THE CITIZEN

I return to work with a newfound confidence. Robert Sebastian Cheong may be a scholar. He may be the favourite. But I am the reincarnation of Lee Kuan Yew. The Straits Times belongs to me. All those girls who love Robert Sebastian Cheong, once they discover the inner dragon that resides within me, they belong to me... I almost feel sorry for Robert Sebastian Cheong -- following the social norms as dictated by our government, the training to be a scholar, going overseas for his university education, collecting the prizes and adulation from parents, teachers and women alike -- all to become just another cog, another middle manager. 

Whereas I will rise from my post with the help of my followers to lead a revolution to return Singapore to the people. My fist, tightly gripping the destiny of a country to land a punch so hard that the waves will be felt across the world, and people will say -- that Li Jia Sen, truly the next visionary of Singapore, and undoubtedly the Lee Kuan Yew to take us into the 21st century. 

The day passes like a breeze. I finish the story on Tan Vee Bun and the Samurai Sword (Final title -- “An Ordinary Day With an Unexpected Ending”), dashing it off like one tosses toilet paper into the bowl, and leave the office at 5pm. Simply put, I have better things to do; I have a nation to save, and a wife to love.  

Joanne’s not at home. Of course, she’d be at school. studying Sociology to become a Sociologist. No matter, she’d be home soon, and I have much to tell her. 

I begin to daydream of ways in which her track record will be able to help me to take over Singapore -- to gain the power to stir up the spirit of the people. To bring back the Singapore of the land, the grit and determination of an artificial immigrant nation fighting for its life. When people didn’t play by the rules, and pushed, pushed, and broke against the walls of the world and the regime of oppression from without. The Singaporean that no longer imprisoned himself in the prison of pragmatism for money, of cheap carrots, of bread-and-butter issues, of savings accounts, fad investments in sham bonds, mathematics and engineering, not to forget the holy trinity in high society -- law, medicine and banking. People that would dream of unreasonable things and work towards them; people that see impossibility as an obstacle. Oh, my soul -- it fills up at the mere mention of these words. Joanne would be ecstatic, the future by my side, the future Gek Neo to my Kuan Yew.

My eyes rest on our bookshelf, filled up with our collections when we first moved in together. I remember at the time I was so excited to combine our libraries -- my box of books and her box of books side by side, then to be offloaded to a shared shelf, a shared repository of knowledge and wisdom. Chicken Soup For The Revolutionary Soul. 

We initially thought to arrange it in alphabetical order, which didn’t feel right. So we switched to subject, where it was clear that some subjects didn’t have a good mix between mine and her books. So it changed to author names, which made even less sense than the initial task of alphabetical order. After some time, it went back to subject, but only loosely -- the years of marriage allowed for books to be removed and replaced at random, not to mention the new ones we would buy in random bursts of inspiration, so a hodgepodge collage of topics was formed on the shelf -- incomprehensible to the stranger, but strangely intuitive to us. 

I remember she would always replace books next to another one of a similar topic, nevermind whether the section was correct. Sometimes, she would even leave it sitting on the coffee table for me to pick up and read. For me, I would attempt to arrange them into topics, but when lazy, I noticed I would always leave my books at the easiest slot -- shoulder level, on the right side, closest to the window.  

She bursts through the front door smelling of curry and holding a half-eaten curry puff. As for me, I’m lounging on the couch shirtless reading Twitter. Poetry for the soul, anger and tender romanticism intertwined in graceful knots of verses of 280 characters. I smirk at her, and she stops short in her path towards the kitchen. 

“You’re home!” she blurts out in shock.

I blink at her. 

“I was just eating this curry puff,” she explains. 

“Babe,” I reply, “you don’t need to explain anything to me.”

Joanne stares agape at me, flecks of curry puff pastry dropping to the floor, as I go on to explain to her my heritage, my future, and her role in the salvation of Singapore and her people. 

“Go on and finish your curry puff,” I tell her when I finish, motioning to the offending pastry with my smartphone.

Befitting of one who is intelligent, Joanne does not immediately switch to happiness. No, my woman is more than that. Her brows furrow slightly, and her eyes dart to the bookshelf seemingly to scan its contents but, to one who is married to her, is merely a tic displaying deep thought. I admire the way the lines on her face betray the complex computations of her sociological mind, which I look forward to incorporating into my vision of a Singapore, no longer empty but free, free in its whims and fancies, in its faith in itself, her people drifting about the globe but headquartered in a small, intense island where spiritual strength will be gathered and will nourish the poor, hungry, starving soul of repressed humanity.  

Finally, she says to me, her eyes aflame with passion, “before we start anything, there is one thing that we must do.”

Oh, Joanne, our intertwined destinies, alternate realities coalescing into one shared dream, can only necessitate my absolute and adoring supplication to your wishes.

“What must we do?” I say. 

“Fuck.”

We did it right there and then on the couch. Her bright eyes rolling up to the ceiling, shutting intensely through pleasure and euphoria, and opening again to stare, half shut, at me, simultaneously a loser -- but also with the designs of the future mapped across my soul, entering her sex, nourishing her body, spearheading utopia. 

It ended with a scream, and her arm draped across my neck, while I stared at the bookshelf -- our guiding light through the stormy waters of our future, Singapore’s future.