IFTY

-S

IX

Picture a young Charles Hu, fifteen years old.

He is on his knees, surrounded by his mother and his seven brothers and sisters.

And his daddy, he’s lying on his back, raised up in front of them.

Naaamooooo aaaaaaaamiiiiituoooofoooooooo…

Naaamooooo aaaaaaaamiiiiituoooofoooooooo…

Naaamooooo aaaaaaaamiiiiituoooofoooooooo…

The monk drone, it goes on and on.

The smoke from the joss sticks, it snakes and it swirls.

But young Charles, he can’t chant anymore. His throat is dry, and his voice is failing.

Because unlike his brothers and sisters, he’s been chanting for three days straight.

Because if he doesn’t, his daddy’s spirit won’t be protected on its way to rebirth.

He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t sleep. He barely drinks.

For three days, he has been steadfast. No tears, by his daddy’s side.

But now, something changes.

A high-pitched wail, it comes out of young Charles, long, and slow, and ragged.

And young Charles, he collapses.

His brothers and sisters, they try to pick him up, his body convulsing in their arms as he sobs and screams silently.

They try to pick him up, but he is dead weight.

They try to pick him up, but he is broken.

F

IFTY

-S

EVEN

What do you think you are doing? says Charles.

He’s snapped out of whatever weird state he was in.

The lights have come on, and the sudden brightness stabs at my eyes.

We’re on the floor, on account of me tackling Charles to the ground to shake him out of his crazy.

Um, trying to get us out of here before the movie star comes back and we go to jail? I say.

I don’t want to go to jail, I say.

You’re welcome, I say.

Charles, he gets to his feet and looks into the corner of the room he was just standing in, despair colouring his face.

No, he says, no no no no no.

The despair turns to rage.

He points his finger at me and he says, You westerners. Always thinking about yourselves.

He shouts, Do you want to know why I take you to those nauseating doughnut cafes and bowling alleys?

He screams, Because I like to remind myself of how vacuous you westerners are. Self-centred. Obsessed with nothing but your own pleasure, your own petty wants.

I look at this man, shrunken and stiff, like he’s riddled with chronic arthritis.

The bitterness bristling from his twisted face.

And as flecks of spit detonate from his mouth and his finger jabs the air in front of my face, I think about how wrong I’ve got it all – how I’ve been a junkie for this man’s false praise.

I think of all the people I’ve allowed to be my compass.

I think about who I am. Who I really am.

F

IFTY

-E

IGHT

The early-autumn sun throws dappled light that dances. Leaves from the great tree I’m sitting under touching the ground gently around me.

The air is crisp, the air is cold. It’s 5 pm, and Kensington’s workers stride with purpose, heading for the Tube on their way home.