Hammer of Thor

Osman from upstairs popping over again for another respectful “five minutes only,” this time with a magazine of a Malay “national” political party in hand. Based here in Singapore it must have been, though never a word heard previously. High gloss paper similar to the Workers’ Party Hammer; title in this case in Malay was missed. Osman wanted to draw attention to an item in a highlights column on the second page. Written in bahasa, a translation was required and duly provided by Osman. Article such-and-such of the Singaporean constitution perhaps in question—or else act of parliament promulgated some while ago—stated that the government must ensure, must devote all energies, always strive for.... the welfare of the Malay peoples in particular. Underlined, highlighted, carefully enunciated; and yet honoured more in the breach than the observance, was Osman’s point. A sorry state of affairs, Osman suggested. A foreigner ought not be drawn into such domestic matters and neither was that Osman’s intention. Yet this was something that needed to be brought to light; on this particular Sunday there was a need to unburden. Osman usually did not involve himself in politics and certainly not political disputation. This today was unlike the man. And when the matter of the new, recently elected—albeit in a walkover—Malay President was raised, Osman uncharacteristically continued with more misgivings still. Something about a political fix one had heard whispered, a strategic manipulation artfully conducted by the long-ruling, entrenched powers. Again, unusual indeed from Osman, a shopkeeper, comfortably middle-class; contented one would have said. Mostly concerned with matters of business climate and the education of his daughters. Regular outings with friends provided relief from the daily round. Something of a ladies man Osman, with a keen eye retained into his mid-seventies. The five minute sit the day prior had centred on that field of the human drama touching congress between the sexes. That afternoon Osman had brought a small plastic container for an opinion. To date Osman had never resorted to such-like pills himself; a friend had given him this newly launched line, one costing two hundred and something dollars for so many capsules. Soon after the political theme had run its course on the second afternoon—the Sunday—Osman had promptly switched back to the old stand-by. The usual parade on the weekend offered the young pretties in their finery beneath the rain trees on that last stretch of Geylang Road. Always reliably engrossing. What to do with political fixes after all? They had us over a barrel. It was not just Singapore of course; take a look at the great spread-eagled eagle if you will. It was all sterile and unproductive. Springing up suddenly like an acrobat, Osman launched himself from his chair. Who can take my Hammer of Thor? asked the neat and dapper, always shirted and dyed Osman, of the live and moving street by Al Wadi there near the hot-plate, the old hydrant and entrance to the hot-plate. Was there a candidate who might emerge from within that pageant? One lived in hope. Properly fortified the challenge might be met.