Dawn on Christmas Day spilled across Nanga Mujong, glinting off the river that flowed in front of the longhouse. Peace was still a stranger.
Humans were already awake, bustling about with trays of food, tinsel, fairy lights, and piles of brightly wrapped gifts. The ‘tuak-fuelled’ energy made them unpredictable.
Manuk Sabong crouched low, wings half raised, eyes sharp. The air carried the scent of fragrant ‘ayam pansuh’, roasted pork, and sweet ‘tuak’.
Children darted past, squealing with excitement, while adults danced, sang off-key Christmas carols, and occasionally tossed crumbs in his direction. Survival remained his priority.
He watched the cross-dressing parade, a longhouse Christmas tradition. Men strutted down the ‘ruai’ (the long shared corridor of the longhouse), wearing skirts, shawls, and wigs. They puffed out their chests, wobbled on heels, and exaggerated every movement.
Women and children clapped, laughed, and took photos. Manuk Sabong squawked, flapped, and darted behind chairs and corners, narrowly avoiding dangling wigs and tiny hands reaching for his tail feathers. The ‘ruai’ had become a chaotic festive runway.
Even brief respite offered little comfort. Manuk Sabong perched on the small jetty by the river, feathers glistening in the morning sun.
For a few precious minutes, he imagined calm was possible as he watched the water sparkle. Then splashes from overenthusiastic children shattered the illusion.
He shook his feathers, alert once more, and prepared to face the ‘ruai’ again.
Inside, the chaos resumed. Feet stomped, arms flailed, and glasses of ‘tuak’ clinked as humans cheered, waved, and occasionally toppled over each other.
Someone tripped over a chair, rice flew into the air, and Manuk Sabong darted under tables, narrowly avoiding disaster. One over-ambitious human grabbed him mid-spin and swung him like a festive bell. He squawked, flapped, and kicked, his indignation lost in uproarious laughter.
By afternoon, the ‘ruai’ glittered with tinsel and fairy lights. The long table groaned under piles of festive food. Karaoke blared.
Some humans dozed mid-song, others twirled in Santa hats, and children squealed with glee. Manuk Sabong crouched in a shadowed corner, feathers bristling, silently judging every ridiculous move with the solemnity of a warrior observing battle.
The human obsession with ‘tuak’ reached new heights. Adults attempted to dance, staggered into one another, and laughed uproariously as spills spread across the floor.
One uncle waved a half-full glass while attempting to sing carols and tripped over a toddler, sending Manuk Sabong into a frenzy of feathers, hops, and squawks.
Evening arrived, and the longhouse shimmered with lights reflecting off the river. Humans slumped into chairs, exhausted but content, some still swaying gently from tuak.
Manuk Sabong walked carefully across tables and counters, surveying the aftermath. His feathers were ruffled, his pride intact, his beak slightly scratched. He had survived another longhouse Christmas.
Finally, a tall, ‘tuak-addled’ human reached for him, wobbling dangerously. Manuk Sabong darted to a corner near the kitchen. All eyes turned. Laughter froze.
For the first time, the humans noticed the small, clawed, red-combed creature who had endured their chaos and remained undefeated.
Manuk Sabong was no mere participant. He was the observer, the survivor, the silent champion of longhouse Christmas.
Yes, he was Manuk Sabong: undefeated warrior of dawn, guardian of breakfast, ruler of longhouse holiday chaos.
As humans packed into their cars for Boxing Day, mumbling about “never drinking again”, Manuk Sabong let out a victorious crow, loud and proud, filled with festive satisfaction.
Silently, he declared that he had survived, judged, and would return next Christmas.
Somewhere in the distance, the river sparkled. The ‘ruai’ stood decorated, and echoes of laughter lingered in the air. Even chaos, he reflected, could be festive.
He had lived through Christmas Day and emerged victorious — a legend in his own feathers.
