"Isnin, then Selasa, then Rabu, then...Jumaat?"

"No, it's Khamis, son."

"Oh."

I fiddle with my fingers, staring at the weirdly uncarpeted floor beneath my feet. The fact that it's beyond 16 degrees outside, plus the odd whizzing of mosquitoes intruding my train of thought makes this situation realer than ever. After twelve years of blessed childhood joys and cold, wet days in Manchester, I had finally returned to my place of origin - a country plagued with scorching heat and whose homes had these gigantic, whirring fans on their ceilings. How peculiar was that?

"Come on son, I want you to repeat it." My father's voice is heated, almost impatient. He has more important things to do, other obstacles to demolish. He doesn't want to be stuck in this smelly, old room of some random budget hotel when he should be tackling other things. I get it. It isn't personal, it's logic.

"Isnin first, then Selasa. After that, it's Rabu and then...Jumaat?"

"Khamis, son. Stay focused. Whatever's in your brain, I expect you to forget it. If you could just-"

His phone vibrates and an old Malay ballad reverberates around the room, something about an Isabella, I believe. He sighs, then answers it. I hear Mama's voice on the line, flustered and restless.

"Something's up with our new home. I need to go now, but we'll get to fixing this. Okay?"

I nod silently, mainly because I'm just sick of my voice repeating the same old mistake time and time again. He rises to his feet, then leaves me to the fabulousness of an old TV, a musty, stinking queen bed in need of a good brushing or two and a half-empty (half-full?) cup of coffee. Also, the windows that reveal to me a dark, littered alley that would be the fuel of nightmares when the sun eventually sinks.

I gently drop my body to the bed, silently wishing to fly back to the pitter-patter of raindrops and the gusts of winds that I had come to adore. Slowly, but surely, I know my brain will ultimately implode.

~*~

I can't understand my neighbours. Their Malay is too fast for me to pick up, their accents a tad too different from what I'm used to. Mama explains to me that the couple on the right are Kelantanese, which is another state in Malaysia, and most of their words end with an 'air' sound, something like éclair or funfair, though they don't share any mutual form of fun between them. The neighbours on the left are another family. Apparently, they have a daughter the same age as me and by the way Mama and Puan Zalina (that's the mother's name) speak of my name with great vigour, I suppose she's busy matchmaking already. Poor kid.

Her name's Farahin Najwa - Wawa for short. I suppose she's kind of cute, but nothing like the ones back in Manchester. I still drool from even the thought of Blair Richards. Oh well, just like everything else, I guess I have to let go of her too. It'll be tough but fingers crossed, I'll get there.

~*~

It's been a month now since I've moved. I am still rubbish at Malay and I still have no friends. At school, I'm more of a freak show than I am human. People ogle at me all the time, and implore me to speak English. I oblige simply because saying no would mean more begging. At least a few words would keep them silent, but they don't really understand me. The verdict? Simply ignoring everybody, it seems.

Also, the food here is even worse. I can't stand rice. I can take it for lunch, sure but not for all meals of the day. It's like everyone is intentionally trying to fatten me up and turn me into a Malaysian Santa Claus. I would kill for some fish and chips or jacket potatoes about now, and I mean it.

Also, I think I'm going to melt one day what with the Malaysian sun roasting me underneath its ferocious rays. One day, I'll just amount to a puddle on a ground, something for kids to splatter into until I get evaporated and leave the country for good.

I hate it here.

~*~

"Son, you have to stop this."

"Stop what?" I'm not in the best of moods now. I had been searching the nearest Tesco and Mydin for Jaffa Cakes and Jammie Dodgers but to no avail.

"Stop being so attached to England. You got to get over it."

Get over my childhood? I open my mouth to argue but I'm cut off.

"Seriously, son. Malaysia is no England, but it sure isn't the most horrible place on earth either. We didn't send you to hell, son. Sure it may be hot and the food may be different and the language is weird but guess what, son? You've got to man up and be brave."

"Be brave?" I blink, uncertain what being brave had to do with any of this.

"Yes, son. You've got to brave past these obstacles. You won't get any better at Malay if you don't work at it and you'll only get hotter thinking about the temperature when you could just turn on a fan or air-conditioner. Life isn't that hard, but if you choose to scour away from challenges, then yes. It will be hard."

He walks away, leaving me gobsmacked and thinking hard. He's right, I suppose. I convinced myself that Malaysia was bedlam. I never thought to ever give it a chance.

I grab the calendar. I suppose there's still time to right some wrongs.

~*~

My father seems mildly amused as I walk to him one Saturday morning, two paper packages in my grip. He peeks at me from a stack of papers. "Here, Dad. It's nasi lemak."

He seems sceptical at first, in a humorous way. "Since when did you like nasi lemak?"

I can only smile at him. "Ever since Khamis, Dad."