive Celebrations: Decorated the entire stretch of Gudele Road to mark New Year 2025, enhancing community spirit.
  • Garbage Collection: Set up a community-funded waste collection system with support from the city council.
  • Greening Initiative: Planted 23 trees along community roads to improve the environment, despite setbacks with a few trees.

Vision for the Future

What struck me most wasn’t just what they had done but what they hoped to do next:

  • Install street lights to deter criminal activity.
  • Facilitate intergenerational dialogues between elders and youth.
  • Build a community-based security model where all residents are known and accounted for.

When Government Falls Short, Communities Rise

I asked them a simple question: why not demand that the government do all this? Their answer was sobering. “The authorities just talk and deliver air,” one said. They recounted how the mayor promised to financially support their road rehabilitation but never delivered. Yet, he turned up for the ribbon-cutting with cameras in tow.

They hold no bitterness. But they are convinced that the future of their community lies in the hands of its residents, not its politicians.

Bridging the Gap: Where Hope Meets Policy

As I listened, I couldn’t help but think of the bigger picture, how such local initiatives could address some of the most difficult problems we face, including gang violence and sexual assault.

What if youth like these were supported to facilitate community dialogues on safety, gender-based violence, and accountability? What if their structures could be leveraged for public health campaigns such as the promotion of the new PCV and Rotavirus vaccines that South Sudanese Women In Medicine (SSWIM) has been working on the past months? What if WASH interventions were piloted in these self-organised neighborhoods? What if young people didn’t only carry bricks to fix roads—but also carried their voices into policy platforms?

Tribal Unity in Action

Another element of their story that inspired me was their unity across ethnic lines. One of the youth was from the Bari community, the other from the Dinka. Their collaboration wasn’t presented as anything extraordinary, it was simply what needed to be done. But in a country still struggling with inter-communal tensions, this quiet cooperation is nothing short of revolutionary.

A Call to Support, Not Supplant

For development actors, policymakers, women, and youth-serving organisations, the message is clear: our role is not to replace community agency, but to support, learn from, and scale it. Gudele Block 9 doesn’t need saviors. It needs partners. It needs recognition. It needs policies and funding that don’t extinguish community-led initiatives with bureaucracy or politics.

At a time when the narrative of South Sudan often feels dominated by what’s broken, these youth remind us of what’s working, and what could be replicated. They remind us that amidst the noise, there are quiet victories worth amplifying.

From Local Sparks to National Flame

As I write this, the youth of Block 9 are preparing their Independence Day celebrations. They’ve offered our team a slot to speak on health issues, and we plan to use it to raise awareness about vital vaccines. But beyond that, I see something greater unfolding.

This is a call to rethink development, from something done to communities, to something done with and by them.

In a nation brimming with potential but burdened by cynicism, we owe it to ourselves to nurture every spark of hope. Because when communities like Gudele Block 9 rise, they carry the rest of us with them.

Let’s Pay Attention

Let’s show up, not with answers, but with listening ears, open minds, and a readiness to walk alongside. The future, after all, is already under construction, one neighborhood at a time.

Are you part of a youth group or local government office or a non profit or private sector? Reach out if you’d like to collaborate with the Gudele Block 9 youth or explore how this model can be adapted in your area. Let’s build the future, together.

The Saboteurs and the Empty Thrones: Navigating Dysfunctional Dynamics in Professional Teams

In every professional setting, whether a grassroots movement, a nonprofit collective, or a high-powered corporate boardroom, certain behavioural patterns quietly but consistently undermine progress. This is an observation I have made over the years while working on different initiatives. Some individuals join teams with enthusiasm, only to withdraw or obstruct when their ideas are challenged or their influence is curbed. Others are drawn not by the mission but by the magnetism of power, seeking status rather than substance. While their methods differ, both types often leave similar wreckage in their wake: confusion, stalled progress, demoralised teams, and missed opportunities.

Take the case of Michael, a seemingly committed team member in a regional health campaign. At the outset, he was vocal, eager, and always present. But when the team collectively decided on a different outreach strategy than the one he proposed, Michael grew distant. He began missing meetings, citing sudden travel or urgent obligations elsewhere. When reached, he would offer vague promises to “circle back” or “review things later,” though deadlines came and went without his input. When he did resurface, it was usually with objections, never paired with constructive suggestions, just enough to stall decisions and send the team in circles. Slowly, a pattern emerged: Michael showed up most when the project seemed on the brink of collapse, ready with just enough knowledge and flair to “save” the day, reinforcing his perceived indispensability.

This behaviour is not uncommon. Such individuals; what we might call quiet saboteurs, thrive on the illusion of being essential, but only when their dominance is unchallenged. When their ideas are overridden or when others rise in influence, they disengage in subtle, plausible ways. They do not openly resist; they quietly manipulate by delaying, obstructing, and complicating. Their arsenal includes strategic unavailability, performative busyness, and timely interjections that destabilise rather than enhance.

The toll of such behaviour on teams is significant. Progress slows, morale wanes, and trust disintegrates. Other team members find themselves scrambling to fill gaps, resolve avoidable complications, or rework deliverables that would have otherwise been completed efficiently. Over time, the team begins to second-guess itself, anticipating obstruction even in straightforward matters. Meanwhile, the saboteur robs themselves of growth. By refusing to engage honestly with challenges or collaborate respectfully, they miss opportunities to deepen their skills and earn genuine respect. The pressure of maintaining a facade of relevance eventually breeds stress, resentment, and isolation.

Then there are the Empty Thrones; individuals who seek positions of authority but flee from the responsibilities those roles demand. Consider Agatha, a founding member of a women-led advocacy group. She insisted on being named chairperson and frequently reminded the team of her seniority and experience. Yet, she rarely prepared for meetings, seldom followed through on action points, and often deferred decisions to others under the guise of “delegating.” When the team produced a well-researched policy brief that attracted media attention, Agatha rushed to be the face of the success, speaking publicly as though she had led the effort. When feedback came suggesting improvements to the group’s internal processes, she was the first to criticise the “lack of coordination” and point fingers to others, never herself.

This behavior, too, is familiar. Such individuals are drawn to the prestige and visibility of leadership but not the accountability it demands. They conflate being in charge with being above reproach and often assume that their presence alone qualifies as contribution. They resist learning, avoid hard conversations, and invest little in their teams’ development. Their sense of entitlement is rarely matched by competence or consistency.

The damage they do is no less profound. Teams become directionless, roles blur, and contributions go unacknowledged. Those who work hard behind the scenes feel unrecognised or worse, overridden. Innovation is stifled when those with ideas fear criticism from disengaged yet vocal figureheads. And as for the empty-throne leaders themselves, their reputations gradually tarnish. Peers begin to see through the performative leadership. New opportunities bypass them in favor of those who have proven substance behind their stature.

Collectively, the actions of saboteurs and figurehead leaders exact a heavy cost. Organisations lose momentum. Team culture erodes. High performers often burn out or leave. Promising initiatives stall for reasons that have little to do with capacity or resources, and everything to do with interpersonal sabotage and leadership voids.

But there is an alternative; an emotionally intelligent way of working that centers integrity, empathy, and shared purpose. It begins with self-awareness. Those who sincerely wish to grow must routinely reflect on their behaviour: Am I contributing or controlling? Am I reacting to challenge with withdrawal or with curiosity? Am I hiding behind excuses or showing up honestly, even when things don’t go my way?

Accountability is equally vital. Professionals must commit to doing what they say they will do, and communicate proactively when things change. Rather than manipulating perceptions to appear overburdened or irreplaceable, it’s far more constructive to acknowledge limits, request help when needed, and keep the team informed. This builds trust far more than grandstanding ever could.

Constructive communication must replace subtle sabotage. Raising concerns is healthy but only when it comes with solutions or a willingness to respectfully help implement change. Criticism, when offered, should be respectful and specific, aimed at building rather than belittling. And true leadership, regardless of title, must be rooted in service. The best leaders measure their success by the confidence, competence, and cohesion they foster in their teams.

Finally, continuous learning must be a hallmark of any professional who hopes to grow in influence and effectiveness. Leadership is not a reward; it is a daily practice. Those who commit to learning, to staying curious, and to modelling humility become not only more capable but more inspiring.

In the end, what a team achieves is not merely the product of resources or strategy; it stems from character and culture. While saboteurs and empty-throne leaders may temporarily wield influence, it is the emotionally intelligent, humble, and consistently present professionals who make a lasting impact. They build trust, inspire commitment, and drive teams to deliver not just outcomes but true transformation. As challenging as it may be at times, let us all confidently choose the emotionally intelligent path that leads to meaningful change.

Patriots, Hold Legislators Responsible for Sustainable Management of South Sudan’s Renovated National Parliament Building

Interior of renovated national parliament building captured by Lou Nelson courtesy of Eye Radio

Renovation of South Sudan’s national parliament building is already reported as a completed project by Eye Radio in one of its posts. As the shared photos on the radio’s Facebook page give South Sudanese social media users a sneak peek into the grandeur of it all, the first instinct of any patriot is celebration. However, a sobering truth looms soon after – the imperative for judicious use and meticulous maintenance to preserve this national treasure to reduce the frequent need for major yet costly renovations. 

Under Eye Radio’s post, I lamented a recurring trend in a comment: the propensity to build magnificent structures only to neglect their upkeep, leading to premature deterioration and exorbitant renovation costs. This cycle of neglect must be broken, especially when it concerns a symbol as significant as our parliament.

Construction of any state-of-the-art edifices must be followed with matching stringent rules and protocols for use, alongside comprehensive awareness promotion and education. This also requires a matching budget. Yet, many of the esteemed legislators are likely unaware of financial implications of maintaining such a structure with a marvellous interior at least per South Sudan’s standards. Hence, ensuring they are well-informed and accountable in this regard cannot be overemphasised. 

To cut the seemingly gordian knot, patriots can propose and demand that salary deductions which are specifically earmarked for periodic maintenance are introduced for Members of Parliament (MPs). One of their immediate sessions should legislate on the maintenance budget and such salary deductions. Directly involving MPs in the financial commitment required for the building’s upkeep will instill a sense of ownership and responsibility. After all, those who benefit from the privilege of occupying such an architectural marvel should also bear the burden of preserving it. 

A second measure is to demand that the pressing need for basic education on the proper utilisation of modern amenities within the building is also addressed. There are obvious disparities in exposure and access among current MPs. While some may be well-versed in the nuances of parliamentary decorum and bourgeoise living, others may not. It therefore wouldn’t be unfair to consider that some representatives may lack familiarity with even the most rudimentary functions, such as modern toilet facilities and technological accessories in the building, among others. This underscores the urgency of comprehensive training programs to equip the MPs with the necessary skills to navigate and maintain their workspace effectively.

In pursuit of all the above, MPs must be implored that safeguarding the parliament building transcends individual or political affiliations. It is a duty they all must owe to the nation and future generations. Therefore, they shouldn’t just use it like poultry that walks in and out of a coop with the most significant activities as littering and noise making. 

Ultimately, the MPs have an opportunity to redeem their collective image by considering the suggested proposals by any patriot. They can seize the moment for creating a legacy of responsible stewardship over a national symbol. Let their actions speak volumes about their commitment to building a brighter and sustainable future for South Sudan.