It was 2:30 p.m. — time to go.
Nonie slipped quickly into the staff locker room to change out of her uniform. She moved with purpose, folding each item with care, tucking away her badge, her pen, her notebook. Then she grabbed her bag and made her way to the bus stop. Her heart was already ahead of her.
He would be waiting at 3:30 p.m., just outside his camp. She hadn’t slept much the night before—too excited, too restless. She kept turning in bed, looking at the clock every hour. Saturday had never felt this far away. It was their first real meet-up outside the ward, the lift, or her home. No uniforms. No parents. Just them.
She smiled to herself, remembering the phone call a few nights ago. “Do you still play badminton?” he had asked, his voice light, teasing.
“I stopped.”
“Why? You were so good. Just like your father.” She had paused.
“I don’t know… life, I guess. Work, studies… just didn’t have time anymore.” He laughed.
“You were the secret weapon, you know. Fast hands, sharp smashes.” She had laughed too.
“You weren’t bad yourself. We made a good team.”
“We did.” He paused, his voice dipping into memory.
“Remember how we thrashed those boys from the other end of the kampong?” She laughed.
“Which ones? The all-Chinese team or the all-Malay team?”
“Both!” he grinned.
“One after the other. You remember—we were the only mixed team. Malay and Chinese. Girl and boy.”
“And everyone underestimated us.”
“Until they didn’t.” He chuckled.
“That was something, huh? They kept saying we were the ‘rojak team.’ And still—we wiped the court with them.”
“I still remember the look on their faces after we won. Shocked. Speechless.”
They both laughed again—slightly prouder now. That memory wasn’t just about badminton. It was about something bigger. They didn’t know it then, but now, looking back—it meant more. They were a team that defied assumptions. That blurred the lines everyone else clung to. And they didn’t just survive. They won.
Now, as she sat in the bus, Nonie checked her watch again. Still a bit early. But her pulse had already picked up. Not nerves. Not exactly. Hope. The quiet, flickering kind. She smoothed her hair, glanced at the reflection in the glass panel beside her, and adjusted the collar of her shirt. Then she smiled. Today might just be a good day.
Funny how memories sneak in at moments like this…..
Like that afternoon in the kampong, when she'd sprinted through the dust, laughing, victory in her lungs... She came running, barefoot and breathless, just as her father was about to climb the ladder to check the leaking roof. He paused, one foot on the rung, and turned as he heard his youngest daughter’s voice calling out.
“Father! Father!” He stepped down with a sigh. “What’s all this excitement about?”
“You owe me an ice cream!” she beamed, fists on her hips.
“I do?”
“Yes! I beat the boys!”
His eyes widened. “Oh no… not again… you beat the boys?”
[A few days earlier…] He had been flipping through her school report card at the dining table. “Look at these results,” he murmured with pride. “Ninth in class. Very good. Much better than last year.” Then his finger slid down the page. “Eh… but what is this?” he frowned. “Poor conduct? What did you do this time?”
“Nothing, Father.”
“If it’s nothing, why did the teacher give you a red mark?”
“It’s not my fault! It was the boys.”
“What happened?”
“They disturbed me first.”
“And?”
“I beat one of them up.”
“You what?”
“I beat him up. And then the other one said we girls are sissies…”
He blinked. “So?”
“So I challenged them.”
“You what?!”
“I challenged them to a fight! To prove we’re not sissies. Not all girls are sissies, right, Father?”
“…right, but—still!”
“Tok Guru said my silat moves are improving. He told me to practice more. So it’s good, right? I practice with the boys. The girls cry too fast—no fun.” He rubbed his temples.
“Nonie, Father sent you to silat to learn self-defense—not to start fights!”
“I was defending! The boys teased the girls… I defended all of us!”
He sighed. “Oh my goodness. How am I going to reason with this child…”
“I beat them all, Father,” she declared proudly, still catching her breath. “In badminton.”
“Ohh… badminton.” Her father exhaled with relief. “Phew.”
She grinned. “Poh Poh and I—we made a team. We thrashed Abang Razal’s team: 15-10, 15-9. And we beat Guan’s group too—15-7, 15-14.”
“You both did? That’s very good.”
“And now you must buy us ice cream!” she insisted. “One for me, and one for Poh Poh. Because we’re a team. You promised—if I beat the boys in badminton, we get rewarded.”
“Yes, yes, Father remembers…” He reached into his pocket and handed her fifty cents. He watched as they raced off toward the grocery shop, triumphant and gleeful. Then, glancing up at the roof with a long sigh, he muttered to himself, “What am I going to do with this daughter…”
And he climbed back onto the ladder.
“So how about badminton this Saturday?” he had asked. “At the community center near your place—I saw there’s a court there. Or… if you don’t mind, you could come to my camp. We have a badminton court too.”
It didn’t matter where. She didn’t care if it was a polished court or a cracked cement slab. All she wanted… was to play badminton.
The night before, just before bed, she had hesitated at the edge of her room. Then slowly knelt down and lifted the edge of the bedspread. There it was. Exactly where she had left it—that morning long ago when she had flung it across the room in frustration.
It had slid under the bed and disappeared into shadow. She hadn’t touched it since. For a long time, she couldn’t even look at it. But last night, something shifted. She reached in and pulled the racket out. It was still in its bag, the canvas cover now dusted with time. She unzipped it carefully, almost reverently.
The frame—still good. No scratches. No chips. She ran a damp cloth gently over the edges, clearing the dust like it was something sacred. She tested the tension. Still tight. Still responsive. Then she stood in the quiet of her room and swung it a few times. The weight felt familiar. The grip remembered her hand. It felt good. It felt like hers. It had been such a long time.
“Can you do me a favour?” one of the Assistant Nurses asked, looking frazzled. “That patient in Bed 18—the Malay one, just transferred from ICU. I need to update his intake and output chart... and change the IV drip. Can you do it for me?”
Nonie raised an eyebrow. “Why? You scared of the patient?”
“Not the patient lah…” she leaned in. “The visitors. You see them or not? Whole kampong in that room! I walked in, and wah—everyone scrutinise me from head to toe. Like I’m under interrogation.” Nonie laughed.
“Okay, okay. I’ll do it.” She walked into the cubicle, trying to keep her smile calm and neutral. The Assistant Nurse hadn’t exaggerated—there were at least a dozen people crammed around Bed 18. A real kampong committee.
She made her way to the patient and started checking the IV site on his right hand. Still intact. Functioning well. She adjusted the new drip.
“Now… you look familiar,” the pakcik in Bed 18 said, squinting at her and look at her name tag. “Where did you stay before?”
She wanted to finish quickly and leave, but she couldn’t be rude—especially not to a patient with this many eyes on her. “Bedok, cik,” she answered politely, flashing her best smile while mentally plotting her escape.
“No, no. Before Bedok. Which kampong were you from?”
“Kampong Ladang.”
“Aaaaah!” His eyes lit up. “That’s it. Pakcik stayed around there too. Which house was yours?”
“We lived beside the community centre.”
“Aaaaah! The house near the centre... then you must be Hussain’s daughter?”
She nodded. “Yes.” He beamed, looking around at the visitors.
“She’s Hussain’s daughter! Remember him? Hussain—the one who played for our kampong team!” Now she really wanted to run. All eyes turned to her.
“Which daughter are you?” he asked, still grinning. “I know he had three. When he came to practice, he always brought his youngest.”
“I’m the youngest one, cik.” He stared, stunned. Then broke into a laugh.
“You’re the one who looked like a boy!” A few people chuckled around the bed.
“The tomboy!” someone whispered. She could feel her ears burn.
“Aiseh man! You’ve grown! Last time I saw you, you were just this small.” He gestured knee-high. “Now look at you—nurse some more. So pretty too!” She gave a modest nod, trying to stay composed.
“You were the one who played badminton, right?”
“Yes.”
“Still playing?”
“Yes, for the hospital. Inter-hospital tournament.”
“Very good!” he beamed. “Pakcik wants to see you play. Can?”
“Can.” He turned toward the corridor and waved to someone. “Hoi! You there—come!” A young man ambled over, curious. “Thursday morning,” the pakcik said. “You fetch her, bring her to our training ground. I want to see her play.”
Then he turned back to her. “You can wake up at 4:30 a.m. or not? My son here will fetch you. Give him your address and contact number.” Nonie nodded, stunned. Just like that… she was in.
Her father beamed when she told him about the encounter. “You should join them,” he said, barely containing his excitement. Do you know who that pakcik is?”
“I’ve heard his name before,” she replied. “It sounded familiar.”
“He was my badminton coach,” her father said, eyes shining. “One of the best Malay players of our time. He’s won several championships even Thomas Cup —back in the late 40s and 50s. The man is a legend.”
He paused, his voice dipping into reverence. “His four sons—all badminton players. I heard one of them became Singapore champion.” Nonie blinked.
“Wait… is he the same man in the picture you showed me? After the kampong tournament—the one with all the trophies on the table?” Her father nodded, smiling wider now.
“Yes. That’s him, all right. You stood beside him in that photo, remember? You were only seven, wearing your little track shoes and refusing to smile.” She laughed.
“I remember now. You said he was someone important, but I didn’t realise how important.”
Three weeks later…
After the initial practices, after countless mornings spent sparring with boys who underestimated her and elders who didn’t— his youngest son pulled her aside after a long session. Wiping sweat from his brow, he looked at her and said:
“My father’s happy with you.” She looked up, startled. “He said you’re hardworking. That you don’t give up easily. That you’ve got fight. He wants you to be in the team. He wants us to train you up.”
Nonie stood there for a moment, the words settling over her like sunlight after rain. She wasn’t just being tolerated. She was being seen. And she was being chosen. She was pleased.
Badminton had always been her passion—her first love. It wasn’t just a game to her. It was a battlefield. Unlike other sports, badminton was frantic, fierce, and formidable. A game of precision. Of speed. Of unspoken intent. To be a badminton player was to be an assassin. The moment she stepped onto the court, something shifted.
Her mind sharpened. Every move became calculated, deliberate. Within that confined space—just lines and net—she became a strategist. Armed with nothing but a racket and a shuttlecock, her mission was clear: Defeat the opponent without ever leaving her territory.
Badminton was not just physical. It was psychological warfare. Every rally, every swing, was a study in body language. She watched. She waited. She looked for weaknesses—hesitations, lazy footwork, tired eyes. And when she found them, she pounced. There was a quiet thrill in watching her opponent scramble— Chasing a shuttlecock that obeyed her rhythm. She controlled the tempo. The angles. The narrative. Mistakes had no place here. Every shot had a purpose. Every second, she stood in a readiness stance—poised, alert, coiled like a spring.
A sniper in sneakers. Because in this game, you only get one shot to take control. And when that moment came, you didn’t flinch. You hit.
“But there’s something I wanted to ask you,” he said.
“What about?”
“I saw you the other day… walking with a group of guys along Geylang Road. What were you doing there?”
She blinked. “Geylang Road? When?” He told her the date. “I wasn’t the only girl, you know,” she said, trying to recall. “There were three of us.”
“Yes. But I’m more concerned about the guys. Who were they?”
“Why?”
“What were you all doing in that part of Geylang?”
She paused. “We were walking back after the inter-hospital badminton tournament. It was the semi-final.”
“You had to take that road?”
“It was a shortcut,” she shrugged. “What’s wrong with the road?”
“You don’t know that area?”
“Not really.”
“It’s a red-light district.”
“Oh…” She remembered the red lights, the lanterns. She had even asked one of the guys, but he just said, “Just keep walking.”
“And you were walking with a group of guys—through that area. What do you think people will assume?”
“We didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t stop anywhere. We just walked through and took the bus home. What’s the problem?”
“Are you serious with any of those guys?”
“No. One of them’s a male nurse. We were talking about work.”
“I don’t like seeing you with Chinese guys. Especially not that close.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“You know it’s sinful.”
“Excuse me?” her voice rose.
“My father likes you. He saw something in you. That’s why we wanted to train you. We’re trying to pass on the skills—to our people. It’s rare to find serious players, especially women. He even said, if you’re committed, he’d introduce you to the Sidek brothers.”
Her eyes widened. “The Sidek brothers?”
“Yes. They run training camps in Malaysia. With my father’s recommendation, you’d get in.” She took a breath.
“That’s… a huge opportunity. But?”
“But I’m concerned,” he said slowly. “Once you’re in our fold, there are sacrifices.”
“What kind of sacrifices?”
“Your other activities will be affected. You’ll need to train regularly. That means no late outings, no wasting time. Especially no mixing with guys. And definitely not with non-Malay boys.”
“Wait. What?”
“I have a friend—he’s Arab. Very pious. He’s memorised the Quran. Just by hearing someone’s name, he can know their past.” She narrowed her eyes.
“Are you trying to intimidate me?”
“No. Just letting you know what kind of circle I come from.” She looked at him, her heart tightening. And for the first time, the badminton court no longer felt like a space of freedom.
“Sounds more like a threat to me,” she said quietly, locking eyes with him. “And I don’t respond well to threats.” She reached into her bag, pulled out a scrap of paper, and scribbled something. “Here,” she said, holding it out. “You know my full name. That’s my birth date. Give it to your Arab friend. Ask him about me if you want. I have nothing to hide. Nothing to be ashamed of. Take it.”
She shoved the paper into his hand. He hesitated, then said, “Please, don’t get me wrong. I’m just... I’m against non-Malays converting to Islam just to get married. They’re not serious. They don’t really become Muslim. They just do it to get the marriage approved. What kind of Muslim is that? We don’t need people like that in the community.”
Then, more quietly: “You see it all the time. After a divorce, they go back to their old ways. Eat pork. Drink. Leave the faith like it was never real.”
She walked home that morning feeling empty. She couldn’t tell if it was anger or sadness—maybe both. Something inside her had been hollowed out. As soon as she stepped through the door, she dropped her bag, pulled the racket from her side, and flung it across the room. It hit the floor with a dull thud, bounced once, then slid silently under the bed. She didn’t bother to look for it. All she wanted was distance. Distance from him. From everything she’d just heard. She changed out of her clothes and lay down, her limbs heavy. She had been waking up every day at 4:30 a.m., pushing herself to train, to prove she belonged. Now all she wanted was to sleep. To forget.
Two weeks later, her phone rang. It was the elder brother.
“Hey, we haven’t seen you. Father’s been asking. Is something wrong?” His voice was kind, concerned.
“My brother… did he say something? Upset you?” Nonie hesitated.
“No,” she lied. “I’ve just been busy with work and studies. Maybe after my A-Level exams… I’ll come back.” She didn’t want to say more.
The truth would stir things she wasn’t ready to revisit. And besides, his other brothers had always been decent to her. She didn’t want to cause rifts.
“Oh… okay then. After your exams, just call me. I’ll arrange someone to fetch you.” That was the last she heard from them. She never called back. And the racket stayed under the bed.
The bus made the turn, slowing as it approached the stop. From a distance, she saw him— the only person waiting. He stood alone, in a white T-shirt and shorts, hands in his pockets, casually scanning the road ahead. Familiar. Uncomplicated.
There was something comforting about his silhouette—like a memory that had grown into something steady. She stood up and moved toward the exit. As the doors hissed open, she smiled to herself and whispered under her breath:
“You’re right, Kong Heng Poh… we do make an awesome team.”
Chpt 22 / 36
