We were getting hungry. So we grabbed some fish and chips—hot, crispy, wrapped in paper—and headed toward the nearest park. The sun was out, brilliant and golden, but the air was cool, almost crisp. I didn’t feel warm at all. It was like walking through sunlight in an air-conditioned room.
Back home, this kind of midday sun would have left us drenched in sweat and desperate for shade. But here, in London, I was beginning to fall in love with the weather.
Earlier, we had spent the morning at the British Museum and the Library. I was completely overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it all. The library especially—it was a world unto itself. Towering shelves, rows upon rows of knowledge, history, banned thoughts, and forbidden ideas. I could have stayed there forever.
I’d already started mentally listing the books I wanted to buy—titles banned in Singapore, ones I’d never get my hands on at home. Smuggling them back would be tricky, but I’d done this before. Folded into dirty laundry, tucked deep inside zippered pockets. It was a risk I was willing to take. That’s part of what travel meant to me—not just sightseeing, but access. To stories. To truths. To things withheld.
Come to think of it, since arriving in London, I had been experiencing a kind of cultural shock I hadn't anticipated. I felt more aware of myself—my face, my skin, my accent. Surrounded by a sea of Caucasians, I suddenly felt… visible in a different way.
Back home, we only saw white people in tourist areas—Orchard Road maybe, or hotels. In my neighborhood, and even at work, they were rare. They never came to the regular hospital wards if they were admitted at all, it was always to the private wing or private hospitals. But here, they were everywhere. We were the minority.
Just then, a Caucasian man on a bicycle slowed down beside us. “Hello, ladies… Nice weather, eh? Where you're from” he said with a cheerful grin.
“Indeed, very nice, Singapore” we replied in unison. The next few minutes passed in easy banter—British small talk, all about the weather, naturally. I was starting to believe what they said about Brits and their obsession with the sky.
“So, you both from Singapore?” he asked, still pedaling slowly beside us.
“Yes,” we nodded. “Do you know where Singapore is?” she asked him, her voice casual but sharp beneath the surface.
“Of course,” he said confidently. “It’s somewhere in China, right?” We looked at each other, barely suppressing our amusement.
“No, no… Singapore is in central Africa,” she replied, deadpan. I shot her a look. Now what is she up to?
“Ah yes! Central Africa!” he echoed, nodding enthusiastically.
“We’re just a small little republic,” she added, still perfectly serious.
“Yes, yes… now I remember. In Africa…” he muttered, clearly unsure but unwilling to admit it. A pause, then: “Well, I better get going. Thank you. Have a good day!” He waved, hopped back on his bike, and rode off.
“Singapore… in central Africa?” I turned to her, half amused, half exasperated. She burst into laughter. “Now you see? Not all white people are that smart. They like to talk, assume they know, but half the time they bluff only.”
She paused, then grew a little more serious. “This is what I wanted to show you. You have to be here long enough to start seeing it. The world isn’t built the way we were taught in school. It’s time to shed away the colonialist mentality.”
She rolled over onto the grass, looking up at the sky. “You saw his face right? That confusion. That pause. He’ll go home and reach for a geography book—maybe even Google. And what’ll happen then? He’ll find Singapore, sure, but along the way, he’ll stumble across other countries, other facts. And he will have learned. Not because we explained, but because he got curious.”
I looked at her. She had her eyes closed now, letting the sun warm her face. “You understand what I mean now?” she added quietly. “Sometimes confusion helps. If you don’t run from it, if you engage with it—it leads you somewhere new. Somewhere better.”
I wanted to ask her something, something about what she meant, or maybe about how she came to think this way—but I stopped myself. I didn’t want to disturb her. Not in this moment. Instead, I pulled out my journal and began to write.
I met up with Sharil’s brother, Shamsuddin, who was currently studying at Oxford University. One evening, I made my way to his campus, curious to see the legendary place I had only read about in books. He wasn’t there when I arrived, so I left a message with the home supervisor.
He returned my call the next morning. Just standing there in Oxford, on those old stone paths, gave me a strange thrill. The university had always seemed like a myth—something out of reach, nestled inside pages of literature and academic dreams. But now, here I was. Me. In Oxford.
Perhaps tomorrow, we’d take a trip to Cambridge too. Why not? That evening, we agreed to meet at the Hippodrome in Leicester Square, one of the most well-known disco clubs in London. It was notorious for being a tourist magnet—you were more likely to meet someone from Spain, Italy, Australia, or America than an actual local.
The music was loud, the lights dizzying, and the energy electric. Florence, ever the social butterfly, had found a Pakistani man to chat with and seemed entirely absorbed in their conversation. Shamsuddin and I chose a table facing the dance floor, a quiet corner to catch up.
The last time I saw him was the day he left for his studies. Instead of flying out from Kuala Lumpur, he chose Changi Airport—closer to his hometown of JB, and, as it turned out, a final chance to say goodbye.
As we talked, I occasionally glanced toward the dance floor, my eyes searching for her. And there she was. Dancing. Not with a partner, but with the entire crowd. She had merged into them seamlessly—like one of the chorus girls in a Broadway show.
Her movements were in sync with theirs, a kind of spontaneous choreography. I watched as they formed a loose circle around her, then began spiraling inward across the floor. She was leading them, a comet at the center of a human orbit.
Then, just as quickly, she broke away. She walked over to a nearby table where a tall, quiet African man sat alone, nursing a drink. Without hesitation, she reached out, invited him in. He looked stunned at first, but then followed her onto the dance floor, where he too was absorbed into the whirl.
Shamsuddin didn’t stay long—his train back to Oxford awaited. As he left, I stood, ready to join her in the dance when she suddenly appeared at my side, gripping my arm. “Time to leave.”
“What? But I was just about to—you're having so much fun!”
“Not anymore,” she said in a low voice. “It’s Florence.”
“What about her?”
“She’s drunk. I sense trouble. The Pakistani guy she’s with… something about him doesn’t feel right. We need to get her out—now.” We rushed over.
Florence was wobbling, her speech slurred, eyes glazed. She was about to collapse. We flanked her, one on each side, supporting her weight as we made our way toward the exit.
The Pakistani man moved forward, looking agitated, but we pushed past him without a word. Just as we reached the waiting taxi, the African man came running.
“Wait! Can I see you again?” he called out.
“Maybe… goodbye!” she shouted back through the open window, giving him a wave. I looked at her.
“Who was that?”
“An orthopaedic surgeon from Nigeria. On a fellowship here.”
“You know him?”
“Nope. Never met him before.”
“Then why did you invite him?”
“He looked so alone. I could feel it. Like he wanted to be part of it but didn’t know how. So I helped. That’s all.”
“Are you going to meet him again?” She shrugged, eyes looking out the window.
“Probably not. But who knows? Paths cross again… sometimes.” As the taxi pulled away, I turned and looked back. He was still standing there, in front of the Hippodrome’s glowing entrance, waving—one hand in the air, the other still holding his drink. He didn’t look sad. Just… hopeful.
The hotel room was hushed except for the low hum of the air conditioner. I sat alone at the small table by the window, pen in hand, journal open, a cooling cup of tea beside me. Outside, through the wide glass pane, I could see the Subang Jaya skyline—a scattered necklace of office blocks, condos, and blinking red lights marking the tops of high-rise towers.
The city moved quietly at this hour. Far below, cars slid through the roads like insects under moonlight, their headlights weaving luminous threads through the stillness. I leaned my cheek against the glass for a moment. The pane was cool, almost like London air.
But this was Malaysia, humid and familiar, yet tonight it felt oddly detached—like I was floating just above it all. My friend had gone out to meet someone. She hadn’t said who, and I hadn’t asked. She had a way of slipping in and out of places, of people’s lives, like a whisper—you heard her, you felt her, and then she was gone again.
And so I stayed in, choosing solitude. I was trying to write, trying to process everything that had happened in London—the unexpected meetings, the dancing, the laughter, the moments that nearly slipped into danger. I wrote slowly, pausing often, trying to capture feelings I didn’t yet fully understand.
That’s when I heard it. A knock. Firm. Deliberate. Just once. I sat up straight. Heart quickening, I glanced at the bedside clock: 11:30 PM. Too late for room service. Too late for a mistake. I reached over and gently closed my journal, sliding it into my backpack.
Then, quietly, I stood and moved toward the door. The air felt still—thick with waiting. I peered through the peephole. It was him. The person I had written to. The one I hadn’t seen in years. I had completely forgotten about the note I sent through the young man from the receptionist table.
And now—he’s standing outside my door. Just like that. My mind raced. For a moment, I just stood there—caught between the pull of memory and the reality breathing on the other side of a hotel door in Subang Jaya.
Chpt 9 / 36
