People from Oetimu
“Torn between jealousy and heartbreak, the men began to drink.”
JANUARY 21, 2024
Oetimu, 1998
One hour before the murderers raided Martin Kabiti’s house on the night of the World Cup finals, Sergeant Ipi drove by on his motorbike. It was an rx King model, its muffler modified so that wherever he went, the bike’s deafening roar would split the wooden walls of poor people’s houses, incite a chorus of dog barks, and cause bats to scatter from nearby treetops. When he stopped to pick up Martin Kabiti, the bike’s headlights gleamed in the chilly film of mist held between the banana leaves. A few scrappy dogs started chasing the two men as they sped off – one nearly snagged Sergeant Ipi’s leg – but the driver kept revving the engine as though he were trying to goad them on. Sergeant Ipi was happy. He had set up everything for a party in the little police station where he lived, complete with a spread of spiced dog meat and roast pork, deer jerky, and a lot of booze — including some taxed, labeled bottles he brought back from the city and sopi kepala, locally brewed.
“We’re watching the finals at my place. Come, celebrate with me.” That’s what Sergeant Ipi said to Martin Kabiti two days earlier.
Martin Kabiti wasn’t the only neighbor to receive an invitation. Sergeant Ipi assigned two teens the task of spreading the word. Every man in town was welcome: elders and other respected residents, of course, but also high school students still struggling to grow beards, mototaxi drivers, and the local deadbeats who Sergeant Ipi frequently beat up. But Martin Kabiti’s invitation was special, and the policeman took it upon himself to personally escort his esteemed guest to the party.
It had been a long time since Martin Kabiti had been on the battlefield. Clueless about the calamity headed his way, he’d thrown on the heavy striped jacket he won hunting down rebels on Mount Matebian, slipped Carvil sandals over his black socks, grabbed his keys, and rushed out of the house. His wife let him leave without any premonition of what was about to happen, and his kids were sound asleep, lulled by chirping crickets and the tunes of other nighttime animals on the edge of the forest. From his seat behind Sergeant Ipi, Martin Kabiti watched as boys in jackets and old men draped in betê hurried on foot towards the police station. Another motorbike rumbled behind them, carrying two Javanese soldiers from the border who’d sped up when they heard the roar of Sergeant Ipi’s bike. Martin Kabiti had been the one to invite the soldiers. He always advised them to blend in, and the party that night was the perfect opportunity, since they’d have a chance to mix with the locals and have a good time together. The motorbikes continued onwards side by side, and people on foot greeted the men respectfully as they passed.
People named their dogs and other household pets after the soccer star, and whenever it was Brazil’s turn to play in a game, only women and children stayed home. Everyone else — men of all ages, from teens to the elderly — went out to root for their idol.
Soccer fever had recently hit the town. Each night, everyone would get together in front of a tv and cheer on the little figures scrambling for the ball on the green field. They clipped the schedule of upcoming matches from local newspapers, sticking copies on the walls of living rooms, bedrooms, and sheds in the fields, marking in pencil which country had just lost and which was likely next to be defeated. They were all fans of one country in particular, the only team that could logically win: Brazil. Not only did the players make soccer look like dancing, but Brazil had an undefeated champion who went by Ronaldo Luís Nazário de Lima. Ronaldo was revered in Oetimu. People named their dogs and other household pets after the soccer star, and whenever it was Brazil’s turn to play in a game, only women and children stayed home. Everyone else — men of all ages, from teens to the elderly — went out to root for their idol.
There were three tvs in town: one in the police station, one in Mas Zainal’s house, and one in Baba Ong’s living room. Baba Ong owned Prosperity General Store — he was downright stingy and definitely wouldn’t let people sit in his house if they weren’t planning on buying something. He hung long, heavy curtains to shield his living room from the prying eyes of little kids trying to peek through the window to watch the tv. Mas Zainal was bucktoothed, which made him seem friendly, like he was always smiling. But he was a scrap metal collector, so watching a game at his house involved sitting among sharp, rusted objects, old batteries, and amidst a wide range of smells — mouthwatering aromas of food wafting in from the kitchen only to mix with the nauseating stench of motor oil. The police station was the most pleasant option by far. It had a floor spacious enough to stretch out on, smooth walls comfortable to lean against when you felt like standing, and — assuming you were one of the more important people in the room — a cushy sofa to recline on. But Sergeant Ipi only let respected guests into the station: Martin Kabiti, elders, schoolteachers, and the like. The rest of the town had no choice but to squeeze themselves into Mas Zainal’s shop every time they wanted to watch tv, surrounded by old motorcycle parts and strong odors. All of this is to say that when Sergeant Ipi invited the whole town to the police station for the finals, everyone was overcome with excitement. And once they heard about all the meats and drinks that the young policeman planned on serving, the men flocked to the station. Even Mas Zainal turned off his tv to watch the game with the rest of the town.
By the time the two motorbikes arrived, a crowd of men was already gathered in the front yard, smoking and chewing betel nut while they waited. The cement building behind them was too small to be called a house but too big to be considered a typical police station. It had two rooms, one in the back that Sergeant Ipi used as his bedroom, and a large living room for work. That’s where he typed up reports, watched tv, received guests, ate his meals, and beat up kids he caught skipping school or hanging off the sides of trucks.
The young men in the room drank as though they were about to die of thirst. They threw back full glasses of whisky, switched to sopi kepala, grabbed a few beers, and chased everything with wine.
After parking, Sergeant Ipi pulled a key from under the mat and opened the door. Martin Kabiti walked in first and took a seat in Sergeant Ipi’s rolling desk chair, confident that he was the most respected guest in attendance. With all that thick padding, his chair was the most comfortable spot in the room. The two soldiers came in next and sat behind Martin Kabiti on a sofa big enough to fit another three people, though no one in Oetimu felt like they were important enough to sit beside two Javanese soldiers. Sergeant Ipi selected a spot on the long wooden bench, resigning himself to a sore ass. The town elders, a few school principals, and a couple of local thugs joined him. The table had been moved to a corner of the room so that Mas Zainal and other less important townspeople could sit on the floor. So many men had shown up that the spectators spilled into the yard. Heads bobbed at the window and eyes peered through the open door.
Before turning on the tv, Sergeant Ipi rolled out a spread of food and drinks. Teens helped carry trays and crates of bottles out from the back room, setting out booze on top of the table, on the floor, and on the tv stand; they hurried back and forth so many times that it seemed the host had bought an infinite supply of refreshments. Meanwhile, Sergeant Ipi picked up a bottle of sopi kepala, popped the corn husk stopper, and announced why he’d decided to throw a party that night. Silvy, the girl who had recently arrived in Oetimu, the one who’d caught the eye of every man in town, had won his heart and agreed to become his wife.
“Please enjoy this humble feast and celebrate with me,” Sergeant Ipi concluded. “We’re getting married in two weeks.”
The jubilant atmosphere inspired by dried and roasted meats, booze, and the prospect of watching an idol in action dissipated when the young men heard those words. For months, they’d competed for Silvy’s heart, but then the girl suddenly fell into Sergeant Ipi’s open arms. What a despicable man, they thought to themselves. Just like that he stole the girl of their dreams, as if pushing them around and beating them up every day weren’t enough.
Torn between jealousy and heartbreak, the men began to drink. Someone turned on the tv, where two commentators in yellow blazers gesticulated wildly, announcing every three minutes that the game was about to start — until another stream of advertisements cut them off, delaying the kickoff yet again. Martin Kabiti, the elders, soldiers, and teachers, as well as the thugs sitting on the bench all calmly sipped their drinks, leaning back and closing their eyes every once in a while. But the young men in the room drank as though they were about to die of thirst. They threw back full glasses of whisky, switched to sopi kepala, grabbed a few beers, and chased everything with wine. Soon enough, they were all drunk and rowdy, laughing at things that weren’t funny and raising their voices in competition with the commentators on screen.
When the game finally started, everyone settled down a bit. It didn’t take long for the room to fall completely silent; no cheers or whoops could be heard over the tv, which was broadcasting a match not yet living up to expectations. Ronaldo Luís Nazário de Lima seemed to have lost his edge. His mouth hung open, front teeth jutting out, making him look like a stupid rat. The men stared as Ronaldo the Rat jogged sluggishly from one end of the field to the other, as though he’d just swallowed a bunch of poisonous kotpese. Ronaldo hadn’t pulled any of his usual astonishing moves. Ronaldo wasn’t smiling with the mischievous grin that came across his face when he outwitted the other team. Watching Ronaldo play wasn’t any fun at all. The men were fixated on the screen, nervous that their beloved Brazil was about to lose to France. They hated the French, a team that played soccer without smiling. And whenever the players did smile, their faces reminded Oetimu’s residents of the Dutch who colonized their town.
While the men in the police station debated what was going with Ronaldo, Atino and the other murderers arrived in town.
In the twenty-seventh minute, their fears became reality. Zinedine Zidane, the French player with a bald spot, big as a horse, launched the ball straight into Brazil’s net. That’s when the room got noisy again. Everyone started asking each other what made Ronaldo play like a drugged rodent — had he forgotten to pray? Had the French put a curse on him? Or was he just hungry?
While the men in the police station debated what was going with Ronaldo, Atino and the other murderers arrived in town. They came from the north in the back of a pickup truck, which they parked on the edge of town before continuing on foot down convoluted paths towards Martin Kabiti’s house. They’d been to Oetimu many times before, disguised as road surveyors or lost farmers so they could figure out which houses were guarded by dogs and which valleys by ghosts. That night, they launched an arrow at Martin Kabiti’s dog before it could make a sound, kicked in the door, and woke up his wife and kids. They looted the house, ripped up letters and land titles, and sat their hostages down at knifepoint. An eye for an eye, that was Atino’s logic, and he wanted Martin Kabiti alive to watch his family suffer. The assailant was from East Timor and had been captured during the war. He suffered in prison — not just from torture at the hands of Indonesian soldiers, but also from a raging desire for revenge. He decided to pay Martin Kabiti’s family a visit to settle a debt, and he’d waited patiently for the day to come when all the men in town were away, leaving their wives and children alone. Atino was confident that his target would be at the police station for the next few hours and eventually come home drunk.
One of the men slapped Martin Kabiti’s wife across the face with the flat edge of the long knife. She made desperate, futile attempts to fight back, fully aware that no one was around to help her; the whole town was out watching the game. Another slap, then an order to shut up, since one of the kids had started crying. Her eldest, a daughter whose breasts had just started showing, hid in the crook of her arm; her youngest son peed himself after being dragged out of bed.
Atino and his crew weren’t in a hurry, confident that they had plenty of time to carry out their plan. But little did they know, Ronaldo was playing a finals game that was only fun for the French and their fans. When Zinedine Zidane scored a second goal right at the end of the first half, Martin Kabiti stood up and kicked his chair. He accused Ronaldo of being paid to lose and blamed it on the Americans.
“He was bribed! The us did it. Fucking dogs, the lot of them. Pukimai. This isn’t soccer, it’s a scam.”
He kept cursing, pointing at the tv, spittle flying through his mustache, and then laid out how greedy Americans were the masterminds behind every problem on earth. No one in the room mustered the courage to disagree, since Martin Kabiti started waving his fists as though he wanted to challenge the United States and each of its allies to a fight.
“Someone take me home before I smash this pukimai tv to pieces. Made in America, no fucking doubt!”
The young men in town fantasized about the same thing: how lovely it would be to start a little family with Silvy as the mother of their children. So, even though the girl was still in high school, they all competed for her heart.
Seeing that his friend was about to throw the heavy rolling chair at his television, Sergeant Ipi wordlessly stood up, walked outside, and turned on his motorbike. Martin Kabiti skulked after him, pushing through the drunk, crestfallen guests without excusing himself. The men started muttering as they watched him leave. A few agreed with what he’d said and joined in, cussing out the Americans. Anyone who disagreed waited until Martin Kabiti was gone before voicing their opinions, and the rest just clutched their bottles and wallowed. In less than an hour they’d been pummeled by two calamitous events: Brazil’s loss and the news that the girl of their dreams was engaged to another man.
They’d all fallen for Silvy the moment she arrived in Oetimu. The young men in town fantasized about the same thing: how lovely it would be to start a little family with Silvy as the mother of their children. So, even though the girl was still in high school, they all competed for her heart. Mototaxi drivers gave her free rides, thugs promised protection, and widowers offered her a comfortable life.
Whenever Silvy walked to Oetimu State High School, which was across the street from Prosperity General Store, or when she headed to the river carrying a basket of clothes, a gaggle of men would always circle in her general vicinity as though they’d been walking in the same direction by coincidence. Once they were nearby, they’d pray for some chance event that would turn her face towards theirs — which would lead to an introduction and then catalyze another chance event, like a mutual confession of love. But every time the men in Oetimu had an opportunity to introduce themselves to the girl, they discovered their mouths failed to form words and their cheeks felt heavy. When they heard that Silvy had been taken by a different man, they all leaned back against the walls of the police station and cursed their fate.
The older men watching the finals weren’t so shocked by Sergeant Ipi’s announcement. Some were even happy to hear the news. They kept sipping at their drinks, picking at their food, and chewing thoughtfully. If any of them felt on edge, it had nothing to do with Silvy’s engagement; they were just worried that Brazil was about to lose the game. These men were old enough to remember that Sergeant Ipi had grown up under the tutelage of Am Siki, a man they held in high regard. Sure, the kid turned out ruder than they’d hoped, and maybe he didn’t care about the people of Oetimu, but still, they felt that he was one of their own. And he’d live a life shielded from harm and showered with happiness, his engagement to Silvy was a sure sign of that. They suspected it since the day he was born: Sergeant Ipi would always be protected, with his mother and ancestors watching over him.
This text is an excerpt from People From Oetimu by Felix Nesi (published in English by Archipelago Books, Translation Copyright © 2025 by Lara Norgaard).
✺ Published in “Issue 24: Bodies” of The Dial
