By Nadia Ashaary
The play is entitled ‘Poor Cities’. The CAST is:
CEMPAKA — Eldest out of three sisters, an administrative assistant, late 20s
KENANGA — Middle sister, on scholarship for a university far from home, a former part-time waitress, early 20s
KEMBOJA — Youngest sister, a primary school student, early teens
ZAHRA — CEMPAKA, KENANGA, and KEMBOJA’s mother, a small restaurant cook, early 50s
Act 1 Scene 1
Living room of a small suburban apartment. A wall separates the stage in half. A door right is the front door, a door back leads to a bedroom. There is no furniture except for a foldable personal table on the side of the wall facing the front door, on top of which are a container of plain water, a bottle of yellow liquid, another yellow bottle with a dropper cap, a packet of elastic bandages, an almost-empty box of tissues, and a pair of plastic forceps.
KENANGA leans on the other side of the wall.
Enter CEMPAKA through the front door in formal attire, while on a phone call with KENANGA.
CEMPAKA: Your scholarship should cover you just fine, come up with another excuse.
KENANGA: Yes, but that was before all the extra reading material.
CEMPAKA switches the call to speaker mode and places the phone on the table. She goes past it into the bedroom without a glance towards the table’s contents. She continues speaking from inside the bedroom.
CEMPAKA: Didn’t we budget for this? I specifically remember us staying up in the middle of the night budgeting for this. What happened to the budget?
KENANGA: Remember when I said ‘extra’, like, five seconds ago, you goat? The ‘extra’ is what happened. Also. I, uh. Lost my job.
CEMPAKA: Oh, no.
KENANGA: Well, I quit before they could fire me, but they were going to fire me anyway.
CEMPAKA: Recession cuts, eh?
KENANGA: I figured it’d hurt less if I left first before they threw me out.
CEMPAKA: You’re going to go on like this? Really?
KENANGA covers her face. Static noise from the phone fills the air as she stops talking. Then, she sniffles.
CEMPAKA: ‘Nanga?
KENANGA: I know.
CEMPAKA exits the bedroom in casual clothing. She picks up the phone, leans on the wall, and sighs.
KENANGA: I know, I know. Why do you think I called?
CEMPAKA makes a face as she stifles a laugh.
CEMPAKA: Kenanga. I called you.
KENANGA: Yeah, okay, but I could’ve not answered.
CEMPAKA: And gone on your merry way devoting your literal entire being to draining your brain dry because it’s the only thing you’re good for.
KENANGA: Exactly.
CEMPAKA: Wait, I’m sorry. I should’ve said, ‘sacrificing’.
KENANGA: Still correct.
CEMPAKA: Mm. And with none of us back home the wiser.
KENANGA: Of course. As it should be.
CEMPAKA: So why did you answer the call?
More static noise as KENANGA falls silent again. This time, CEMPAKA waits her out.
KENANGA: I guess. I don’t know. I’m lonely. I miss home? I think? I don’t know. I don’t know, Cempaka, I don’t know.
CEMPAKA drops her head in sympathy, which makes her finally notice the medical supplies on the table. She stares for a moment.
CEMPAKA: What’s that doing there?
KENANGA: What?
CEMPAKA: Who got hurt?
KENANGA: Hah?
CEMPAKA: ‘Antibacterial Disinfectant,’ ‘Losyen Kuning Cap Kaki Tiga,’ bandages, what in the world? Who got hurt?
KENANGA: Ah.
KENANGA straightens from the wall, appearing as if she’s been caught.
Enter ZAHRA through the front door with KEMBOJA in tow. KEMBOJA is sheepish and limping, her knee wrapped in bandages.
KENANGA, seemingly sensing their arrival, shuffles awkwardly away from the wall.
ZAHRA: Assalamualaikum.
CEMPAKA: Waalaikumussalam.
KENANGA: (simultaneously) Waalaikumussalam.
CEMPAKA: Kemboja? Ya Allah, Kemboja. I’ll call you back, ‘Nanga.
KENANGA: Cem, wait—
ZAHRA: Is that Kenanga? Let me talk to her.
CEMPAKA: Mak? Never mind, hang up, hang up—
ZAHRA gestures for CEMPAKA to hand over the phone. CEMPAKA purses her lips and relents without further protest.
ZAHRA: Kenanga.
KENANGA: That traitor.
ZAHRA: Kenanga, honestly!
KENANGA: Sorry, Mak.
ZAHRA: What are you sorry for?
KENANGA: For calling Cem a traitor.
ZAHRA: Wrong sister.
KENANGA: I’m sorry Kemboja got hurt.
ZAHRA: What were you thinking?
KENANGA: Is it bad?
ZAHRA: Yes. The doctor says she’ll be just fine, not a hint of infection in the wound.
KENANGA: You’ve lost me. Why are you mad at me, then?
ZAHRA moves into the bedroom. She and KENANGA start shouting.
ZAHRA: Oh, no, her infection is more of the intellectual kind. You and your ambitions we can barely afford and you get it into her head that she can be just like you!
KENANGA: Really, Mak? That’s why?
ZAHRA: Why would you tell her such things? The poor girl! You know we can’t do that for her! How could you be so cruel?
KENANGA: Mak, that’s not fair!
In the living room, KEMBOJA takes CEMPAKA’s wrist to get her attention. CEMPAKA eyes KEMBOJA from the height she has over her. She plants a fist on her hip. ZAHRA and KENANGA’s voices fade.
KEMBOJA: It’s my fault, Kak Cem. I made her tell me what to do for the cut or I’d tell you she stopped eating.
CEMPAKA: Oh, you know about that?
KEMBOJA: Yeah. Sorry.
CEMPAKA: How long have you two been talking?
KEMBOJA: I don’t know, a while? I email her almost every day from the school lab. Cikgu lets me in during recess. With her supervision.
CEMPAKA: Really, now?
KEMBOJA: Mm-hmm. She says it’s because she wants me to get used to using a computer before I graduate.
CEMPAKA: That’s really . . . nice of her. Don’t be a brat about it.
CEMPAKA knocks her leg against KEMBOJA’s leg over the bandages. KEMBOJA flinches and smacks CEMPAKA. ZAHRA exits the bedroom, pushing the phone towards CEMPAKA.
ZAHRA: You talk to her. She’s so— Please, just—
ZAHRA goes back inside the bedroom as CEMPAKA takes the phone. She nudges KEMBOJA towards the bedroom, too, and closes the door.
KENANGA: Don’t you start telling me I shouldn’t have gotten the kid’s hopes up or I should’ve known better than to tell her about coming here with me or anything. Spare me.
CEMPAKA: You’ve really upset her this time.
KENANGA: I hate her. I don’t, but I do. I love her, but I do. Hate her.
CEMPAKA: Yes, well, you know where she’s coming from.
KENANGA: I do! That’s the problem!
CEMPAKA: Anyway, I hear you’ve been talking to Kemboja this whole time.
KENANGA: The little rat!
CEMPAKA: That’s not a nice thing to say about the kid worshipping you. Oh, and, we really do need to get her that laptop soon. Or at least a tablet.
KENANGA groans and slides down the wall to the floor.
KENANGA: Poor kid. Still think she’s annoying, though.
CEMPAKA: No, you don’t.
KENANGA: Of course I don’t. But I still do.
CEMPAKA: Are you alright?
KENANGA: I am not alright, Cempaka, I am a city.
CEMPAKA: Oh, must you wax poetic at me.
KENANGA: Seriously, Cem. There is never truly a quiet in me, I am filth, I am ambition, I have a part of me that’s hatred and also another part of me that’s kind, I am a living contradiction, I contain multitudes and all that jazz.
CEMPAKA: You should’ve become a poet, Dik.
KENANGA: Oh, yeah? And who would break tradition and put food on the table and bring us out of our pit of despair?
CEMPAKA: Kemboja, evidently.
KENANGA: No, Kemboja, evidently, puts medicine on the table. Kemboja, evidently, leaves the evidence out for everyone and their mothers to see.
CEMPAKA: Well, you’re one to talk, you refuse to put food on your own table.
KENANGA: Hey, I make sure people don’t find out when I get hurt.
CEMPAKA: I’d ask if you know that’s worse but I don’t think you do.
CEMPAKA has to suddenly pause to grit her teeth against the threat of unexpected tears. She doesn’t cry but takes in a shaky breath as quietly as she can. KENANGA doesn’t notice anything wrong.
KENANGA: Sorry I’m the massive disappointment that I am.
CEMPAKA: You’re so melodramatic.
KENANGA: Am I going to find an email from my bank stating there’s been a transfer into my account later?
CEMPAKA: What if it’s already there in your inbox?
KENANGA: How dare you.
CEMPAKA: If you give it back, I’m never calling again.
KENANGA: How dare you.
CEMPAKA: Eat, you miserable wretch.
KENANGA: How dare you. Fine.
CEMPAKA: Also. You said, ‘our.’
KENANGA: What?
CEMPAKA: Earlier. You said, ‘our pit of despair.’
KENANGA: Shut up. I take it back, I don’t miss home at all.
CEMPAKA: Aw, poor little city.
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