Dada 94

In front of the cafe, came the relentless droning of voices, the clatter of coffee saucers and occasional clink of glass. Suddenly I heard the roar of the bus engine in the square. My joy when at last it would pull me away from here and some hours later deposit me into the red cluster of dust and lights of Kuching where the river snakes between the different city districts, defined by blood, like a jewelled ribbon. 

I knew I could soon go home and lie down in bed and sleep for twelve hours. I also knew I needed a pill or a tug of the crystal rock to sooth me into the calm of the night after the music in the clubs and furious dancing. Only afterwards would come the darkness and tranquillity of the sea and the uneasy dawn. I was drained by the events of these last few days.

I did not know then that I would meet Mo or that I would help my neighbour Iskra with his letter and it would be easier if old Srino would leave me alone about his bird. I did not know then that Iskra’s knife would be used to hang me, hang me, screaming and resistant under a grey and brooding Malaysian morning; nor others would come with their stories of death and luck and history that would be turned against me as much as Dada’s traitorous acts. None of this meant anything as I put my head to the pillow and dreamed few thoughts that night but instead fell to a deep sleep beneath the window and the tack tack tack of the rain..