The Two Ali's

Mr. Hussein the singer, masseur and boxer telling this morning of giving his namesake Muhhamad Ali a rub-down prior to the Bugner fight in KL. Somehow the episode came up in the brief Hello. A year or two ago at first introduction, when Mr. Hussein reprised some of his hits of bygone days at one of the Labu Labi tables, he also demonstrated the strength of his thumbs. Should it come to rough-house of any kind, a physical confrontation brought on, an opponent would have his eye poked out in a trice by Mr. Hussein. Much strength remaining in the aged hands. (A glassy-looking eye himself it seemed Mr. Hussein. Had he been a victim somewhere along the line?) Hussein Ali on the name-card: wiry old tough guy specializing in Tony Bennett and Tom Jones, together with the old Malay favourites. Someone, some notable, had recommended him for the great American boxer's corner; a fellow familiar with local conditions, weather factors, would be just right. Fetched his mid-seventies now, a drinker sleeping rough at the market, unwilling to impose on family most likely: Mr. Hussein was the perfect recipient this morning for one's own Muhammad Ali story. Immediately the man wants to give up his chair. No, no, lord no. Crouching close for the sharing. Back thirty-five or so years ago the great butterfly and bee was still World Champion, post-Frazier it must have been. Jets into Melbourne, Australie, the Hilton Hotel. One night, early evening, the man catches a taxi alone, one person, out to the badlands where the orang asli live, the native people; the Aboriginals. (Mr. H's English quite good; as the name suggests and some blade-like aspect in the features corroborates, likely an Arab ancestry. Money from a trader family in the past perhaps; not entirely an orang asli himself Mr. Hussein, strictly speaking.) Dangerous place this where the Aboriginals stay, where the great boxer went unaccompanied; the orang puti — the white-fellas in Australie — scared to enter that quarter back then. Come over from his room at the Hilton, big man in a suit walking down the hill. Raised hand showing the height. You know how big Mr. Hussein. Orang asli black people like him — no need to add "you" to Mr. Hussein. He come to see the people; they come out to see him, following, many, many. Soon in the middle of the group Muhammad Ali can't move, all the hands raised up to him. Many, many hands; a jungle of arms. Muhammad Ali passes both his hands out to them around on every side, clapping across them all. A big reach Mr. Hussein as you know, stretching far for the hands. One person come alone, no body-guard, nothing. Not just a great fighter Ali, Mr. Hussein — a great heart also. Little bang on the rib-cage indicating. It was only then Mr. Hussein revealed he too had been a boxer. Not a “killer”, no — Mr. Hussein objects to the suggestion; man making a living rather. Big heart also is Mr. Hussein’s—returns a knock at his own chest in turn. (One could have guessed right off from the singing.) The man had a Quarto note-book out on the parapet wall of the market there beside the stairway on the Geylang Serai corner. Mr. Hussein's friend Mr. Joe sleeps on the other side of the wall in a broken office chair beside his supermarket trolley. Wild years "last time" Mr. Joe took a number of turns inside. Unknown Mr. Hussein; possibly escaped.