“It is not what we give but what we share, for the gift without the giver is bare.”
– James Russell Lowell (1819-1891), an American poet, critic, editor, diplomat, and political activist.
IF ever there was a man who could turn self-promotion into a grand performance, it was my fellow villager, Nguso. In our sleepy little village in the Serian District – about forty miles from Kuching – he was the undisputed champion of “charity,” provided, of course, there was an audience present to witness his unparalleled generosity.
Nguso wore his self-appointed title of “Ambassador of Good Deeds” with the same subtlety as someone wearing a neon sign that read: “Look at me, I’m amazing.”
Humility, to him, was less a virtue and more of a personal insult, something to be avoided like a mosquito-ridden swamp.
The year was 1959, and life in our village was as uneventful as a Sunday nap. Wooden houses on stilts lined the muddy paths, each with its own symphony of clucking chickens and gossiping neighbours.
We had three provision shops (all claiming to sell the freshest tinned sardines), a school run by the Anglican Mission, where discipline was stricter than a nun’s glare, and a church that specialised in guilt-tripping its congregation into repentance. And then, right in the middle of it all, stood Nguso – the self-proclaimed saint of Serian.
Now, if charity is, as they say, a selfless act of giving, Nguso’s version was more of a theatrical production. He didn’t just give; he performed his giving. If there were a village loudspeaker available, he’d probably have used it to announce every fifty cents he parted with.
His generosity wasn’t about helping others; it was about ensuring everyone knew about it. After all, what’s the point of charity if no one’s clapping?
Take, for instance, his latest house renovation. Nguso had added a balcony – not for practical reasons, mind you, but because it gave him the perfect stage to ponder the world’s suffering while fanning himself dramatically.
“So many poor people these days,” he’d sigh loudly, just as his neighbour Apoi passed by.
Apoi, who was partly deaf and blessed with a razor-sharp wit, would shout back, “Yes, Nguso! Even God must be impressed by you!” Nguso, oblivious to sarcasm, would grin and wave like a politician at a campaign rally.
His most outstanding performance was during the great village fundraising drive of 1959. The goal was noble: build a boarding house for students from neighbouring villages. The existing one was too crowded.
Everyone chipped in what they could – materials, cash, rice, chickens, and labour. And then there was Nguso, who dramatically declared, “I pledge fifty dollars!” Gasps echoed across the crowd.
Fifty dollars in those days could buy a pig, a goat, or enough rice to feed a family for two months. Basking in the admiration of the crowd, Nguso puffed out his chest like a peacock in full display.
Of course, there was a catch. “I’ll pay next week lah,” he added, “after I sell some pepper.”
Weeks turned into months, and the pepper was never sold. The boarding house was eventually completed through the contributions of others, but that didn’t stop Nguso from posing proudly in front of it at the opening ceremony.
“Ah, yes,” he’d say to visitors, “this was one of my main projects.”
And the villagers? They let him. Why? Because watching Nguso strut around like a self-congratulatory rooster was far more entertaining than calling him out.
Then came Christmas Eve, the air thick with wood smoke and fried banana fritters. The church organised a food drive for struggling families, and Nguso saw his golden opportunity. He arrived with a sack the size of a small cow. Inside? Ten half-rotten yams and a measly two ‘kati’ (1.2 kilos) of rice. But oh, the presentation! He staggered under its “weight”, groaning theatrically as though carrying the sins of the world.
“Small offering only,” he said, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow, “but from the heart.”
The priest’s smile was as thin as rice porridge with too much water. “God sees the heart,” he muttered, though his tone suggested God wasn’t particularly impressed. But Nguso didn’t care. By the time he got home, he’d stopped at several houses along the way to recount the tale of his “sacrifice”.
By the time the 1960s rolled around, Nguso’s reputation as a paragon of performative generosity was firmly established. He’d sit in the front pew at church, eyes shut tight, lips moving ever so slightly, as though deep in prayer. But everyone knew he was probably tallying up how many people owed him thanks.
When the priest gave a sermon on humility – “Do not let your left hand know what your right hand is giving” – Nguso leaned over to Apoi and whispered into his ear, “Aiyah, true, true! So shameful, these people who brag about giving!”
Apoi, never one to miss an opportunity, replied, “You’re right, Nguso. You don’t just tell your hands; you tell your feet, your neighbours, and the chickens too.”
By 1965, the village got its first proper road – a bumpy, potholed affair, but a road, nonetheless. Nguso, naturally, claimed full credit.
“I told the Yang Berhormat and the District Officer, our village needs a road,” he bragged. In reality, these people didn’t know who Nguso was, but why let facts ruin a good story?
When a flash flood hit at the end of that year, damaging some houses, the villagers rallied together to help. Nguso, however, stayed dry in his elevated house, emerging only after the waters receded.
“Such hard times,” he lamented to the relief committee. “I’ll contribute soon.”
His contribution? A tin of condensed milk and four chipped plates. And yet, he made sure everyone knew about his “generosity” during post-church tea.
As the years passed, Nguso’s antics became less about charity and more about comedy. In 1970, he even attempted to start the “Brotherhood of Generous Souls,” a one-man club with membership fees payable to him.
The inaugural meeting, held in front of his, was attended only by a few stray dogs, lured by the smell of boiled chicken. Nguso declared it a success anyway. “Even the animals support charity,” he said proudly.
By the mid-1970s, Nguso had become a cautionary tale, a living punchline. Whenever someone showed off about helping others, we’d say, “Careful, you’re pulling a Nguso.”
Strangely, his legacy wasn’t entirely negative. Determined not to emulate him, the rest of us learned to give quietly. When someone needed help, we arrived unannounced, did the work, and left without fanfare. It was our silent rebellion against Nguso’s noisy benevolence.
I last saw him in the late ‘70s, sitting on his now-tilted balcony. The smug smile was still there, though fewer people bothered to feed his ego.
“Remember, young man,” he called out to me, “always help others, like me!”
I smiled and replied, “Yes, uncle. But maybe I’ll help quietly.”
He laughed, a dry, wheezing sound. “Quiet help doesn’t get noticed,” he said, leaning back. “People forget too fast.”
And there it was, the essence of Nguso in one sentence. For him, charity wasn’t about kindness; it was about being remembered, even if only as a punchline.
These days, the village has changed. The road is paved, the jungle has thinned, and Nguso’s house has long since rotted and collapsed under its own weight. His children had all left for different places, leading their own lives.
But every once in a while, when someone brags about donating RM10 to a school fund, we still grin and say, “Careful, you’re sounding like old Nguso.”
Because if Nguso taught us anything, it’s this: some give selflessly, those who don’t give at all, and then there’s Nguso – giving with one hand while making sure the other is waving for applause.
I never bore any resentment towards Nguso, nor did I pass judgment on him. Apart from his family, no one in the village took him seriously or relied on him for anything meaningful. To most of us, Nguso was a source of amusement – a jester who could always be counted on for a laugh but never for acts of charity.
Charity, after all, is more than a mere gesture. It embodies kindness, compassion, and a genuine willingness to uplift and care for others – a selfless act that seeks to provide for those in need without expectation of recognition.
Nguso’s story serves as a cautionary reminder to approach outward displays of charity with care and discernment. Public acts of giving often raise questions about the motivations behind them. At times, these gestures may seem more about seeking attention, status, or personal gain. This can risk overshadowing the very essence of charitable giving.
Authenticity is another critical factor. When generosity is paraded for visibility, the sincerity of the giver’s intentions may come under scrutiny, leaving others to wonder whether the act is genuine or merely performative.
There is also the risk of exploitation. When charitable deeds are put on display, they can sometimes be leveraged for personal branding or as a marketing tool, diluting the true purpose of helping others and shifting focus away from those in need.
Scepticism often follows such displays, leaving people to question the integrity not only of the individual but also of charitable organisations as a whole. When the motives behind visible charity are doubted, public trust in the act of giving itself can erode, making it harder for genuine causes to gain support.
While charity is undoubtedly a noble endeavour, the way it is carried out holds significant weight. True charity lies in the quiet corners where acts of kindness are performed without an audience, driven solely by compassion and the desire to make a difference. Nguso’s tale reminds us to look beyond appearances and consider the heart behind the act.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at www.hayhenlin@gmail.com
