Every Sunday I video call my Mak. I show her the view of the beach from the balcony of my apartment on the Sunshine Coast.
Subhanallah, she says as she marvels at the vast, cerulean sea. She smiles when she sees the kite surfing parachutes; or listens to the crashing waves.
Every now and then, she fumbles with the camera phone. She inadvertently shows close-ups of that broad smile, though infectious, it reveals a few missing teeth. Despite my insistent prods about seeing a dentist, she dismisses the idea nonchalantly as she teases a decaying tooth with her finger, awaiting the day when she can just get the full dentures after all her teeth have fallen out.
Despite living with her husband and their teenage son, she runs the house by herself while working full time to support them. Her husband, my stepfather, is retired, many years her senior and in recovery from a stroke. Like many old, penitent Malays he spends the entire day on his phone listening to religious preachers and Quran recitations, anything to secure a better shot at Jannah.
Since the beginning of lockdown, both my stepfather and brother have been preoccupied in their virtual communities, so neither one lends a hand when she asks for help with chores. My stepfather has joined a Usrah, a religious study group on social media and my brother is a gamer, so no one really listens out for her loneliness either, as she walks past them.
No one really listens out for her loneliness either, as she walks past them.
Mum and I talk for hours in Malay. We talk about her doctor’s appointments, diabetic and cholesterol medicine, work, her teeth of course, the cats, politics, food recipes, Covid updates and my nosey Aunties.
She shows me what she eats for breakfast, the mounds of laundry she must fold, the stray cats she’s been feeding, some who have casually taken up residence on that front lawn. She shows me old photos of us during Eid, my graduation party, my long-gone grandmother to whom I, in my own quirky way, say hello to every time I think of her.
She shows me my old room that has now become her prayer room, which brings the end of our conversation when she gently reminds me to do the five daily prayers, as she always had since I was a child but with a light rattan cane in her hand. Now, I just reply, somewhat indifferently: "Sure, Mak."
When Covid surged in January 2021, I rushed from Kuala Lumpur where I lived, back to my family home in Seremban as soon as the King announced another lockdown and state of emergency.
I was tired and fearful of being locked up all alone in Kuala Lumpur again. But this time, I had an intuition I was going to leave Malaysia and that my visa to Australia, would somehow come through.
And it did.
After three months of quarantining with my mother, I received the visa in my email. I broke the news to her later that day at dinner. Just the two of us.
"What visa is this?," she said.
"Work visa." I lied.
When she didn’t probe further, I continued: "You remember Andrew?"
She didn’t remember.
"He’s my old boss," I lied again. "He’s sponsored my visa. I’ll be working with him in Australia."
She nodded as if she understood.
She then smiled and told me to look after myself.
Five days later, I left for Australia.
Andrew was never my boss.
He is my partner of more than six years. During our separation, I had been busy packing our belongings from our shared home in Kuala Lumpur, while he set up a management business on the Sunshine Coast. Even though I was granted a travel exemption to enter Australia, I didn’t have a resident visa for me to exit Malaysia. And my partner visa was still pending at this point.
"Reason of rejection: Please state a marriage certificate in accordance with our law," said the notice when I inquired about the decision on their portal.
Some other Malay queer people got worse, or less diplomatic feedback: "Please repent."
After two weeks of quarantine in a Gold Coast hotel, Andrew picked me up from the Brisbane Airport. We hugged for a long time and drove to our new home on the Sunshine Coast. This was the day before the Eid. I looked around the new apartment, two bedrooms, much smaller than our home in Kuala Lumpur, but the view was simply breathtaking.
There were photos of Andrew and his Australian family around the house and a save the date card for Darren, Andrew’s nephew, stuck on the fridge.
Ensuring that Andrew was out of the house and all the photos put away, I called Mak on Eid.
Ensuring that Andrew was out of the house and all the photos put away, I called Mak on Eid. In my celebratory baju melayu, I virtually showed her the apartment. She wanted to know when my new job started, but before I could answer, she saw the save-the-date card on the fridge. The one thing I forgot to hide.
"Siapa tu?", she asked. Her eyes sharp as ever.
"That’s Darren," I said. "He’s my housemate. He just got married. He works in the same company." More lies.
"Oh, and I’m starting the new job in a week."
Shafroul Rosely has been a scientist, theatre publicist and production assistant for documentary films. He now works as a marketing coordinator and writes occasionally in his spare time.
This article is an edited extract of an entry chosen from the 2021 SBS Emerging Writers' Competition.
Shafroul Rosely is a pseudonym.
