The First Day
I got a call from Fareed one day. A friend of his needed some help. The kind of help I can't allow myself to get involved in anymore. He refused to tell me for whom it was for, so yeah, I got the hint. I politely declined and hung up.
That day I was in the city for a seminar. I sat through the first day with as much enthusiasm as a 12 year-old listening to a microeconomics lecture. I chomped down sour sweets and took frequent cigarette breaks to keep myself from falling asleep. The second day came and I thought to myself, "No way in hell I'm gonna force myself to sit through this again". I refuse to waste my time in something I'm not even remotely interested in to begin with. I got dropped off at a nearby hotel, strolled to the adjacent train station and bought a one way ticket to the nearest shopping mall for lunch.
After a shitty meal at that dodgy mall, I took a walk outside and lit a cigarette. I watched the ebb and flow of the city street. A colourful charade of people and cars, stray felines and zombie-like dogs. School kids in virginal white uniforms and 12 year-old wannabe punks loitering around and about. And then I saw a familiar figure. He waved from afar.
It was Omar. "Holy fucking shit!", I screamed aloud. We shooked hands and hugged like a stupid sappy Jejak Kasih reunion of two long lost brothers. I haven't seen him for the longest time, thinking all this while that he must've gone back to Saudi Arabia. We weren't very close, but we did have some pretty damn good memories. The best ones were those times listening to him rap to Tupac in the wee hours of the morning while I helplessly try to catch up. He raps like a motherfucker. As a matter of fact, that was the first thing he said to me when we met eons ago, "What's up motherfucker". He was on medication, so I excused his ridiculous rudeness.
He was a joy to have around. With his thick American accent, he spoke as fast as a runaway freight train. Severely bi-polar at one point, Omar had frequent outbursts. My first encounter with his occasional explosions of rage was when we first met. After introducing myself, I sat in midway through one of his infamously annoying monologues. Omar was talking about Gaddafi, calling him a traitor to the Arab world and a fledging cocksucker, steadily increasing the tone of his voice and inserting every profanity known to man, he started talking about homosexuality and describing in articulate detail of the various ways that gays, lesbians and trannys will burn in hell. At that point he was fuming red like his head was on the verge of exploding, rocking back and forth trying to calm himself down. He paused midway, popped in a pill, and continued rocking back and forth. I liked him since then on.
"What the fuck are you doing here!", I said. We caught up and he updated me on his whereabouts these days. I found out later that, apparently, Fareed's "secret friend" who asked for the "favour" was not that much of a secret after all. That friend was Omar himself, who happened to be our mutual friend. What a ridiculously freaky coincidence. I get a call from an old friend (how he got my number, beats me), whom I haven't heard for the longest time, asking for a ridiculous favour on behalf of another friend, who turns out to be an old friend of mine, someone I've completely lost touch with for a long time, whom I coincidentally would bump into at a place downtown (where I hardly if ever go to begin with). In a cruel twist of fate, I met the last person I'd ever want to meet again.
We took the monorail back to his place. I knew that his parents are filthy rich and could easily afford that affluent apartment, but I also knew that his family has cut him off financially. I asked him about the place, and everything he owned from new clothes to the latest PS2, brand spanking new stereo system, Astro, everything. This bi-polar, rap machine, junkie also happens to be a genius mathematician. He went up to Genting and won shitloads of money (think 21). Twice in a span of a few days. The casino banned him and escorted him out together with his winnings. He came down, bought a place in KL and finished every dime on PS2 games, drugs, booze and hookers.
I bought him lunch and spent the day at his place. We had nonsense conversations. Half of the time I sat quietly listening to him rap, in between verses telling me about his life in Malaysia, past sexual conquests, and hopes for a better future. The evening rolled in, darkening the smoke filled room. It was time to go home. I promised him I'll come by the next day and took a long walk back to the hotel.
Omar called me the next day. After a dozen or so missed calls, he sent me a text message. "Kau mana motherfucking orang gila". That was the last time I ever heard from him. The following week, he took the first flight out back to Saudi Arabia.
"All the best motherfucker".
