BUANASENI

Jesus Loves You

MORMONS were unknown to me (initially). Being a Muslim from Malaysia, I only knew the existence of a few main religions, namely Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, Hindu, Sikhsm and Judaism. As I mix with the society, more religions came to my knowledge. I only learnt about some of those when I was studying in Melbourne, Australia. To name a few, Shinto, Taoism, Jainism, Zoroastrianism, Confucianism, Baha’i, Paganism, Atheism, Free Thinkers, Agnostics, Polytheism, Scientology, Animism, Mandaloriansm, and whatever “ism” there are. Even Christianity is split into Catholicism, Anglican, Protestantism, Greek Orthodox, Seventh-day Adventists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Lutheranism, Methodism, Assyrian Church of the East and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; also known as the Mormons.

As I was waiting for the bus on the not-so-busy streets of Melbourne, a Mormon sat next to me. I was eighteen years old. I was a student studying Accounting, a religion in-itself, because it teaches balancing of accounts, like many other religions. I was with long hair and was wearing a heavy metal t-shirt with the infamous demon, Eddy of Iron Maiden, on the front, looking very unreligious. All I needed was eye shadow, colour my hair green and an upside down cross on my necklace; for me to look like a Satanist. So, the Mormon spoke, “Hello! There.”

“Hello.”

“I am William. You are?”

“I am Jo.”

“Are you a Christian?”

“No, I am not.”

“Well, today is your lucky day. I am here to say that Jesus loves you.”

“Well, I love Jesus too.”

“How can you say that you love Jesus when you are not a Christian?”

I looked at him and smiled, “Let me tell you who I love apart from Jesus or Isa. I love Adam. I love Enoch or Idris. I love Noah or Nuh. I love Lot or Luth. I love Abraham or Ibrahim. I love Ishmael or Ismail. I love Isaac or Ishak. I love Jacob or Yaakub. I love Joseph or Yusuf. I love Jonah or Yunus. I love Jethro or Shuaib, I love Aaron or Harun. I love Moses or Musa. I love Job or Ayub. I love David or Daud. I love Solomon or Sulaiman. I love Samson or Sami’un. I love Elijah or Ilyas. I love Samuel or Shammil, I love John the Baptist or Yahya; and I love Muhammad. Peace be upon them all.”

The Mormon looked at me with a confused face, “What religion are you again?”

“You know all those Prophets that I mentioned? Yeah!, all the religions that they preached, we just took it lock, stock and barrel. I am a Muslim my friend; and my religion is Islam.”

“I think you are a confused child. I would like to invite you to my church. We shall explore a better and more focused way of life for you,” said the Mormon.

“Well, I think you are myopic. Perhaps you should follow me to the mosque?” uttered me while climbing up the mini staircase to the bus. “Peace be upon you brother.”

The Best Soya Bean Drink in the World

SOYA bean drink is one of my favourite drinks. I have tried all sorts of soya bean drink from Drinkho, Yeo’s, local brands to the Soya Cincau you can get from the Mamaks. In 2015, I encountered the best soya bean drink I have ever tasted. It was home-made ground from the beans.

I was the Chief Executive Officer of MyCreative Ventures in 2015. Whilst my periodic reports go to the desk officers for Minister of Finance (Incorporated) Division at the Ministry of Finance, once a year I would brief the minister himself on what has been achieved for the past year and what next to do for the coming year. The Minister of Finance was Dato’ Sri Najib Razak.

He (Najib) was a busy man. I couldn’t get any meeting slots during the normal office hours. I was advised to go to his personal home at Bukit Tunku. So, there I was sitting on a big Italian sofa at a mini lounge just outside the meeting room. I took the opportunity to go through the reports on my laptop. After all, this was not a mere minister. It was the Prime Minister.

As I waited, various people passed-by in front of me, ushered by Najib’s Special Officer, into the meeting room. I guess these people have more important agendas than my two hundred million Ringgit investment portfolio for the Malaysian Creative Industry. There were Ministers including the ones that I remember, namely Dato’ Sri Salleh Keruak and Dato’ Azalina. There were Penghulus of Kampungs from Pahang. One of them wanted to request for funds to build a bridge in his Kampung. There were random people whom I don’t recognize but it was certainly a good mix of Malays, Chinese and Indians.

Then a figure whom I feared most walked pass by. She looked at me. Well, she stared at me, and asked, “Ha! Ni kenapa ni tunggu dari tadi lagi ni?”

I gulped my saliva and replied, “Errr,… tunggu Dato’ Sri. I am from MyCreative Ventures.”

“Lahhhh! Kesian lama tunggu ye.” Then she yelled out to her maid, “Hoi! Ni ha, bawakan air soya bean satu.” She smiled at me for the first time and went off into the meeting room. I wasn’t sure why, but perhaps she may have some ideas on how to design the bridge in that Kampung in Pahang.

“Thank you Datin Sri,” I responded politely. Five minutes later, the man-maid came with a tall glass of soya bean drink. It looked cold and adequately served with ice. I smiled and said, “Thank you, Bro.” I picked up the glass and paused momentarily. Then in my heart I prayed, “Ya! Allah, protect me from whatever nonsense. Bismillahi-Rahman-nir-Rahim.” I took the gulp. It was not just a gulp. It was The Gulp. It was The Gulp of a Soya Bean Drink. It was the Best Soya Bean Drink in the World that I have ever tasted.

The Gun Incident

GUNS are only tools that the policemen carry with them and I had never seen one being used in front of me. However, in 2004, a gun was pointed to my head. It was late at night after work. I was an auditor from PricewaterhouseCoopers and I was working like a mad dog trying to sort out the financial statements of a subsidiary of Malaysian Mining Corporation (“MMC”) called Tronoh Mines Malaysia Berhad (later changed name to Zeelan Berhad). I arrived at the front gate of my parent’s house in Shah Alam and was having a smoke in the car with the windows down. It was Marlboro lights cigarettes and a Proton Satria GTi car. 

I picked up my now obsolete Nokia handphone and dialed my girlfriend’s number. We spoke for a while and then, suddenly, there was a gun touching my head. The man who was handling the gun said, “Oi! Lu kasi tutup itu talipon. Lu keluar kereta.” 

I calmly said to my girlfriend, “Hey! I’ll call you back. I need to open the gates. You knowlah, my parents refuse to put automatic gate.” Then, I switched off the phone, opened the door and stepped out from the car. I looked at the man. He was in a black leather jacket with a bandana wrapped over the bottom half of his face. 

The man then said in what I would describe as a normal Klang Valley Malay accent, “Ehhh! Apa lu tengok-tengok? Lu menirap atas jalan sekarang.” I was still in a state of shock. It did not register in my head that not complying would mean danger. He said again, “Oi! Berapa kali gua nak cakap? Lu dah lah tidur dengan bini orang, aku tembak kang!”

I was further shocked and said, “Huh! Mana ada saya tidur dengan sapa-sapa. Saya virgin lah. Saya virgin lah.” Without any warning, the man struck the gun onto my head. My head bled. I fell to the ground. Meanwhile, his other colleague jumped into the car with the engine still running and sped off. The man with the gun jumped onto his motorcycle and sped off. 

I stood up slowly with blood dripping from my head. Even so, my accountant’s head was still working. I was making an inventory of items stolen in my head. I lost a car most definitely. I lost my laptop. Well, it was PricewaterhouseCooper’s laptop. I lost compact discs for Yngwie J. Malmsteen, Kelly Clarkson, Search, Wings and M. Nasir. I lost a bottle of half-drunk Vanilla Coke. I lost a packet of Marlboro. I lost a lot of blood too.

I went to the house bell and started to press it numerous times. Everyone was asleep in their airconditioned rooms. So, it took me nearly forty five minutes before the door opened and my twin brother saw me with eyes wide open, “Whaddahelll happened to you?”

“Well, this is just another late night working as an auditor. Hey! Give me a cigarette, will you.” We went inside and as I was glancing the blood on my left arm, I noticed that my father’s 1969 Rolex was still intact. It did not make it into the inventory.

The Gun Incident Again

GUNS scare me. I recalled that in 2004, a gun was pointed at my head. It was as if future memory had been played in my mind showing episodes of my future wife and my unborn kids. If that happens again in 2009, then those images would have been my wife of five years marriage and my four years old son. In 2009, there was a “gun incident” but none was pointed at my head.

I was working in the Finance Department of a company that owns the intellectual properties (“IP”) for various Malay movies. Those days, significant portion of a movie revenue would be contributed by its Digital Video Discs (“DVD”) sales. The company had made a deal with a DVD pirate whereby they would produce original DVDs exclusively instead of pirating. The catch was, that pirate would use their “influence” to ensure that all the other pirates would back off and not do any piracy of those movies. The revenues were meant to be split between the pirate and the IP owner.

Observing the agreement that the IP owner had with the pirate, I was to collect the IP owner’s share of the sales collection. So, I went to pay a visit, reluctantly. I was waiting in the meeting room for the chief pirate, a Chinese Dato’. The wait wasn’t that long but it sure felt like eternity. So the Dato’, he came in. “Hello! Johan. Long time no see. Normally we just meet during Hari Raya open house. Why today you are here?”

“No lah! Dato’. Maintain relationship maaaa!. Like this Dato’. Usually, you would pay on time. However, I can see that the last few quarters, there hasn’t been any payment. I just wanted to check whether everything is ok on your side.”

“Ehhh! Johan, wait ahhhh! I don’t feel comfortable. My jacket is too tight.” He stood up from where he was sitting and took out a gun out from the jacket and placed it on the table.

“Ehhh! Dato’. What is this? I am nobody lah. I am no threat. No need to show your gun lah Dato’. We just have a chat lah. You just tell me how do you plan to settle this and I will talk to my boss lah.”

“Ehhh! What are you talking about? Why are you so scared? I am fat and this gun is taking too much space in my jacket lah. Aiyaa!!! Relaxlah.”

I smiled but forcefully. He then took a piece of serviette and a Mont Blanc pen from his jacket. He scribbled on the serviette what looked like a table with time frame and amounts to be paid back. Then he spoke, “Ok! Like this. I am facing some cash flow hick ups. If you guys can wait a bit, I will surely pay one. Here, look at this. How does this look like? Can work?”

I took the serviette and only stared at the total on the bottom right. The amount seems right rounded to the nearest thousand. I nodded. Then, I wasn’t sure which idiot spirit had entered my cerebrum, I foolishly said, “Huh! Ok! Dato’. Now can you sign on this piece of paper? At least I can tell my boss this is not something I made up”

The Dato’ stared at me. I stared at the gun.

Eating Durian with the Prime Minister

NAJIB Razak, the Prime Minister, was seated next to me. It was the 2016 Hari Raya Open House for MyCreative Ventures. I was already in my fifth year as the Chief Executive Officer of MyCreative Ventures. It was the first and last Hari Raya do that we had a Prime Minister attending. It was awkward. I did not know how to behave sitting next to a Prime Minister. Checking my hand phone would have been rude. Striking a conversation would have been tricky for what topics should we have talked about?

Najib made the first move. He asked, “So, how many investees are Indians under MyCreative?” What the hell. Why can’t the Prime Minister just ask, “How many kids do you have?” Sweat starts to develop on my forehead. This was because the answer to that question was “Zero”. Being a politician, a “Zero” as an answer is political crisis. I could see him waiting for my answer.

So, I gently answered, “Dato’ Sri, at this juncture, we have none. However, let me provide you with some insights. The Malaysian creative industry is predominantly contributed by the Malays. The Chinese comes second. Naturally, they are only few Indian players in the industry to begin with.”

The Prime Minister stared at me and said, “Go find the Indians. There must be adequate representation of every segment of society in your investee portfolio.” I nodded. By that time the waiter had brought our plates of durians and had placed it in front of us. I suspect Najib had sensed my embarrassment for not having Indians in my investment portfolio. Being the seasoned politician he is, he quickly remedied my uneasy feeling by asking, “Ok, now how do I eat this durian? Should we use our hands or the fork and knife?”

I said, “Let’s use our hands?”

He said, “Errr…., I don’t think so.” He picked up his fork and knife and looked at me before he even touched the durians. That day became the first day and the only day in my life eating durians with fork and knife.