Papatua

Been staring at an empty page now for days... wanted to write a loving tribute to my grandpa who died last Monday, January 9. But my brain just couldn't operate properly in this direction. Kimo has been suffering with ringworm and what looks to be skin infection, in general. That and his incessant biting of fingernails (and toenails!) have been ragging on my nerves, and my mood is far from feeling sensitive to what's happening back home in Sabah. But as my supervisor said to me, you always think that you won't be too affected by someone's death, and end up feeling more than you thought. So, take time to properly grieve, she said. Dear Papatua, in such a humble step, this is my attempt to acknowledge your life's impact upon mine, and my appreciation for all that you've brought.

Where do I begin about my Papatua? Well, my first memory of him as an individual, as a force to be reckoned with, is of him threatening to shoot bad people with his shotgun! In the many and seemingly endless trips to the kampung to visit my paternal grandparents' house in the country during my childhood, the weekend of running around with my bunch of cousins and the milling around of aunts and uncles, and the long and extra-long sessions of card-playing that the adults like to do, the event of Sunday is always fixed. It is an early rise for church in droves, about 10 cars or so would leave the compound for a convoy to St. Michael's church in Penampang. We adjourn back in Babagon, and food is consumed, the adults try to sneak in another round of cards, while the kids loiter about the front of the house, playing stones... shooting the breeze, and wondering when the moms and dads would finally make a move to go back into town, so that all could somehow switch back to thinking about the work week ahead and school. Our youngish single aunts, namely Auntie Rose and Auntie Grace, would expel a sigh at about this time, relieved that they can claim back their rooms upstairs, and check whether we have made off with any of their possessions..

In that period of time on Sunday, Papatua would magically appear. In my mind, he was non-existent until Sunday morning. His coming into the scene of those childhood trips to the kampung is remembering him talking to Mamatua, and how my grandmother was always Ati'. I swore her name was Paula, and Kadazan name Lojibi. I only learned later on that that was affectionate in a way between two familiars, and the full meaning of that was between the two. All that aside, perhaps with all the bustling of the weekend, and finally some thing had to signal a break, a faint mention of some reported hooligan out there, (or was it one of the kids mewling about, restless and wanting to go home?) Papatua would rouse himself out of his 'lazy chair' (in those days, he had a reclining chair made out of iron), and yell on top of his lungs, 'Who's that mucking about? Do you want me to take out my shotgun?" And I swear, on one occasion, he did this, and mock-attempted to shoot some imaginary fellow. My heart about pop out of my mouth. So terrified was I of this angry and strict old man.

Much, much later on in life, I get to know Papatua more, and find out that he had worked as a coolie with Harrisons and Crossfields, a British trading company in town/Jesselton. He would sweep the floors of the godown. The cunning in him said to save the bits of rice that had flung out of the gunny sacks. He said, he was made fun of by the other workers. Poor Tangit, they thought. He must be the lowest of the low; he must be desperate. That he was, for he took all the bits of rice, and over time, he and Mamatua cleaned them off, packed them in small bags and he sold them to people in Brunei. That was also one place he had worked. By the time he was done with Brunei, he came home an at old age at the time of about 28 or so, to marry. He chose my grandmother, a neighbour. My dad says he had a lot of admirers, but he chose someone ten years his junior. The next thing I know of Papatua in regards to work was that he was a leader of sorts, given many titles, Village Head (KK) as well as 'Ketua Anak Negeri', Head to Native leaders. He was literate in English and was part of the Native leader group that helped the British administration navigate roads for Penampang interiors. Sometimes, I heard people think of him as 'OKK', Orang Kaya-Kaya, or 'the rich people'. But this was not impressed on my mind while growing up that he was a rich person, or that we were then rich through that, etc. Yes, his work life can be filled out more for me. Perhaps I can ask my dad to write out what his dad used to do for work, and so on.

Whether he liked it or not, Papatua is also remembered for his personal life, and perhaps very much so, because from him there are now 60+ of us. That's 3 wives, close to 20 children, about 30 grandchildren, and the remaining 10 or so great-grandkids. There are highs and lows with such a concoction of course, and those stories will have to fill another page sometime. Did he love everyone of us? This is probably the only question to have, sometimes when people we love pass on. I think he did, very much. He had many cross words, of course, to so and so in the family. But with all the history among us all, I remember him to always have a moment or two to talk with us, and at times, even longed to be with us, for our company. This he felt more, I think, in the past few years. I will remember his conversation with me about prospecting for land, and thinking that his contemporary Mahathir, famed Malaysian leader, would think highly of him for this. Much to the chagrin of his older kids, my dad and an aunt, he actually attempted to hire a taxi one day to take him some 4 hours away to 'his land'. No matter that this piece or pieces of land were real, but the thought of a 90+ year old man loitering around in a strange place was not a welcome one.

Last but not the least, for this brief narration of Papatua's life, I will always remember his last birthday, he was presented with two cakes and one had Happy 95th, the other Happy 96th. When he was asked, what his real age was, he said, "Well, I think I am 97!" We had a good laugh at that. Well, he was 95 when he passed. Would it have been 97, he would still have been a septuagenarian :) The last of the senior Kinajil men to bid this earth adieu, Papatua joined his two brothers whom died two years previous, one after the other. A whole generation has gone (well, sorry, his sister is still around), we now rewrite history again. But we never forget where we come from, or what we're made of, and of whom supplied that inner strength and will. God bless you, Papatua! May you live an eternal day in the sun...