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Friday, November 15, 2013

Peter George and Mustapha

     When I read the article I posted on December 6, 2011, I realized that I should not have written '(Part Three: Last Part) since memories about my schooldays would pop up from time to time.  The latest about the time when I was relegated from standard three into standard two at Sekolah Ismail Dua English School and stayed at the best class until standard six.  But before that I am going to write about a few of my classmates.
     I could still remember some of my friends who were in Standard Three Suloh; Peter George, Michael Lim, Mustapha and Aziz Isa.

     Peter George whom I believed to be an English boy as he looked like one, was fond of whistling the tune 'Negaraku'.  He would proudly tell me that he could 'do it'  very well, and I challenged him. and my God, he did!  Michael Lim, a fair boy with straight hair, spoke English slowly and had the air of a matured man.

     Another classmate was Mustapha.  He had a fair complexion, bushy eyebrows and coarse hair.  He had a box of 'Luna' colour pencils.  His friends always borrowed his colour pencils and they would always colour their sketches, or decorate the lines in their writing books together.  I, who did not have any colour pencils, once tried my luck in borrowing his.  But he answered coldly and determinedly 'No!' without looking up at me.  It made me angry and at the same time sad.  Angry because he did not want to share his pencils with me but did so with his other friends.  Sad because I suddenly felt small, belittled, humiliated as a small, black, dirty kampung boy who was not fit to be in their group.  I went back to my desk and decorated my writing books when the only pencil that I had, black.  "Never mind Bor, Dad said he used to support his very short pencil with a dry bamboo so that he could still use it to write," I consoled myself.

Because of his bushy eyebrows, this man could be Mustapha.  Who knows?
     All the three classmates that I mentioned above never appeared again in my life until now and I believe I would never meet them again for good.  However, the last name, Aziz Isa, appeared in my life a few more times after that although we did not become friends.  Aziz  was a small boy like me.  His father was a friend of my father, both of them school teachers.  There was nothing interesting about him actually.  He was only my classmate.

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