Three Generations

Wealth does not pass three generations.

That was what Ma used to say when she was in one of those bouts of melancholy. I missed Ma. She was a good woman. I never knew I'll get to her age when I did. It is just weird to think that I am as old as Ma was when she was Ma. I used to carry a picture of her in my purse right above my driving licence. She wasn't even my biological Ma not that it made a difference. When she died, I was devastated nonetheless. It was four years before I could speak of her without choking. It troubled me that I no longer remembered her face. Happily or unhappily (depending on which side of the story intrigued you) she was the link to my distant past. And exactly why am I looking so far back? I don't know. When we grow old and gray we make a habit of looking back in retrospect and wishing to call back the days of youth. 

As a teenager, I commuted daily to the college in the city. It was a precondition set by Ma. 

"If you want to enter that college, you'll have to commute daily. I won't have you staying away from home."

That should give you some indication of the level of trust that Ma and me had between us. Then again, you mustn't forget that I was educated in a school where English was the medium of instruction, and the product of this decision suffered (at the time) the terrible malady of "turning bad". (More about this HERE.)

I cannot remember the name of the bus company but I remembered that it was red and white and it costs a dollar and ten to reach the city.

I also remembered the guy with the Afro. Mr Afro (not his real name) was a public accountant in his mid twenties. He commuted daily to the city. He was clean shaven and neatly dressed and stood a few inches over me. If you think I'm tall, please continue to think so. I once told Jo (not her real name) that anyone taller than me, is tall. She laughed and decorum would have called for nothing less. I grinned as I always do to indicate that I wasn't serious.  Back to Mr Afro, I remembered thinking that it was weird for a public accountant to sport an Afro. The stereotyped accountant as I envisioned was basically straight laced and goody two shoes. 

One morning, Mr Afro asked me if I had any problems with my family. (Which teenager doesn't?) It was as weird a question as any public accountant with an Afro could ask, so I held my tongue and gave him one of those I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it look.

"I know lots of young girls like you who have family problems."

Silence.

"I used to help them. "

Silence.

"Do you know the *Alleycats?" ~~~ (*local musical band.)

"Why yes!"

"I know them very well. I used to hang out with them. Those girls I told you about? The ones with family problems? I take them to meet with the Alleycats. They're very happy now, living independent lives in the city."

I nodded and smiled. My instincts were on fire. It was time to avoid the man. He disappeared from the commuter line until a few months later when he mysteriously reappeared, unshaven and slovenly dressed, a ciggie between his lips.

The moral of this story? Don't trust public accountants with Afros. 

I spent many hours at the window seat of the bus, looking out the window and imagining up a storm. I was good at that, real good, just so you know.

When the bus took us up the oil palm slope, I remembered the time when we hiked into the estate, carrying pots and pans. It was called the "Six Mile Expedition." We were supposed to walk six miles to a predetermined destination (we took the bus), camp, cook a meal, then return. And Jackie (not her real name) had a monthly inconvenience when we arrived but that's a story for another time. Why we participated in the "Six Mile Expedition?"To become First Class Guides. (I'm not sure if we accomplished that.)

Next to come up on the road was the cemetery. That's the spooky spot where my Dad was buried. I don't know anything about the man. He died when I was this high.

Then, there's the Soon Seng Group. A spread of about three to four factory buildings right smack in the middle of nowhere (at the time). This entity looked impressive. They must be pretty wealthy. I wondered what it was like to own such an entity. It took about ten years for a rag to riches story to come out of the mysterious Mr Soon Seng, (not his real name) founder of the Soon Seng Group.

Mr Tick (not his real name) was one of my colleagues at a time long gone.  He told me how Mr Soon Seng arrived at these shore, young, impoverished and hungry. This hunger helped him built his empire which later became the Soon Seng Group. Now, Mr Tick had an impoverished cousin who fell in love with the sole daughter of Mr Soon Seng. It was a mismatch as far as the old man was concerned.

"We are not social equals. If you marry him, I will disown you."

The besotted daughter married her pauper. The old man disown his daughter and struck her out of his Will. He died many years later in a road accident. A truck hit him while he was on his bicycle attempting to cross the road. Or so the story goes.

Today, the Soon Seng group of factory buildings no longer carried their name. I wondered what became of the Soon Seng Group. I wondered if it outlasted the three generations of the age-old adage.

And then, there was Magdalene. Magdalene was a school senior with sultry looks. She had wavy shoulder-length hair which were neatly tied up with blue ribbons in school. She often let her hair down when out of school where she attracted lots of attention as she was ... umm ... well endowed.

I bumped into her once on the bus and as it passed some building under construction, I asked Magdalene.

"I wonder what they're building."

Magdalene frowned as she pondered and it was several minutes before she answered, almost solemnly "I think they're building something."

We nodded sagaciously.

I cannot reminisce decently without thinking about Harry. (not his real name.) Harry used to be a prominent businessman way back when.  He inherited a company whose name stood to this day in the residential suburbs. The lady who founded this company was said to have adopted several demonic creatures which gave her a foothold in the prosperity she coveted. There were tales circulating at the time, about the lady and her strange demonic-feeding rituals, of dishes and cutlery, bowls and plates, placed before empty seats. When she passed away, none of those who survived her continued with this ritual. It was said that the enraged demons became blood thirsty and started feeding on the patrilineal bloodline.

The company no longer existed, or so I heard. Harry is gone. Most of the male line died tragically in the bloom of youth.

Is this story substantiated? Nah.... There isn't a shred of evidence to hold it up. But wait! I did have a colleague who knew the young-uns intimately, that is before they died prematurely.

So ... yup! Wealth does not pass three generations, not in this case, if we are to believe what we hear.