The Man with a Thousand Names

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About the book

The Man with a Thousand Names is a collection of short fiction that delves into the complex lives of queer men, also locally known as bayot, in the Cebuano-speaking communities of the Visayas and Mindanao.  

In these irreverent, humorous, and surreal stories, characters navigate sexual awakenings, explore facets of themselves, and struggle through life within an oppressive and conservative, mostly Catholic society.  

The collection features brash, authentic, rebellious, and candid voices, providing insight into the Philippine LGBTQ+ community’s experience in a ‘provincial’, yet evolving, cultural landscape, and probes deeply into what it means to be a queer person in Cebuano culture. 

What our readers say

This story is a standout work of literary and cultural significance, making it a deserving candidate for this grant. The work stands as a valuable contribution to queer Philippine literature in translation, opening doors for future dialogues between the traditions of the Cebuano Binisaya sugilanon and the English short story. This is a reminder that translation is not an endpoint, but a never-ending exchange, one that Binignit has gracefully joined, at long last.

–Alton Melvar M Dapanas

What our panellists say

John Bengan’s translation of The Man with a Thousand Names by R. Joseph Dazo is an intimate look at queer life in the Visayas and Mindanao, full of humour, warmth, and unflinching honesty. The writing blends local colour, personal memory, and queer experience in a voice that feels both immediate and deeply rooted in Cebuano culture. This is literature from an often-underserved linguistic region, and Bengan’s work makes a compelling case for more stories from the Visayas and Mindanao to be seen, read, and celebrated.

–Safae El-Ouahabi

Awards and press 

One of CNN Phillippines “Best Books of the 2010s” 

Winner of the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature 

Rights available 

World English  

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Translation extract

From The Man with a Thousand Names: Stories 

 

 Joseph Dazo 

translated by John Bengan 

 

This is what the South Bus Terminal looks like during Lent: passengers surging and jostling to get a ride, weary from standing too long (the wait for the queue to move, they say, is longer than the wait for what they call ‘your forever’, that special someone), a lot of damp armpits, perhaps because in a rush to get there they forgot to rub on deodorant stones. And what about the ones whose faces look like they want to grope you? Makakulba – my heart thumps, and I’m always on guard, keeping an eye out. I don’t judge. Okay, maybe a little. Slightly lang.   

And the ever-present vendors peddling iced water, soya milk, and energy drinks? Gosh! They’ll still try to sell to you something even when you’re already clutching a full bottle of water.  

Waiting for the line to budge makes you thirsty. Fanning yourself nonstop as sweat pours like a waterfall drains you. You’d curse; you’d call on San Vicente Ferrer and the other saints. You’d even invoke the names of the dead. ‘If Donilo were still alive,’ a fellow passenger had said to me years ago, ‘he’d be here to help me carry my luggage.’ See what I mean?   

To evade the maledictions and the armpits that haven’t kissed crystal deodorant for so long, I’ve come to the terminal five days before the Day of the Swarm. Inside the air-conditioned bus, I’m greeted by the conductor’s whistling. He smirks. It is impossible not to say something about his face. I give him a hard look. No mistaking it: a perv in our midst. He’s flashing his dark gums and ‘one-seat-apart’ teeth. I make a tiny sign of the cross. 

I step past the rows of seats. I brush off the horny conductor and look for a good place to sit by the window. I make my way along the aisle, pulling my luggage, trying not to stumble, and praying that the high heels of my shoes will provide enough support.   

Once I’m seated, a man who looks like Jesus – the Jesus of the moment of transfiguration – follows me. He smiles and slides into the seat next to mine. Calmly, he waits for the passengers to fill the bus while slowly tying his long hair. He’s easy on the eyes, yes, a crucifix on one ear, a thick mane, and an air about him. Take note: he also has a tattoo of what looks like a gorilla’s skull with a snake crawling out of its eyes, besh! But wait – there’s more! Words are inked on his arm: rage, rage against the dying of the light. My god. Poetic. I’m suddenly reminded of a favourite poem: ‘Tree’ by Joyce Kilmer. How could I forget the words that my First-Grade teacher made me commit to memory? Basta, this fine man, he could snap the garter of panties and make nuns cross themselves. To clarify, this is a fetish of mine, ghorl. Okay? Fetish.   

The other passengers are fast asleep or quietly watching the monitor. A Celine Dion concert is on. What a woman, Celine. Her voice alone could make you shed a tear. The string intro of ‘My Heart Will Go On’ could have just thawed the icebergs.  

I direct my gaze through the window and sigh. It is the kind of sigh tied with a little hope and uncertainty. Will she still accept me?  

The bus leaves with seats to spare. It’s that time of day when a lot of the commuters wait by the road. They’re the ones avoiding the queues. And the noise of hawkers.  

My rituals whenever I’m about to conk out: 1) scroll Facebook, find the sense in memes, ‘like’ the deeply profound copy-pasted quotes and the pictures of charming, sweet-faced and ripped men, sixpack abs and all (Who knows? I might just hit the jackpot. As they say, for the economy!); 2) emote to the vocal stylings of Madonna or Lady Gaga; 3) retouch my slightly fading exquisiteness.      

Jesus is snoring over Celine Dion’s ‘All by Myself’. How I want to kiss him. I remember the old poster of River Phoenix I stole from my housemate and promptly showered with kisses.   

I shake off these daydreams as I apply foundation on my neck. I send Mama a text saying that I’ll arrive in our province by 9am.  

‘Alcantara, Noy.’ The conductor eyes me, punching the ticket. I pay. He stares at me again, his eyebrows clashing as if there’s a riddle on my forehead that must be examined and unravelled. He stares at my chest, which I immediately cover with my hands. ‘Is there a problem, Noy?’ 

He merely smirks, and I behold again his gapped teeth.  

It has been four years since I thought of returning to our province. The last time, I think, was a Christmas Eve. I brought ham and the ingredients for spaghetti and fruit salad because I’d won a raffle at work. I also gave Mama 8,000 pesos out of my thirteenth month’s pay. While we were eating the delicious fruit salad, my brother Undong burst into tears after he’d swallowed a small piece of firecracker. I quickly asked someone to buy seven eggs so that Undong could glug down the white albumin to repel the watusi toxins. Celebrations cut short, we went straight to bed when we got back from the hospital. I’d used the savings I’d brought home to pay the bill.  

* 

‘A miracle!’ Mama said after I told her I was coming home. Maybe they were used to my absence during All Souls and Christmas. Maybe they were used to just receiving a part of my wage every month.  

‘What’s the miracle, Ma? I just miss all of you, that’s all.’ I managed to say something trivial. I thought Mama would respond by saying, ‘The last four years, you never missed us then?’ Good thing she didn’t say anything. I was so thankful that Mama kept mum. She held that thought. She only responded with a deep sigh filled with a thousand words.  

‘At least we could listen together to the Siete Palabras on DYHP, no?’ I fumbled for something to say. I struggled to keep the conversation going. I wound up blabbering about a co-worker who was such a busybody, our team leader who had bad breath (maybe he has halitosis – did I spell that right? – whatever, someone who had bad breath); our trip to Camotes Island and Bantayan; our tent blown by the wind while we were camping in Mantalungon; my immortal tale about the man I saw jumping off a bridge in Mindanao. And in my telling of these stories, I assured her that I was well and lucid.   

I took a pause then burst out laughing, hoping to cleave the tension that was tilting on us. But my strained laughter vanished like a waning comet. We were shrouded in silence. I waited for Mama to say something. I kept quiet because I couldn’t gather letters to form words – words that would have become long paragraphs of forgiveness and remorse. But my tongue cowered and I couldn’t even begin to say what needed to be said.    

‘Your voice sounds different?’   

My heart jumped from my fragile ribs. (Yes, fragile, marupok, like my heart.) I didn’t respond to her question. I fudged it with a shake of the head, and quickly I said: ‘Okay, Ma, I’ll go ahead. I have to finish something here at the office.’  

Mama had listened to DYHP from morning to afternoon since I was a kid. She would listen while doing laundry or mending the holes in Manoy’s school uniform. One day I found her wiping her eyes while listening to a drama.  

‘You crying, Ma?’ 

‘Ay, nothing! Soap got in my eye. Hala, go head. Go and play outside so I can finish the laundry.’ That was her usual response when I asked why she was crying.  

Mama would cry whenever she was next to the radio. The sun would weep when she wasn’t laughing with her friends, doing laundry by the well.   

On Good Fridays, Mama would make binignit – sweet stew. I’d help her prepare the ingredients. I’d make sure we had glutinous rice, palm starch, coconut milk, ripe plantains, ube, and different-coloured sago pearls. Mama knew that I wouldn’t eat binignit without the sago pearls. We always prepared it with her battery-operated radio on in the background. It dispelled the loneliness at home. I eventually memorised the lyrics to the theme songs of her favourite dramas – and specifically the lines from Ramini, The Bronze Child.  

‘Tell your Manoy to stop playing. I’ve already told you that if you scratch your knee it will never heal.’ 

‘Frank said that the head of a priest would come out from the wound.’ 

‘What your friend said is true. You want that to happen to you?’ 

‘No,’ I quickly said. Who wants a random head sticking out of their knee? I went out to get Manoy, fearing he’d stumble and injure himself.  

I was Mama’s third hand. She’d call to me whenever she had to send for someone or needed something bought. The days I’d come out to play? I could count them on my fingers. But there were rare times when I joined the children playing hide-and-seek. Because I never ran like other children did, my knees remained pristine; I’d snuggle behind wild grass until ants bit me. These knees? They might as well be insured like the stems of Victoria’s Secret models.   

My days were spent reading paperback romances, answering crossword puzzles in the newspaper, and sketching dresses for the hideous-looking doll I kept in the closet. I turned into a fashion freak after Mama became an Avon lady. She loved make-up.  

‘You look like a payaso, Alicia,’ Papa Berting said when he saw Mama’s rouged cheeks.  

‘Payaso?’ said Mama. ‘Am I looking dull to you now? It’s simply wrong to say that I’m no longer fresh. My vital statistics are thirty-six, twenty-six, and thirty-six. Remember that you pulled your pants down when you saw me selling seaweed.’  

Papa laughed. ‘Did you hit your head somewhere? That body is thirty-six, thirty-six, thirty-six. My rooster has more curves than you.’ After this, they went inside their room and got it on.  

Every time Mama got home, she’d bring a plastic bag stuffed with brochures and products that her clients had pre-ordered. I’d take a brochure and immediately flip the pages open, copy the styles and designs of the clothes, and, when Mama and Papa weren’t looking, I’d go to my room to hide and gaze at the male model who was wearing only his underwear. I ran my finger down his veiny arm, across his sculpted chest, and many times my finger lingered on the briefs. One time I couldn’t resist tearing out a page. I hid it under the bed; sometimes, the cushions.    

‘Who tore out these pages?’ 

Nobody would answer. I kept reading my romance novel. Manoy Jimboy didn’t say a peep either, playing with his Rubik’s Cube. After that day, Mama hid the brochures in her room. One day I saw some of them tucked behind Mama Mary’s altar. 

Every Sunday, Mama would ask me to fetch Papa from the cockpit. He’d wake up early in the morning to feed Rambo the gamecock and superstitiously spit on it with water he’d gargled.  

‘He is your family’s good luck charm, Bay Ramon,’ said a friend of Papa’s. ‘Better than a Texas or Mitra cock.’  

Papa would grin while caressing Rambo’s head – the only rooster in our village with only three claws. There was even a story about Rambo on TV. He could’ve been featured in Noli de Castro’s news program. Papa was so proud of his cock. Someone asked him what he fed the animal, whether it was Korean feeds or Taheebo from Caesar, the medicine man who sold balms for treating gas and body aches. Caesar walked around with a large snake that he kept in a metal cage. Like Rambo, his snake John Lennon was also his lucky charm. But Papa would laugh off their queries, and his laughter and smirk only intrigued the crowd more.   

‘Go borrow a rooster from the neighbours so that they’ll let you into the cockpit,’ Mama told me before I went out to fetch Papa; the first time I’d gone to get him at the cockpit, I hadn’t been allowed inside. The sign outside said: ‘p5 intrance. free if you bring checken.’ The words were scrawled on a slab of wood, the charcoal inscribed over and over to darken each character and really bring home the message.  

So I went home and returned with a hen. But they didn’t let me in. ‘Noy, I thought I could go in if I bring a chicken,’ I said to the old man in charge of the door, the hen ensconced in my armpit.  

The elderly man laughed and said: ‘What will you do with that hen, Dong. This is a cockpit. You want us to make malunggay soup from it? Run home and bring us a rooster.’ 

If Papa didn’t have errands, he’d bring me to the basketball court. ‘I want you to be the next Jaworski.’ I was tall and long-limbed. The result, they said, of my mother’s cravings for octopus when she was pregnant with me. So, fiiiight! They really couldn’t imagine I could also hit it big as a fashion model, no? They really went with this idea: I was destined to be a basketball star. But not once had Papa ever mentioned buying me a basketball. See? 

Mama, my dear, once bought a paperback romance and that really became my thing. Sometimes, Papa groused that my hobbies were feminine. I wasn’t at all into sports. Never did I entertain the thought of wearing jerseys emblazoned with the logo of the Bulls or the Lakers.   

‘It’s better that he reads books than take after your vices,’ said Mama.  

‘Of course you side with your son.’ 

‘And who would want to have a child who is just like you?’ 

‘I taught them how it is to be a man. I don’t want to have a son with white balls.’  

‘The only type of man you know plays basketball and trains roosters.’ 

‘Ah, kaletse! If you wanted so bad to have a daughter, you shouldn’t have forced me to pull out. I could’ve given you ten daughters!’ Papa’s voice shook the house. Soon after, he left.  

Okay, this. One day, Papa asked me to tether Rambo in the yard because he, Mama, and my two other brothers were going to church. That day, it was the barrio fiesta. I couldn’t go with them because I had the flu. It was the first time I saw Papa attending mass because every Sunday or during the Feast of Saint Michael the Archangel he only went to the church of the arena. Nong Kanor would be there, the Christ of the Cockpit. He was like a god who knew every man who came to the gallery and on which cock they betted. ‘Now that’s a true Christ,’ said Papa.  

I stuck the nail near the small cot under the mango tree where Mama lounged whenever she wanted us to pick out her white hairs. I lay on the cot and soon fell asleep. I woke up to Papa’s hard slap. ‘Letse ka! Where is Rambo?’ 

I was stunned. Ohmygod. He was furious. A demon in a newly constructed circle of hell that Dante had forgotten to mention. The only thing left was the rope. Rambo was gone.  

Papa searched everywhere for his lucky cock. He searched for three months. He went to Carcar after hearing somewhere that Rambo had been seen there. He went looking as far as Naga and Talisay. Every day Papa regretted it. He shouldn’t have gone to mass, he said. He shouldn’t have asked me to watch over his beloved rooster. And the days came when our names changed. Monday he’d call me Letse; Tuesday I was Peste. And next, Manoy Jimboy would be Letse. Not a day went by without Papa christening us anew. Each day we were dampened by his cold disdain and licked by his fiery expletives. Hotter than the hot chocolate on a Sunday paired with rice cake and mango. There was heat that could burn the throat. But there was also heat that could scald the heart.     

Years passed, Papa died of cirrhosis, and I didn’t go home for his funeral. I only sent Mama some money for the coffin, and coffee and crackers for the people who went to the wake to gamble. 

* 

The bus makes a stop. At last I can stand and let my virtuous but tired glutes breathe.    

‘Thirty minutes for those who need to pee, take a dump, have breakfast or early lunch, and take pictures.’ The front door of the bus opens and, like clockwork, the vendors of chicaron, banana chips, and rice pops climb into the vehicle. The driver leaves and walks to the nearest eatery. I try to call Mama but the reception is too weak.   

Knowing we still have a long way to go, I step out to take a leak. I make my way to the public restrooms. Before walking into a toilet I am greeted by a large sign beside an old man guarding the entrance. It’s a far cry from the old signboard at the cockpit, its letters painted clearly: ‘IHI – 2 pesos, LIBANG – 5 pesos.’ Below these words is the translation for the foreign vacationers: ‘URINET – 2 pesos, POO – 5 pesos.’ In Jesus’s name! This is why God no longer pays attention to His people.  

I hand the attendant two pesos. He furrows his brows and glares at me. I give him three more pesos. Maybe he was thinking that I was going to take a shit. He’s still staring. I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying something mean. God knows why.  

The bus honks, a signal for passengers to return.  

I take a while to come back. Tucking is a little tricky. The act requires some expertise. One must take time. It is important not to bulge while I wear my leggings. Otherwise, a meaty tuck won’t do my outfit justice. ‘Mangina’ is what it’s called, I was told by a drag queen friend who’s about to become a cougar herself (she’s set on chasing the heels of none other than RuPaul). Others call it ‘Jupiter,’ as in ‘jupit’ or ‘clip it tight’. It’s a practice common among bayots who join Miss Gay pageants during fiestas. This friend of mine – whose name is more butch than a porter at the marketplace – taught me all this. ‘Day, if you’re thinking of queening out, might as well go all the way. Exude radiance! Don’t let anyone snuff out your flame. Let your true colours shine through your skin.’ It’s like that expression: ‘If you get wet in the rain, might as well shower in it.’  

This butch friend of mine is the one who taught me the bayot tongue. Like E.T.’s argot. A cousin of Kokey’s extraterrestrial jargon. Gay lingo, if we ask the linguists.  

‘Derit yrev os,’ said my friend who now wants to be addressed as Georgina Wilson. So very tired. 

‘Hebi.’ Heavy 

‘Emewly Dickinson yesterday once more.’ Yesterday I cried. 

‘Horton Hears a Who? Uvula?’ Who? You? 

‘Mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Crayola 36 colours! Smellanie Griffith the seatmate yesterday in the jeep.’ I wept. I cried buckets of tears. Yesterday in the jeepney, I sat next to someone with stinky armpits. 

Bless her, this amiga of mine. I think so highly of Georgina. She’s one of those who has gone full mermaid and reached the Atlantis of Freedom.  

As I return to the bus, a kid starts gawking at me. I stretch my lips at him. He turns to his mother and says: ‘Ma is that a bayot? Ha-ha. Bayot.’ 

‘Yes, just look at that face. Scary, no? You shouldn’t be like that, okay? Or else people will laugh at you and you’ll go to hell.’ 

I walk on. I look for my seat. My knees wobble. My heart aches underneath bones flesh skin foam and push-up bra. It would be better if I turned into a fish.    

* 

Alcantara is one of the municipalities in southern Cebu. Back in the day, there were more trees in town than people. Like other municipalities far from a hospital, the residents lived happily without their Jollibee, Starbucks, or Wi-Fi. Daily survival depended on selling crops, farming, and rearing pigs, goats and poultry. Back then, a family was fortunate to have sired a child who eventually landed a job abroad as a caregiver or nurse. Even luckier if a son or daughter finished a degree and topped the licensure examinations in nautical, civil, or marine engineering. The family would then order a banner made of tarpaulin large enough to cover the road. When I was little, I often strolled into an open clearing with other children. The place was a bit far from our house. We played Chinese garter and P.S.-P.S. Together we sang: ‘P.S., P.S, I Love you. Do you love Gabby? Yes, or no?’ In that same clearing they would stage the town’s baile, bringing out the youth and adults alike for a night of dancing. Palm fronds would fence the whole clearing. 

Each family would shell out five or ten pesos, or if they couldn’t afford it they would have to send a representative of the family – a maiden who would dance with the bachelors. At sunset, the young men prepared themselves. I’d go with Manoy, who never missed a baile. Manoy would bring the torch, and I carried our rubber flipflops as we trudged the muddy path to the venue. Before the men were allowed to enter, they would have to purchase a ribbon that they’d pin to their chest. Manoy bought a red one. He’d have wanted the rainbow-coloured ribbon, although it wasn’t cheap, because if you had all the colours you could dance with the partner of your choice. But he’d spent most of his money on a spider that he could enter in a derby only for ants to ambush the spider the next day.   

‘We’re about to start, we’re about to start,’ shouted the DJ as he played the first song on the gramophone. ‘The first colour… red!’ 

The men with red ribbons searched for a partner among the women waiting on their seats. The rich guys who could afford the rainbow ribbons also went looking. Manoy quickly made a beeline for a pretty woman who was patiently sitting in a corner. She was about to get up and greet Manoy when a rich boy stepped in between them. Looks-wise, Manoy was handicapped; the boy had a sharp nose and a slick combover, while Manoy’s nose looked as if it had been stepped on by a limping tree demon and he didn’t have a splotch of pomade in his hair. Manoy Jimboy and the rich boy argued with each other. But I already knew who the young woman would pick.        

That night, I began to wish that I was one of the lovely and entrancing maidens for whom handsome and strong young men tripped over themselves just to have a word. But it was only a pipedream. I couldn’t deny what was between my legs. I was not someone they’d fight over. I was not someone they’d choose. That same night, I peeped from behind the fence while fireflies and mosquitos danced over my head. I went ahead on my own; back home, I pored over Mama’s brochures.       

Every day, after school, Manoy would take me on a detour to a creek. It ran shallow, and Manoy and a classmate of his waded out until they reached the headwaters. When they spotted small fish, they’d catch them and place them in their lunch boxes. Morsels of food floated alongside the fish. Even though Manoy was excited to catch the latest episode of Voltes V, he still went ahead and passed by the creek for another reason. Several women washed their school uniforms there. He enjoyed watching the women’s breasts get wet in the cool waters of the creek. He loved it when they wiped the suds that clung onto their cheeks and thighs. We couldn’t help but soak our pants as we splashed about the shallow pool. We made sure to dry ourselves before heading home. But Mama could easily tell. It was if she had some sort of power that allowed her to know our secrets. And I hesitated going to the creek with Manoy because I was scared of leeches.    

One time I didn’t take the detour with Manoy. I went ahead. I didn’t want Mama to get upset. I wanted her to be proud of me, prouder than Papa was of his lost rooster.  

When I got home, Mama was picking the leaves off some malunggay stems. Papa was quietly pulling stray hairs from his moustache using two one-peso coins. I had prepared something to say if they asked me where Manoy was.  

‘If I can’t make it home by the time Voltes V defeats the enemy robot,’ Manoy said to me before we parted, ‘tell Mama that I’m doing a school project. Make something up, Dong, uy. You’re good at that.’ 

I quietly took off my shoes and socks and went to the bedroom.  

‘Where’s your damn brother?’ Damn was Manoy’s new name. ‘Hoy, letse, I’m asking you!’ 

I quickly stepped out of the room and said: ‘He went with his classmate, Tay. They were carrying materials for their school project.’  

‘School project? Again?’ Mama cut in while preparing the chicken in moringa broth.  

‘T-they have a s-science project. They’re going to observe the growth of mung bean seedlings on wet cotton.’ I tried to remain as calm as possible as I spoke. Papa meted out punishment severely. Once Manoy was put in a sack, which was then tied to a jackfruit tree over a pile of burning leaves bursting with smoke. As Papa would say, ‘I know well to bring hell on earth.’ 

Manoy arrived late in the night. He came through the door sobbing. Papa closed his fists as he eyed Manoy’s drenched pants and wounded leg. Manoy’s eyes met mine. If only my eyes could communicate by blinking, they would have said: ‘Forgive me.’ 

‘This is the mung bean project, huh?’ Papa glared at me, then he got up. The house fell quiet, ready for Papa to deliver his sermon. His face was crimson.  

He pulled Manoy by the arm and dragged him off to Mama’s room. If the falling of Manoy’s tears had made a sound, I would have gone deaf. Soon, Papa called out for me. When I came in, I saw Manoy kneeling on a spread of mung beans. ‘You can now help your brother with his science project.’ 

Without hesitating, I stooped beside Manoy and wept as each hard bean slowly buried itself into my knees.  

* 

‘Lugar lang!’ I yell, and the bus slowly eases to the side of the road.  

Jesus turns to me, flashing his teeth, and says: ‘Take care.’ 

I nod timidly and start to leave. My god. Your number kuya, please. But it’s too late. The bus has already left.  

Shafts of light and a certain stillness welcome me. As I walk home, I gradually notice some changes. The lawn where we used to hold the baile has transformed into a plaza. They have installed a playground set of swings, a slide, and monkey bars. Someone has set up a stall to sell fried tempura and kwek-kwek. Manang Cora, who used to sell boiled corn and cracked bibingka cakes outside our elementary school, now owns a grocery store. With each step towards home, my dread seems to grow, an unease spreading progressively in my flesh, slowly blanketing me. Fear stabs my kneecaps like mung beans. Like a leech sucking the strength from my knees. I feel like going back to the bus and sitting next to Jesus. I feel like taking a trip with no destination.                  

My cellphone beeps. A text message from Mama: ‘IM STL N MERCADO.’ Why do older people send messages in all capital letters?  

Fine, I have to compose myself even though my palms are sweaty and shaking. I reply: ‘OK Ma. I’ll wait for you on the cot under the mango tree.’ 

I put down my heavy luggage when I reach the cot. I reacquaint myself with the comfort of lounging under the mango tree. I look around. Papa’s rusty chicken coop is still there. Our house still looks the same but is now surrounded with blooming bougainvillea and orchids. The cot still smells of coconut wine. Perhaps people drank here last night.     

I can’t quite understand what I’m feeling. Fear swirls with my longing to see Mama again. Will she still accept me? Four years have passed since this question arrived, and still the question remains. I take out my hankie and wipe the pearls of sweat from my forehead. Soon, I hear Mama’s voice. I can see her in the distance lugging large plastic bags. She’s heading to where I am. Sweat beads out, again, on my forehead. How rapidly my heart beats. I slowly make out Mama’s exhausted face. She’s already wrinkled. The lines on her skin reveal traces of a past that I yearn to retrieve from the dark of years when I left her behind. The aura of a joyful face – powdered, painted, bright with fervour – has faded. Her eyes look tired, their loveliness dimmed. Gone are the big moths of her lashes that fluttered when she blinked. I didn’t expect to see my own paragon of beauty now tarnished and ravaged by time.  

I gaze at her. Mama doesn’t say anything. She merely examines my dress, covered in floral patterns and specked with ersatz crystals. Her eyes rest on my heels. She doesn’t let a word slip. I lower my head; shame.  

After a moment, she says, ‘Go inside. I’ll make some sweet stew.’  

I follow Mama. I notice the neighbours watching. Some of them chuckle. The others murmur. As we enter the house, Mama plonks down her purchases. Her sigh is deep.  

I learn that Manoy left the house some time ago after marrying the girl he met at a disco club. It turns out he’d got her pregnant. Manoy took with him our youngest sibling – to send him to school, and so that he could help with the new house and family. Mama lives by herself with the dolls that are still encased in plastic, the empty wine bottles, and the photographs hung on the walls. The toy gun that I used to believe had belonged to a Power Ranger is piled along other toys.  

‘Get up and put your flip-flops on.’ Mama avoids looking me in the eye. Her face has soured. ‘Help me slice the plantain and the ube.’ 

I walk up to the table but Mama immediately leaves, bringing with her the coconut milk. I struggle with the slicing. My fingernails are so long and so green. They are accented with tiny pineapples. 

We prepare the binignit in silence. Mama doesn’t even turn on her radio. Only my breath, the soft clinking of utensils, and Mama’s sighs fill the kitchen as we prepare the stew.  

After cooking, I freshen up. Our bathroom is the same, partitioned with the same old shower curtain. There are little bottles of conditioner and shampoo, and a withered stalk of aloe lies atop of a misshapen bar of soap.   

I almost jump when, after putting on a wraparound, Mama walks into the bathroom. She’s holding a pair of scissors. She says not a word. She holds my long hair in her hand and starts snipping. I can hear the sharpness of the shears, sharp as silence. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I just watch as clumps of hair fall to the floor, my tears racing them to see which can reach the ground first. We remain in the bathroom for nearly an hour. It’s as if I’m a child again. When Mama would use her foot to wipe my butt. When she would give me a bath after I’d soaked myself in the drizzle.  

Mama steps out of the bathroom and walks into her room. Soon after, I follow and begin to dress myself. ‘When you’re done, come into the kitchen – the binignit is ready.’ 

I bow my head. I want to speak, but I take the words back and toss them into the void. I walk over to the full-sized mirror to comb my hair. I pause. I stare at my new haircut. Short, with side bangs. Then I realise: I look like Rihanna.  

‘Come here.’ 

Mama’s sweet stew is a different colour now. Before it was bluish purple because of the ube. Now it’s gone pink. I want to ask her how she achieved such a colour, hoping that it might spark a conversation.  

‘Eat.’ 

Mama has used every colour of sago pearl in her binignit. She probably remembers that I don’t like having the sweet stew without sago. It tastes just as delicious, even with the new tint. Warm. Sweet. It relieves the fatigue after a long journey. Soothes the tightness in the breast. 

‘That hairstyle looks good on you.’ 

I lift my eyes to my mother. She quietly partakes of the sweet stew. Our eyes meet. Her face suddenly lights up. She places down the spoon and asks: ‘So, Dong John, when are you going to introduce your boyfriend to me?’  

Warmth spreads across my face. I slurp the remaining binignit soup. The sweetness tickles my throat. I tilt my head gently, my lips parting and lifting.