"I Can't Wait To Go To School!"

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I was working when I received the telephone call from my wife.

“You have to come home now,” said my wife, who was a gentle woman by the name of Khadijah, said.

“Is something the matter?” I queried.

“It’s…” she hesitated. “It’s our son; I think he’s gotten sicker. Very much sicker.”

“What is the matter with him?” I said, alarmed.

“Just come home.”

I informed my superior, who just said “Go” without further inquiry. I rushed and hailed the first taxi I saw. Luckily it was early in the day, and traffic was not too hectic. I instructed the driver to drive as quickly as possible, telling him it was an emergency. He dutifully obliged. Still, it was quite a long way to drive from the heart of the city where I worked to the quiet village where I resided.

My palms became sweaty as I grew more anxious by the minute. I thought of my son, Faiz. He is my only child. Six years old, and a bright, happy child. His kindergarten teacher had told us that he had the potential to become a very smart boy once in school. Oh how proud we felt, my wife and I. Our boy had looked up at us and smiled, showing the gap between his two front teeth from a fall he had suffered a few days before. I had rustled his hair, and treated him to an ice cream bar when we came home.

“I can’t wait to go to school!” Faiz would say everytime he saw the older kids walk to school in their blue and white uniforms. My wife and I would look at him and smile, our hearts filled with love for our boy. In a few months Faiz would start Standard One. They grow up so fast! It seems like just yesterday that I held his tiny body in my arms at the government hospital he was born at. Now he was already going to be a schoolboy.

I loved Faiz dearly. He was a splitting image of me, and had that same naughty streak in him. I played with Faiz at every opportunity that I could, which, I’m ashamed to admit, is not that very often as I work day and night. But if I could have even five minutes a day with him, I made sure I would, even if it’s just to tell him a Sang Kancil story.

A few days ago he had become very ill. He started vomiting, became pale and lost appetite. My wife insisted it had to be something he ate, and told me not to worry and just go to work.

As the taxi neared the village, I wondered what was wrong with him that my wife would call me at work. Khadijah normally handled most domestic situations on her own while I earned bread for the family. This must be a serious situation.

When the taxi dropped me off, I saw that a small crowd of people had gathered in front of my house. My heart sank; that could only mean one thing. As if to confirm my fears, I saw my wife slumped beside our next door neighbor. She was sobbing. I went to her. She flung herself at me as I approached her, and buried her face in my chest.

“Faiz is gone… Faiz is gone!” she wailed. I hugged my wife tightly. Her words rang in my ears until they became a distant hum. I looked at the people around me, and all of them bowed their heads in grief, offering a silent prayer for us.

My son is dead.

With a heavy heart I made all the necessary calls; the police, who verified a death had occurred. To the masjid folk, so they could come assist with the funeral. And of course, to our family members. They arrived within a couple of hours. All of them offered their condolences, and some gave us a token amount of money to help ‘ease the passing’. I accepted quietly.

I was trying hard not to weep for my boy, and only shed tears when I, and some other relatives, bathed him one last time before we wrapped him in the customary white shroud.

“Patience, Malik, it is Him from whence we came, and it is to Him that we return to,” said my cousin in his attempt to console me. I accepted, gratefully.

“You seem to be very strong,” said another relative. “Sabar yea.”

“Oh,” I replied. “I have to be, for my wife. And this is Fate, His will. I am redha with His divine plans.”

A little after 5pm, we buried our son at the Muslim cemetery. Soon after, the relatives and well-wishers began to dissipate, and left me and my wife to mourn on our own.

That night, both of us were quiet. My wife wept in intervals. Amazingly though, she still managed to keep it together enough to prepare dinner for us, and to clean the house. My heart went out to her, as I watched her cook and sweep with tears flowing from her eyes. After dinner, both of us had went to the small room of our small wooden house where Faiz used to sleep. We cleaned his toys and stored his books (there were plenty; coloring books, word books, story books) into the cupboard. We sifted through his faded clothes. The most colorful item of clothing was a baju melayu Khadijah had sewn by hand for Hari Raya last year.

Khadijah and I smiled looking at that baju, as we remembered how cheeky and cute Faiz had looked like in his baju melayu, which had shortened sleeves because Khadijah had run out of cloth.

That memory made us laugh, then Khadijah cried again. We finished cleaning Faiz’s room in silence.

Before we went to bed, we attempted to make love. But after half an hour, we both knew we didn’t have it in us to actually do it. I couldn’t get it up and she was as dry as sandpaper. We stopped trying. Khadijah kissed my cheek, told me she loved me and thanked me for being strong in this time of sadness. She fell asleep almost as soon as she laid her head on her pillow.

I lay awake for longer.

I thought of my son, and how bright and happy he was. I thought about the praises heaped on him by his kindergarten teacher. I thought of Faiz’s lovely face, and his infectious laughter. I shed a small tear. I silently thanked Faiz for never once

complaining that his clothes were faded and tattered and most of them were bought from the bundle store or donated by relatives. I thanked Faiz for not wanting a toy everytime we went to a shop, or at least, not wanting those original toys. He never once complained about having to eat white rice and fried eggs everyday. I thanked him, too, for never once comparing why the other kids at kindergarten had nice new pencil-cases and bag-packs while he only carried a loose supermarket paper-bag and short pencils.

You see, we were very poor. We had Faiz out of wedlock when we were only fifteen years old. Our families disowned us completely (they hadn’t even come to the funeral). Sixteen years old, we were on our own. I worked odd jobs, part-timing here and there. I was lucky to bring back RM600 a month, half of which went to rent. But somehow, Khadijah and I managed to raise Faiz. For six years, we raised our boy from whatever money I could raise every month. We even managed to send him to a kindergarten, where he did so well!

“I can’t wait to go to school!” I heard his voice in my head. He was so excited knowing he'd start school next year. He talked about it non-stop, about how he would be nice to teachers, make lots of friends and get good marks so he can become a successful young man.

Another tear rolled down my cheeks as I realized he will never be able to go to school. School meant books, transport, fees, uniforms and a lot of other stuff. And all that stuff meant money.

So I hope you understand by now, why I had to poison him four days ago. I couldn’t afford to have a son anymore.

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(ah, it's good to be back at A Hatred of Light)