They used to joke
that my real father is an Iban (a native tribe of Borneo, erstwhile
head-hunters) who worked for my father. They found that funny. Was it some
mental picture of me wearing loincloth? Or, that this Iban used to bust his pay
on booze on payday and then survived on loans from my father (which he always
repaid with cash, chicken or work around the house)? I smelled like him, they said. Was it the
smell of the longhouses, the cockfights, spilled blood or the earthy scent of
their women or tuak (rice liquor)?
They stopped joking
the day he killed a Chinese for insulting him. He hacked the Chinese to pieces
with his sword, the ‘parang’.
I have a parang which
I keep polished and sharp. Whenever I handle it, my family has this funny,
doubting look.
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