"Ye, ye, ye… Babah dah balik."
That was the song I used to sing at the door, waiting for my dad to come home.
It wasn’t a real song – not one you’d hear on the radio – just something 4-year-old me came up with.
A chant of excitement.
Of pure joy.
Because Babah was home.
We lived in JB, in an ordinary kampung house.
He worked in Singapore.
I didn’t understand the exhaustion in his eyes or why he always brought home the same cheap chocolate – Apollo wafer.
I didn’t even like it much back then. But I ate it anyway.
Because it came from him.
Now I understand – it was what he could afford.
It was his love in wafer form, bought in bulk with tired hands and a hopeful heart.
He’d bring back fruits, kuih, or murtabak after a long night shift.
I used to think he didn’t care about my school events or achievements.
He missed Parents’ Day, Sports Day, and prize-giving ceremonies.
I didn’t know then that he wasn’t absent by choice.
He was sacrificing his time, his rest, his body – for us.
Mom used to plant ideas in my head that made me believe he didn’t love us enough.
That he didn’t show up because he didn’t want to.
But when I became an adult, I saw the truth.
When I understood what bills were, and how painful cracked hands from factory work can be –
I cried for all the times I misunderstood him.
One time, he came home with a gift for me – a watch.
I wanted a Swatch. He got me a simple Casio.
I hid my disappointment.
But now…
I’d give anything to feel that moment again.
To receive anything – even Apollo wafers – from him, just one more time.
I still remember knocking on his bedroom door, scared of cockroaches, asking him to escort me to the toilet.
He never complained.
I remember the sound of him praying.
The scent of the kitchen when he made his kopi.
The feel of his scarred hands when I kissed them after he came home.
That house... it’s gone now.
And I’m angry.
Not just because we lost a building, but because it was our story.
It was the last place that still held my dad’s presence.
The walls remembered him, even if the world moved on.
I feel furious. Frustrated. Shattered.
But I also remember this:
I’m a Muslim.
And I cannot abandon those I’m hurt by.
I must choose patience.
Even when my heart feels like it’s tearing apart.
And deep down, I know – my dad would want me to choose softness.
He would tell me to forgive.
Still, the biggest regret that haunts me is this:
I never got to say, “I love you, Babah.”
I never got to say, “I forgive you for all the things you couldn’t be.”
But I hope he knew.
O Allah, have mercy on my father.
Make his grave a garden from the gardens of Paradise.
Bring peace to my heart that is breaking.
Guide me back to You with a heart that is pure.
And reunite us again in Your Paradise —
Where there is no more sorrow,
No more goodbyes.
Ameen.
