EACH DRY SEASON, MY FATHER would choose a camp in Upper Nile State for the entire family to travel to, based on which region seemed safest. That year’s dry season, we drove the cattle to a vast grassland known as Luääl. There, every morning, a herd of antelope would come to drink, and our men would wake up before the dawn to hunt them. These were our few months to fatten ourselves up before returning to a meager diet of maize and sorghum, back in the village. We killed and ate as much meat as we possibly could in order to endure the long spell of scarcity, our continent’s yearly reminder to be ever grateful for whatever the earth saw fit to provide.
Southern Sudanese people tend to be quite tall and lanky, and my uncle Reat, my mother’s brother, was six feet nine, which is even taller than me. I thought he looked like a carved and sanded-smooth tree trunk. It was from him that I picked up an interest in keeping people and facts alive through storytelling. His tales were so animated and detailed, you felt you were inside them with whomever he was skillfully bringing to life with the sound of his voice, like a goddess of limitless fertility.
One evening, as my older brother Duany Thabach Duany (named after my grandfather), my cousin Wunbil (technically my stepbrother because my father had inherited his mother as a wife), and I prepared for bed, he came into our hut and spoke with authority.
UNCLE REAT: Boys, tomorrow morning you will learn how to be men.
DUANY: I am nine years old, Uncle. I’ll be fighting in wars soon. Does that not already make me a man?
UNCLE REAT: Babies fight for milk. Girls fight over hair combs. Fighting does not prove one’s manhood. Ger, do you know what makes a boy a man?
I was too embarrassed to say what I was thinking. I think Uncle Reat picked up on that.
UNCLE REAT: It’s the hunt to feed your family. And you three boys will be accompanying the men on our quest tomorrow morning. So get a good night’s rest.
Uncle Reat left, and we three jumped up and down, too excited to do anything but celebrate, until our mothers told us to shh. And then we lay on our cowhide rugs all night, dreaming with our eyes open about how strong and skillful we’d be, and of how many mouths we would feed with our countless kills, and of the fanfare with which we’d be showered when we returned, heroes of the hunt. Men.
My uncle arrived well before dawn to fetch us. After grabbing our spears and clubs, we joined the rest of the hunting party for a walk of about fifteen miles to a watering hole, where my uncle instructed us kids to crouch down with him in the tall grass. Other small groups of hunters crouched here and there in a vast, open land. As the sun rose, I watched the endlessly high grass wave in the breeze like fine fur. Soon the earth rumbled. I both heard the sound and felt the ground shake beneath my feet.
Uncle Reat tugged at my shoulder.
UNCLE REAT: Crouch lower, Ger. They’re coming!
A moment later, hundreds of antelope galloped over the horizon, as one body. The brown mass of them moved closer and closer. I felt certain they would trample us, and I squirmed, feeling the urge to run.
UNCLE REAT: Sit still, son, and watch!
Just as the herd came close, a few young men in the hunting party popped up out of the grass and ran around among the animals, causing the herd to scatter in surprise and fear. At that point, Uncle Reat grabbed my arm, hard, and told me, Duany, and Wunbil to stand with him.
All the other hunters stood too, targeting the panicked antelope. Spears flew everywhere, and I heard the triumphant sound of Hululululu! filling the air.
UNCLE REAT: See that?
He pointed at one of the confused animals that were running toward us. I felt as terror-stricken as the beast, but my uncle’s clear directives helped me focus.
UNCLE REAT: Steady. Stay still and steady. Wait until you can hear its breathing and smell its sweat.
With danger all around the animal, its only option was to use its impressive speed to reach safety miles away, charging forward and trampling whatever predator lay in its path.
I waited, watching the animal’s body come nearer, its torso rippling, its hooves beating the ground with a ferocity matched in that moment by my heart. It ran with a determination that made it clear: only one of us was making it out of this encounter alive. The antelope was nearly upon us, and I hurled my spear with all my might. It caught the beast in the ribs.
The animal fell and my uncle crowed.
UNCLE REAT: Hululululu!
He was so proud of my accomplishment, yet I stood there dumbfounded. Then he called out.
UNCLE REAT: Name your favorite cow, Ger! Shout the name!
This is a traditional way to celebrate a kill, but my mouth went slack, my mind went blank, and suddenly I couldn’t think of a single name of the hundred cows that I herded daily. The other villagers laughed at my shock until, finally, I thought of one.
ME: Nyang Mi GÉÉR, Nyang Mi GÉÉR!!
It was a bull full of gentleness, bravery, and intelligence, with hair and skin an astonishing patchwork of maroon, white, and gray, and long, creamy horns that had grown in two separate directions.
When I shouted it, everyone trilled their approval.
THE WARRIORS: Hululululu!
I couldn’t believe I had done it. My hands hadn’t shaken, nor had my knees trembled, though for the life of me I had no idea why my body had shown a bravery my mind hadn’t felt.
The villagers of Liet thought people from the cities were soft and could not be brave or confident in the face of danger. My family had spent the first few years of my childhood in the city of Malakal, so I felt especially elated to prove them wrong that day.
UNCLE REAT: This boy is a hunter already!
We cut up the animal into parts, then packed it neatly in tree leaves and branches to protect the meat from flies. Once we returned to our village, Uncle Reat made a beeline for my mother, beaming as he delivered me and my antelope back to her cooking fire.
UNCLE REAT: One day, he will be a great warrior!
My mother was quiet but immensely proud of me, which was the best feeling in the world. Duany had not brought home the beast; I had. I was the breadwinner that day. She hugged me tight and I burst inside. She rubbed my head and murmured.
MUM: Tulu! Tulu! Tulu!
That was her special nickname for me. Though I was only around seven, that day I felt like a man—although, in every single way, I had a long ways to go.