"'Thirty Minutes, Sir.'", Nabilah Said
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The dark red of his buttons reminded him of nenek’s sirih. Her stained teeth coloured his childhood, as did her stories of magical beings and wise kings, and the water spirits that would claim him if he didn’t listen to his elders. She said it tasted of chocolate, but every time he asked to share, she would press her thin lips together.
Yesterday’s party had ended too late. The speeches had run long, most entirely at his expense. They made fun of his love for lemak and his fondness for cats. They said he was born with lap-lip in his eyes. The music, he had to admit, was singularly enchanting. And the Guinness was probably still black in his veins.
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“Twenty minutes, Sir. The kuda kepang is on now.”
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The tanjak was his mother’s request. She had picked out the songket, maroon with gold finery. It sat askew on his forehead, as if it too was a question of fit and fashion. He wondered if the headiness he felt was from nerves or the burning of benzoin that morning.
Earlier in the day, he had done an interview with the island’s main paper. He had forgotten the Malay word for “unprecedented”. The report would be embargoed till tomorrow, a day some would later consider as one of liberation, and others an aberration.
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“Ten minutes, Sir.”
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He hoped his ancestors would be proud. He had left an offering by the sea to let them know he remembered. The incense sticks had been a bad idea. His father would have known better. Before leaving he said a special prayer to Her, just in case.
He hadn’t prepared a speech. People liked sincerity from their leaders, that was what the polls said. Still, preparations had been made. The requisite spices had been planted to chase the monsoon winds away. God had been invoked.
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“Sir, ” his aide’s voice chimed in again.
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He straightened his outfit for the umpteenth time, and checked his teeth.
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“The people are ready for you.”