ME, MY DAD AND UNCLE DONDON

A story about foggy claims and vague clues.

Typical schoolboy— that's me back there. Those were the times that I really loved going to school and was looking forward for the everyday lesson. Life back then wasn't so stressful, at least when I was in school.

We just recently moved in from the suburbs, my father used to be a caretaker for this big, old house previously owned by a seaman who committed suicide and was even featured in Gas Abelgas’ S.O.C.O. around a decade ago. That house was purchased a city councilor, and my father was friends with him so they gave us the chance to live there until there's a sure buyer. No one bought it, but we relocated because the councilor decided to demolish the property itself, sell the scraps for extra cash, and instead offer the lot for around two million pesos.

The neighborhood we moved in were located on the edge of the slums, so it can be pretty hostile at times because of high crime rates surrounding the area. You know, petty fights, drug deals, the occasional shootings and robbery. You name it, the place have it. The apartment we moved in was very tight, the corridor can be only less than 2 meters wide. We had a lot of stuff, so they consumed the space outside. Moving to a different place always terrifies me. I don't know why, maybe because I tend to make friends with everyone a little longer than the average person, and also I'm bad at direction. I'm still overwhelmed sometimes about which in the direction is the north, the south and everything in between.

Of course, I needed to socialize, because my stepmom said that “it removes the monggoloid in me”. So I befriended a brat kid on the door in front of us. He didn't care about his gadgets and was once destroyed his PSP after a tantrum. While me, I just wept inside because I didn't have gadgets bought to me at the time. We later broke our friendship after je accused me of hitting his head on the bedpole while we were playing wrestling.

I'm tired of living a miserable life when I was at home so I tried wacky things to pass time. Some were useful, others were alarmingly dangerous. I once found a way to get a cable reception after tweaking the antenna for a painstakingly long amount of time, but I did it. I also tried to burn a stack of pizza boxes because I was bored. Luckily, the landlord put out the fire before it can even spread. I didn't know why he was so irritated by me, guess that I found him a legitmate reason to hate me. I just need someone who will understand and talk to me for once.

But one day, after arriving from school. I saw a new face inside. Another occupant? Another of those cousin of my stepmom? A guest? Who was it? After some uneasy silence and awkward staring to one another, the stranger broke the ice. In his thick accented voice, he greeted me. “Hello, I'm a friend of your dad. I'm sorry I didn't introduced myself to you a while ago, I'm just as shocked as you.” He really shook my hand. I felt like a respected adult. The first time I experienced that.

“My name is Dondon. You can call me Uncle Dondon,” he said. My dad had this habit of sheltering strangers for various reasons. I think my Dad really liked to help people in need. He recently helped a British-Indian mining engineer to get to Palawan after his lover sucked all his money dried.

Dondon was a cheerful guy, I quickly got comfortable with him. I believed that he was really my uncle. Why not? He helped me with the dishes, helped me with my assignments (he was surprisingly good in Math), and the most important fact is he listened to my stories. He talked with me. He really listened to my random venting and frustrations as an elementary student trying to get by, something that my father, I admit, lacked at that time.

He was sharply dressed and had a great physique. Something told me that he's maybe an army man or a gym buff. One time, we went to the local market with me. I was a picky eater back then, I'm still a picky eater today but I am getting better now at eating different kind of foods. I told him to buy me some hotdogs, and he did. He then bought fish for paksiw. On the way, I asked him why he bought the fish.

“Uncle Don, why did you bought the fish? Just asking.”
He smiled and said, “I love fish, I think I will be cooking paksiw for dinner. Do you love fish?”
To which I then replied, “No, I hate many foods. I like hotdogs though, they tasted good.”
“Fish tasted good also.”
“I hate the fishy taste, it made me gag all the time.”
“Why not start with tuna, tuna tastes like no other fish, it even tasted like chicken breast meat.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”

He then stopped at a toy store and bought me a brick game and a set of plastic imitation Mini Coopers. I was so glad, no one had bought me toys for years up to that point.

Later that day, Uncle Dondon told my father our conversation earlier at the market. They laughed and I was embarrassed. He noticed my facial expressions shifted.

“No, don't be embarrassed. You see, I am a healthy guy, I need fish to build my muscles,” he said.
My father replied, “Well why didn't you tell my son that you're a Muslim?”
I asked Uncle Dondon, “Are you really a Muslim?”
“Yes, that's right. Eating pork isn't allowed in my religion.”
“Well, there are chicken hotdogs there,” I said.
His face looked amused, he may thought that I had a point.

Days passed and he treated me the same, always helpful and a good listener to my random talkings. But one night, I noticed something while I was answering my assignments while I sat on the sofa. My fiddly feet hit a clankety metal under the sofa. I looked at it and I found a large bag. About the size of a golf swing bag. The bag's material were made of some durable material. It shaped like a harp.

Uncle Dondon talked to me from nowhere and said that I shouldn't touch those things because I might hurt myself. I asked him what's inside and he told me it contained his carpentry tools.

After some days, it was time to go. Uncle Dondon said that he will visit us again soon and will bring some gifts for us. He was planning to go to Kota Binabalu, which in Malaysia. After some more talking, he's gone with his large bag of things. I missed him at that point. The fact that I have found someone who listened to me and treated me seriously is a rare ocurrence. Or maybe he's just being polite to me. Either way, I don't care.

Months later, some guy named Pablo, a sworn enemy of my father from his gangster days, found our residence and tried to get passed the apartment's gate. My dad was quick to get ahold of his gun and threaten to shoot Pablo down. My stepmom however, convinced him not to use it. He instead grabbed a large block of stone and throw it to Pablo. His punk ass sped away, bloody and confused.

Some time later, while watching news, a coverage about terrorists in Mindanao, my father casually struck up a conversation.

“Hey, you know your Uncle Dondon, right?”
“Yes.”
“He's Khadaffy Janjalani though, a member of Abu-Sayyaf. The authorities thought that he's dead.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”

I don't how my father met him, but if he were really Khadaffy Janjalani, what were his intentions? Is he really alive after all or he's just claiming to be him? I don't know either.

END