Dirik was a quiet sort of fellow, the kind you’d likely pass on the road without giving much thought to who he was or where he was bound. He was lean and sunburned, with a face that looked like it had seen too much sun and too little laughter.
Folks in the village knew him well enough, though. He was an honest man, hardworking, with a touch of shyness that kept him from being the life of any gathering. But there was something about him you couldn’t help but like, even if you couldn’t quite put your finger on why.
He’d been orphaned young — eight years old, I believe it was — and if you’d asked him about his past, he’d have likely shrugged and said it wasn’t worth the telling. But sometimes you could see it in his eyes, especially when he thought nobody was looking. A kind of loneliness clung to him like a shadow, no matter how bright the day.
Dirik’s life was simple. He split his time between his little house in the village and the paddy farm he’d inherited from his father. That farm was his pride and joy, though it was hardly more than a patch of land with a stubborn streak. It never yielded much, but Dirik loved it all the same. It was the one thing his father had left him, and he worked it with a devotion that might’ve made a lesser man curse the soil.
Now, it was on one of his trips back to the village that Dirik first crossed paths with Apoi. The boy was just five years old, skinny as a sapling, with eyes too big for his face and a look of hunger that went beyond just needing a meal. Apoi’s parents were gone — taken by some cruel twist of fate that nobody seemed to want to talk about — and he’d been left in the care of an uncle who spent more time with a jug of ‘tuak’ than he ever did with the boy. The uncle’s wife seemed relieved to have one less mouth to feed whenever Apoi wandered off.
Dirik didn’t take much notice of the boy at first. He’d feed him when he showed up, sure, but that was the extent of it. It wasn’t until Apoi started coming around more often that Dirik began to see something of himself in the boy — that same hollow look, that same quiet desperation for a place to belong. It was like looking into a mirror that reflected his own childhood, and before he knew it, Dirik found himself caring for Apoi in ways he hadn’t planned.
Now, Dirik wasn’t what you’d call a saint. He had his own troubles and shortcomings, and there were plenty of folks in the village who thought he was making a mistake by taking the boy under his wing. Even his girlfriend — a pretty young thing with a sharp tongue and a head full of plans for the future — couldn’t understand it. She wanted a life with Dirik, but not if it came with a stray boy in tow. When Dirik refused to give up Apoi, she left him without so much as a backward glance. It hurt him, I reckon, but he never let on. He just went on with his life, Apoi at his side.
The bond between them grew stronger with each passing day. To Dirik, Apoi was more than just a boy in need; he was family. And to Apoi, Dirik was a lifeline, the one steady thing in a world that had been anything but kind. They made a strange pair, to be sure, but they suited each other in a way that defied explanation.
I knew Dirik because we lived in the same village. But calling him a friend would be a stretch. He was much older than me and hung out with people his age. He was a bit younger than my dad, maybe just a couple of years. When I first became aware of him, he was unmarried, which was unusual as in our village, most guys his age would have settled down with a family.
Depending on his activities and the seasons, he split his time between the village and his rice farm about an hour’s walk from the village. He loved the farm because it was the only property he inherited from his father.
As time went on, Apoi began spending more and more time with Dirik. So much so that eventually, he saw his uncle’s family every other week, and one day he stopped going home.
To Dirik, Apoi was the little brother he never had. However, there were moments when Dirik’s insecurities and shortcomings made him feel as though the roles were reversed — as if he were the one being looked after by Apoi. The situation was confusing at times, but it worked.
Despite the odd dynamic, Dirik and Apoi formed a strong bond. They complemented each other in ways that neither had expected.
Together, they created a life that was far from conventional, but it was a life that gave them both a sense of purpose and belonging.
Two years after he “adopted” Apoi, Dirik began preparations to ensure the boy got an education at the village’s mission school. On weekends, school holidays, and other school breaks, he and Apoi would spend their whole time on the farm.
This was a preferred arrangement because due to his slight social awkwardness, Dirik preferred the farm where he handled the heavy tasks while Apoi took on the lighter chores — washing clothes, sweeping the house, and cooking simple meals.
It was around this time that my brothers and I — Little B and Ratum — got to know them better. We’d often cut through Dirik’s farm on our way to the fishing hole, stopping to chat and sometimes lending a hand with the chores. We’d invite Apoi to join us on our fishing trips, but he always shook his head and stayed close to Dirik. At the time, we thought he didn’t like us, but looking back, I reckon it was something deeper. That boy had lost so much already, he wasn’t about to let go of the one person who cared for him.
One day, Ratum came up with a bright idea. “If Apoi won’t come with us,” he said, “why don’t we help him here instead?” And so we did. We spent our afternoons hauling water, weeding the fields, and doing whatever else needed doing. It wasn’t exactly fun, but there was a kind of satisfaction in it — knowing we were helping someone who needed it more than we did.
Then came the day that changed everything. It started out like any other, with Dirik and Apoi working side by side in the fields. But by mid-afternoon, Dirik was sweating more than usual, his face pale and drawn. He brushed it off at first, saying it was nothing a little rest wouldn’t cure. But by evening, he could barely stand. Apoi tried to get him to drink some water, but Dirik waved him off, mumbling something about being fine.
By morning, it was clear he wasn’t fine at all. His fever was high, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time. Apoi did what he could, but he was just a boy. He cooked, he cleaned, he sat by Dirik’s side, but nothing seemed to help. The nearest clinic was miles away, and Apoi didn’t have the means to get there on his own.
It was pure luck that brought Little B and me to the farm that day. When we saw the state Dirik was in, we knew we had to act fast. I ran to fetch the local medicine man, while Little B stayed with Apoi. The medicine man, a wiry old fellow with a knack for curing what ailed you, didn’t waste any time. He mixed up a brew of herbs and roots, muttering prayers under his breath as he worked.
For hours, we watched and waited, hope flickering like a candle in the wind. Then, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, Dirik stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and a weak smile spread across his face. He was alive.
The days that followed were slow and steady. Dirik regained his strength bit by bit, and Apoi never left his side. The medicine man came by now and then to check on him, offering advice and encouragement. And through it all, the bond between Dirik and Apoi grew stronger than ever.
Looking back on it now, I can’t help but marvel at the way things turned out. Dirik might not have had much in the way of riches or possessions, but what he did have was a heart big enough to take in a boy who had nowhere else to go. And that, I reckon, is worth more than all the gold in the world.
‘The true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good.’ – Samuel Johnson (1709-1784). He was a prominent English writer, critic, and lexicographer best known for his compilation of the first comprehensive English dictionary, ‘A Dictionary of the English Language’, published in 1755.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
