Maj. Gen. Kon John Akot | The ugly face of South Sudan’s traffic policing

JUBA – Traffic policing in South Sudan has significantly shifted from a mundane public service into a theatre of power, coercion, and institutional defiance.

At the centre of this transformation stands Major General Kon John Akot, the Director General of Traffic Police, whose latest directives have reignited public anger and deepened questions about the rule of law, separation of powers, and accountability in the country.

This week, the South Sudan National Police Service announced an immediate ban on tinted vehicle windows, right-hand drive vehicles, and public transport vehicles with left-side sliding doors.

The order, signed by Akot, gives motorists just seven days to comply or face fines, impoundment, or outright denial of access to public roads. The police justified the move as a matter of public safety and national security, citing existing regulations dating back to a 2019 Council of Ministers resolution and a 2020 ministerial order on vehicle specifications.

On paper, the directive appears routine. In practice, it has exposed the increasingly punitive and arbitrary nature of traffic enforcement in South Sudan. For many motorists, the order is less about safety and more about harassment, extortion, and the unchecked power of a single office.

Vehicle owners were instructed to remove tinted glass, window stickers, and ensure that steering wheels are positioned on the left. Minibuses were told to modify doors to open on the right side.

In a country where the majority of vehicles are imported second-hand from markets in East Africa and Asia—often with factory-fitted features—compliance is neither cheap nor practical. For public transport operators already struggling with fuel costs, poor roads, and declining incomes, the directive feels like an economic punishment.

The ban was quickly followed by a second order: private vehicles using government (SSG) number plates would be detained; vehicles with covered number plates would be detained; and any car operating with a single plate would be detained.

Together, the two orders dramatically widened the net of enforcement, giving traffic police sweeping discretion to stop and seize vehicles at will.

Yet the controversy runs deeper than tinted glass or number plates. Earlier this month, Gen. Akot introduced a “Driving Test Registration Card,” renewable every three months, despite the existence of an already established driving test document serving a similar purpose. This new card adds to an expanding list of documents drivers must carry, including permits and stickers allegedly required for factory-fitted tinted glass.

To motorists, these documents represent not regulation but rent-seeking. Each new paper comes with fees, renewals, and checkpoints—an ecosystem that thrives on confusion and fear.

The Transitional National Legislative Assembly (TNLA) has taken note. During its weekly sitting on Tuesday this week, lawmakers openly criticised the new charges for driving tests and changes to renewal rules for vehicle logbooks and licenses, arguing they contradict existing laws. Speaker Jemma Nunu Kumba warned that the use of outdated traffic laws and unilateral decisions by the executive arm undermines Parliament’s authority and exposes citizens to unlawful fees.

The TNLA expected restraint, but Gen. Akot responded with escalation. A day after the parliamentary criticism, the traffic police chief issued the new enforcement orders, a move widely interpreted as a show of force—signalling where real power lies.

This was not an isolated incident. Akot is on record dismissing the legitimacy of Parliament itself, a statement that would ordinarily end a public servant’s career in a functioning system. Instead, his authority appears to have only grown.

Public reaction has been furious. Social media platforms have been awash with criticism, satire, and open calls for presidential intervention. Civil society activist Wani Michael summed up the prevailing sentiment bluntly: “The Traffic Police don’t make laws, neither does the Executive; all laws are made by Parliament. But it seems Gen. Kon John is now the law.”

Mr Wani went further, framing the standoff as a confrontation between citizens and the presidency. “This is now President Kiir versus the people of South Sudan,” he wrote, questioning why officials previously dismissed by the president wielded less impunity than a traffic police chief.

Akot’s perceived invincibility is reinforced by his history of defying authority. In November, the then Inspector General of Police, Gen. Abraham Manyuat Peter, transferred Akot to Northern Bahr el Ghazal State as police commissioner as part of a broader reshuffle of senior officers. Akot reportedly refused to take up the post. Days later, Manyuat himself was removed by presidential decree.

In South Sudan’s political folklore, such sequences are rarely coincidental. They feed a growing belief that Gen. Akot operates with protection far beyond his formal rank—shielded by political patronage and untouchable by institutional checks.

The result is a traffic policing system that no longer prioritises safety or order but projects domination. Roads have become spaces of anxiety, where motorists anticipate not guidance but punishment. Laws appear fluid, enforcement selective, and compliance endlessly shifting.

Traffic regulation is necessary in any country, particularly one grappling with poor infrastructure and rising road accidents. But when enforcement becomes detached from legality, proportionality, and public interest, it mutates into something else entirely: a symbol of state overreach and everyday repression.

Akot’s tenure has come to embody that mutation. His directives are not merely administrative decisions; they are political statements—about who commands, who complies, and who is powerless.

Until there is meaningful oversight, legal clarity, and political will to rein in excesses, South Sudan’s traffic police will remain less a service to the public and more a mirror reflecting the country’s deeper governance crisis—one checkpoint at a time.