Growing up in a matriarchal family of three children meant that my mother called the shots in every aspect of our lives.
She decided everything - from small chores like who would sweep the floor or wash the dishes, to bigger matters such as how the little money we had was spent.
My father rarely questioned her. If he did, he was met with a glare sharp enough to silence him.
She ruled with an iron fist. Her temper could rise in an instant, fierce enough to frighten even the most mischievous child into obedience.
We lived in constant fear under her watch, my father included. In our tiny rented room, there was little furniture, but rattan canes of different sizes stood in the corners like silent sentinels. Each one had its own grim purpose, chosen according to the gravity of the offence.
I can still remember the sharp sting of those punishments. Sometimes, when my siblings and I tried to escape behind our father for protection, the canes found him too. His attempt to shield us often only made him another target.
I have often wondered whether my mother’s stern ways were learned from her own upbringing - I was told that my maternal grandmother also kept her family in line with an unyielding hand.
My memories of childhood are scattered, but one thing I know: we lived in conditions that today would be called deplorable.
I grew up in the Pudu neighbourhood in Kuala Lumpur- in a village called Kampung Brunei. It is within walking distance to the city centre by the standard of those days when public transport was scarce. It took us just short of 30 minutes to walk to Jalan Bukit Bintang via various shortcuts.
Our home was a single room in a long, uneven wooden building with walls made of planks nailed together and a zinc roof
The roof was patched with dried coconut leaves to lessen the noise that would come from the pelting rain during a heavy downpour.
More than ten families crowded into that structure, each in their own room, sharing a single open-air kitchen in the middle.
That kitchen was the heart of the building. It was noisy, smoky, and alive with the mingling smells of different families’ meals.
My mother claimed a small corner for us: just enough space for a stove and a wooden larder where we kept our few pots, pans, plates, and cutlery. Cooking was no easy task.
Every week, an Indian trader came by in a bullock cart, selling dried tree bark for fuel. My mother would haggle with him, but my attention was always on the cow.
I waited for the sound of its bells tied round its neck, and when it came near, I would rush out, more excited by the animal than by the firewood that kept us fed.
Starting the fire required patience. We struck a match, arranged the tree bark, and then leaned over with a hollow iron pipe, blowing carefully until the flames caught. If we blew too hard, the embers scattered; too soft, and the fire died. It was tedious work, but we had no choice.
Electricity was a luxury we did not have. At night, the poorer families relied on carbide lamps, their harsh glow filling the corridors, while those who could afford more used gasoline lamp lanterns.
Shadows stretched across the narrow hallways, and our room - after squeezing in a bed and a cupboard - left almost no space to move.
My mother, ever resourceful, found a solution for our sleeping arrangements. She raised the bed on four wooden blocks so that my sister, brother, and I could crawl underneath.
It was cramped, but we had a place to lie down at night. From that low space, I would often stare at the wooden planks above, listening to the creaks of footsteps outside, waiting for sleep to come.
Perhaps it was because our room was so stifling that I spent much of my time outdoors.
The compound around the building was large, and children from all the families poured out to play there.
We chased each other, invented games, and sometimes stood on the sidelines of the badminton court, wishing we were old enough to join. That court was strictly for adults or the few children who showed talent.
CHILDHOOD MEMORIES OF THE NIGHT SOIL DAYS
But the one thing I dreaded most was the toilet. It stood alone, at the far end of the compound, about two hundred feet away.
Walking there at night felt like a journey into the unknown. The structure was raised on five cement steps. Its zinc roof rattled in the wind, the plank walls left gaps for anyone outside to peek through, and the cement floor was cold beneath bare feet.
There was no flushing system, only a crude arrangement that made the place reek. I remember holding my breath, counting the seconds until I could get away.
The cubicle walls were made of wooden planks, and the floor was cement-rendered. Right in the middle of the flooring was a large round hole. When we peered into it, we could see a bucket collecting stools and urine from more than ten households.
The “night soil” bucket was collected by courageous souls who came in the wee hours of the morning, when everyone was fast asleep. They would replace the full bucket with an empty one, and the contents - rich with “nutrients” - would eventually find their way to some farm somewhere.
For us, the challenge was figuring out how to squat at the edge of the hole to do our business without falling in.
At five years old and only three feet tall, I always found it a frightening ordeal. One wrong step and I could end up in the bucketful of waste.
To find some comfort, I preferred squatting at the edge of a small bridge that cut across a shallow stream near the compound of our main building. It was airy, more spacious, and most importantly spared me from the awful stench inside the cubicle.
Or so I thought…
One sunny morning, nature’s call brought me to the bridge. I pulled down my trousers, squatted at the edge, and was halfway through my business when I noticed a stray dog creeping toward me. Drawn by the smell, it came closer and began sniffing at my private parts. Terrified, I lost my balance and tumbled into the stream.
Thank goodness the water was shallow but it was full of wastewater discharged from the surrounding households. I screamed, and neighbours came running to pull me out.
I was rushed home to my mother, who at that time had been busy preparing a meal in the communal kitchen. She dropped everything and immediately scrubbed me down with soapy water, finishing the ritual with a generous splash of cheap eau de toilette.
That episode left a lasting mark. For days, I became the butt of jokes across the village. Fortunately, in a place where new stories surfaced daily, my embarrassment was soon forgotten.
Our childhood pastimes were simple and cost nothing. From playing with rubber bands to crafting our own kites, we never worried about danger or hygiene.
We dug up earthworms, splashed in the stream, and caught tiny fishes with our bare hands.
The compound itself sat on fertile soil, and I often noticed pinholes scattered across the ground. We would cut a rubber band, insert it into the hole, and—like magic—a white worm would appear, wriggling at the tip.
Much later, I realized these “worms” were actually maggots, probably born from the night soil bucket.
Evenings were spent at the outdoor badminton court, eagerly waiting for a chance to retrieve shuttlecocks for the older players.
Even in such hardship, childhood has its small joys. I can still recall the sound of laughter in the compound, the thrill of running barefoot on dusty ground, the jingling bells of the bullock’s neck, and the relief of slipping into the cool dark space beneath the bed. Life was harsh, but within it were moments of wonder that only a child could see.
It was against this backdrop that I grew up—independent, curious, and free to roam as I pleased—until I finally entered primary school in 1966.
Vincent Lim (limhockmian@gmail.com) is a content creator under the Newswav Creator programme, where you get to express yourself, be a citizen journalist, and at the same time monetize your content & reach millions of users on Newswav. Log in to creator.newswav.com and become a Newswav Creator now!
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