Early this morning, while everyone else in the block was asleep, he prepared the noose, making sure it would be strong enough. Because it was so stuffy inside the tiny provision shop, he usually slept topless, but this time he had put on a shirt, yellow I heard it was. He got onto his stool and then he hung himself, the loneliest man in the world. What went through his mind in those final moments, we will never know. What was it that pushed him to the brink, gave him no choice? What turmoil he must have felt inside of him, or did he go, resigned and tired with this struggle of a life? In the evening tabloids, as usual, a sensationalization of tragedy, they claimed he was depressed over his poor business, he was in debt they said. Yet there was never any clue, coming home each day, I would stop by to pick up a copy of the New Paper and we would exchange words, and he never showed any sign of being depressed. If he needed some money, all he had to do was to ask and I am sure many of the residents would have been willing to help him. How much would you give if you knew for sure it would save a life, $50? $100 $500?
He was always salvaging and building stuff out of the old furniture, the old radios, televisions thrown out by residents of the block, or he would be fishing in the canal nearby or harvesting mangoes from the fruit trees that grew along the canal. He was truly a kampung boy at heart. Perhaps that was it, a kampung boy lost in a world that was moving too fast for him to understand. He was just the shopkeeper below my block, but he watched me grow up and it will take some getting used to. I am sad.