Sula’s birth came with a storm that seemed to claw its way out of the heavens themselves.
That afternoon, clouds gathered like a marching army. Thick black masses rolled across the horizon, swallowing the light as the air became heavy.
Then came the wind.
It rushed through the village, rattling bamboo walls and slamming shutters against wooden frames. Palm trees bent low as thunder growled across the sky.
Inside a small timber home at the edge of the village, Sula’s mother cried out in labour.
And then lightning split the heavens.
A single white spear tore downward and struck the great durian tree behind the house — the pride of Sula’s grandfather. For decades, the tree had stood there, bearing fruit sweeter than any other in the village.
The lightning did not merely touch it. It shattered it.
A terrible crack exploded as the trunk split clean down the middle. Burning bark burst. Smoke curled into the wet air while thunder rolled.
At that exact moment, Sula entered the world.
Her first breath arrived with the scent of ash and rainwater.
The midwife later claimed the baby did not cry immediately. Instead, she opened her eyes first, wide and calm, as though she had arrived already listening.
Of course, the family dismissed the storm as a coincidence.
“Thunderstorms happen,” her father said.
“Lightning strikes trees all the time,” her mother insisted.
But villages are places where stories grow faster than weeds, and once a strange idea takes root, it rarely dies.
When Sula turned one, her relatives organised a potluck gathering. It was less a grand celebration and more an excuse for people to eat too much, gossip too loudly, and escape the boredom of village life for one evening.
Women arrived balancing pots of curry and bamboo rice. Children chased one another beneath the raised houses. Men gathered near the cooking fires, arguing about fishing, weather, and whose chickens were thieves.
Little Sula waddled between them in a tiny yellow dress while the adults laughed around her.
Then someone failed to keep an eye on the wood fire. Flames leapt upward like hungry spirits.
Within seconds, smoke swallowed half the kitchen. Pots clattered. Guests shouted. Children screamed. Several men rushed for buckets. Though the fire was eventually controlled, half the evening meal was ruined.
The villagers laughed nervously about it at first.
“Bad luck,” they said.
“Carelessness.”
But when Sula’s second birthday ended with toppled tables and shattered heirlooms, the laughter became quieter.
And by her third birthday, after a guest slipped on spilt water and broke two fingers, the whispers truly began.
“Funny, isn’t it?”
“Something always happens around that child.”
The words spread softly at first, carried from veranda to veranda beneath the cover of evening conversations.
Then came the name — anak sial — the unlucky child.
The village carried superstition like old blood. The elders spoke of forest spirits, wandering ghosts, and curses inherited through generations.
People wanted explanations for misfortune.
And Sula became one.
By the time she turned four, her parents quietly abandoned birthday celebrations altogether.
“We’re too busy this year,” her mother explained.
“No need for unnecessary fuss,” her father added.
But everyone knew the truth.
Neighbours had already begun refusing invitations before they were even offered.
As Sula grew older, the strange pattern seemed to follow her like a stray shadow.
The first time her father brought her to the paddy fields, he slipped from an irrigation bund and twisted his ankle badly enough to delay the planting season. One aunt developed a fever after visiting. A neighbour’s prized rooster died mysteriously after wandering into their yard.
Each event alone meant nothing.
Together, they became a legend.
Children were warned not to linger near her for too long. Some mothers tugged their sons away when Sula walked past. Others muttered prayers under their breath.
Poor Sula slowly transformed from a child into a symbol.
Not a girl.
An omen.
Yet despite everything, she grew into a remarkable young woman.
At sixteen, Sula possessed the kind of beauty that made conversations stumble. She inherited her mother’s graceful features and her father’s sharp, lively eyes. But beauty could not silence fear.
The first young man to court her arrived carrying rambutans in a woven basket and confidence far greater than his wisdom.
He barely made it down the front steps before slipping and spraining his ankle.
The entire village heard about it before sunset.
Still, youth has always been arrogant in the face of caution. Another suitor came. He fell from his bicycle and broke his arm.
A third developed a strange fever only days after speaking with her beneath the tamarind tree.
Soon, even the boldest young men began avoiding her. Some pitied her. Others feared her. Most simply preferred not to risk becoming the next village story.
By eighteen, the weight of the whispers had settled heavily upon Sula’s heart. Loneliness wrapped itself around her like creeping vines. She stopped attending gatherings. She avoided festivals.
Eventually, Sula convinced herself that isolation was kindness. Better to remain alone than bring harm to others.
But solitude is a strange companion. It sharpens thoughts until they become too loud to ignore. In the silence of her days, Sula began questioning everything she had been taught to believe.
Was she truly cursed? Or were people merely weaving meaning from coincidence? After all, accidents happened everywhere. Fires broke out. Ankles twisted. Illness visited both good and bad people.
These thoughts offered her some comfort, but not enough to free her completely from sorrow. Even if the curse was imaginary, the loneliness it created was painfully real.
Then, one humid afternoon, her cousin arrived with a suggestion.
“Why don’t you stay with Uncle Budy in Kuching for a while?” she asked casually while peeling mangosteens on the veranda.
Sula laughed weakly. Her cousin leaned closer, eyes sparkling mischievously.
“Aunt May could use help around the house. And honestly? If you stay here any longer, these old women will probably start blaming you whenever it rains.”
For the first time in years, the idea of leaving felt less frightening than staying. So, Sula agreed.
A week later, carrying only a modest bag of clothes and a heart full of uncertainty, she left the village behind.
Kuching felt like another world entirely. The city buzzed with life. Cars moved endlessly through crowded streets. Vendors shouted cheerfully in the markets, and shoppers were everywhere.
But no one stared at Sula strangely. No one whispered anak sial behind her back.
For the first few weeks, she remained cautious, waiting for disaster to arrive. But nothing happened.
Days passed peacefully. Then weeks. Then months.
She helped Aunt May prepare meals and minded her younger cousins. Slowly, the tight knot inside her chest began to loosen.
For the first time in her life, Sula experienced something ordinary people rarely notice until it is gone.
She felt normal. No storms followed her footsteps. No accidents shadowed her presence.
And little by little, she realised something astonishing:
Perhaps she had never been cursed at all. Perhaps fear itself had been the real curse.
A year later, Sula returned to her village. But she did not return alone.
Beside her walked a young man with kind eyes, steady shoulders, and a smile warm enough to soften even the sharpest gossip. He carried himself with easy confidence, greeting villagers politely as though unaware of the stories surrounding Sula.
Naturally, the village erupted with speculation.
“Poor fool.”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Give it time.”
But days passed peacefully. Then weeks. Nothing happened. No mysterious illnesses appeared. No accidents struck. Even the village dogs seemed unusually fond of him.
People grew confused. Some claimed he carried a powerful charm. Others insisted he must possess exceptionally strong luck.
Sula’s parents watched cautiously at first, but even they slowly relaxed.
One evening, her mother whispered to her father.
“Maybe he’s protected by something.”
Her father snorted softly.
“Or maybe,” he replied, “we were all foolish.”
When the young man finally asked for Sula’s hand in marriage, the village buzzed with excitement rather than fear.
The wedding itself was simple but joyful. And not a single disaster occurred. No fires. No broken bones. Not even rain.
As Sula and her husband prepared to leave the village after the ceremony, many relatives gathered to wave farewell.
The old durian tree behind her childhood home still stood there in ruins, its split trunk long dead and covered in creeping vines.
For years, the villagers had treated that lightning strike as an omen. But perhaps it had only been weather after all.
In the end, Sula’s life was never truly about curses or bad luck. It was about the strange hunger people carry for explanations. Human beings fear randomness. We prefer patterns, even cruel ones, because they make the world feel orderly.
A child born during a storm becomes cursed.
A coincidence becomes destiny.
A rumour becomes truth.
And once enough people believe a story, it can shape a life more powerfully than any spirit ever could.
But stories, like roads, can be left behind.
As Sula disappeared down the dusty village path beside the man who loved her without fear, she carried with her a lesson far greater than superstition:
Chaos belongs to everyone.
Misfortune visits every doorstep eventually.
And happiness is not found by escaping storms, but by learning that thunder does not always mean the heavens are angry.
Sometimes, it is only thunder.
‘Men are disturbed not by things, but by the view which they take of them.’ — Epictetus (50–135 AD), a Greek Stoic philosopher who, although born into slavery in the Roman Empire, later gained his freedom and became one of history’s most influential teachers of Stoicism.
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DISCLAIMER:
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.
