Song of The Goat
I was born at 4am, right before Fajr, just like Pak Kyai said I would.
My mother consulted him and asked if I’ll be born healthy. To which he replied “of course he will be!”
He gave my mother a name, and I was named after it, and she gave her thanks along with what little change she had.
It was right after Maghrib when my father told me to pack my bags. He said he was shipping me off to pesantren, with what little savings we had.
There were so many things I wanted to ask, so many questions, but the phone rang and he had to answer. We didn’t have the time.
When the bus came and picked me up, he only said “Be grateful.”
My father had a little savings account for him and his family’s Hajj.
It was his lifelong dream. A dream that completely fizzled out when he had a stroke while waiting 15 years for his turn.
Speaking of Haji, there’s one that lives 3 houses down the road from us.
They shout “Haji! Haji! Haji!” when he pays to pave the neglected village road.
They whisper “Haji, Haji, Haji” when he enters the mosque for morning recitations. They kiss his hand, opens the door for his wife, and ask for money on Eid.
I’ve always wondered what would become of my family if we managed to make that pilgrimage.
Would the people kiss the ground my father walked on?
Would they ask me to bless and name their newborns?
Maybe we’d strike it rich, maybe we won’t. Maybe the local uncles will smoke the cigarette brands I tell them to smoke.
It was after Dhuhr when my friends told me that they will be moving soon. They’re off to the mines now that Pak Kyai manages it.
This’ll be their pilgrimage to the land of promises.
Maybe they’ll strike it rich, maybe they won’t. Maybe Pak Kyai will get a stroke before he goes on his second Haji in a row.
I won’t be shipping off my son when he turns twelve, but I will ask him to pray every chance he gets.
Pray for us, pray for us, pray for us.
Rabbanaa aatinaa fi dunya hasanah, wa fil aakhirati hasanah, wa qinaa adzabanar
