Dada 159

‘Corrective Service like my Dada had to endure. This is what really killed him even after his friends got him away to sea again’. I said this to him. He nodded but said he did not know. I asked what were the chances of getting the sentence quashed as it only a seemed to be bad luck that my history rose before me just when the white boys were having their argument. I reminded him of the slap snaking towards my face. ‘It carried the history of all this island’ I said. ‘No chance’ he said. He had not raised any particular points of law as this might prejudice the jury one way or another. It was difficult to get a judgement quashed on anything but technical grounds and there was none of that here. I saw his point and in a way, I agreed. Looking at the matter dispassionately, I shared his view. ‘In any case,’ the lawyer said, ‘You can appeal in the ordinary way but I’m convinced the verdict will be favourable’ We waited for quite a while, about three quarters of an hour. The policemen offered me another cigarette but I refused. It was strange but I wanted to get back to my cell. I had missed my two breaths of freedom beneath the evening sky. I could feel the rain coming with the night. A bell rang and the lawyer took his leave. Over his shoulder he said, ‘the foreman of the jury will read out all of the answers. You will be called on after that to hear the judgment.’ Some doors banged. I heard people hurrying down flights of steps and certain coolness when I knew the rain must have come. The heat was diminished but still hung in the air like a damp towel that draped everywhere like that moment on the beach. I could not tell if voices were nearby or distant. When I heard them still droning away in the courtroom I knew something was up. Then the bell rang again. I stepped back into the dock. The silent court room wrapped itself around me. Even the lighting seemed somehow dimmed. With the silence came a strange sensation. I noted that even the young smartly dressed journalist with the angular features, the who had originally eyed me with such fascination, had now turned his head to one side. I did not look at Mo. I had no time , even if I wanted. The presiding judge started with his pronouncements. I noticed he was wearing his cap. In short I was to be hung by the neck until death overcame me in some secret a site of the prison; a place the state reserved for people like me. I felt like sitting down but pirates don’t sit. They stand and stare. My sentence was no different from the thousands of stateless ones born to the undocumented, men and women, who all have to hustle their lives from fishing boats. My life was no different. My father said he wanted to help me face up to the chaos . I was not the only lost soul within his acts of contrition. When they burn wood in Kalimantan it permeates through all the sad moments of this island. What a good citizen he is, my father. My death shall be his honour. I couldn’t interpret the looks on the faces of the people present. The mood seemed to be one of respectful sympathy. Sobs were coming from Mo’s direction but I did not look up. The policemen handled me very gently too. The lawyer placed his hand on my wrist. I had stopped thinking. I was merely being kept afloat through the water with the sky above me. I heard the judge ask me if I had anything to say. After considering for a moment my mouth started to open and I was about to recite a string of curses that any pirate would utter at the moment of containment. ‘The Sea Dayaks are my people ‘I wanted to shout.’ Instead I uttered a decisive ‘no’.