Nicko’s Coup, a short story by Lorenzo Ninal

The little space I am renting is as bisdak as any space can get. Max Surban and Yoyoy Villame CDs lay on top of each other next to yellowing Visayan dictionaries and torn issues of Bisaya Magazine. A typical Sunday with some relatives and friends is not complete without inun-unang bansikol, tinunoang monggos, and mais. Even my favorite music stations sound like they've strayed from the AM to the FM band, playing songs perfect for a night of tuba under a full moon back in the province. (Did anybody just say 'bisrock?')

This is life, comfortably trapped in familiar promdi surroundings.

Imagine my horror when this smart and sweet little four-year-old Americanized nephew moved in for a long vacation here, carrying toys and trinkets so high-tech no kid in our neighborhood can ever own.

His toys are actually the least of my concerns. I can never figure out  how those tiny plastic and metal contraptions could move like intelligent machines from outer space. This boy and I can co-exist in peace as long as he doesn't run to me crying with a broken Martian soldier.

It's when he started opening his mouth that I realized the horror I had to deal with for the next month of so. He seldom talks, the silent type. But when he does, he devastates me with his accent.

You see, I wasn't joking when monhts ago I wrote about how I stammer when I speak in English. I trip on my verbs and nouns. My tongue twists in search of the right preposition. My idea of hell is a room full of English idioms neck deep and I can't breathe. And this boy complicates my handicap by insisting that Spongebob is a cartoon character, not a kartun karaktir. what's my carabao English compared to this little boy's twang?

To my relief, he cries just like any local boy from Cebu's squatter areas. When his toy-computer ran out of battery, it's the same waaaahh, nyaaaaaaeeeeiiiii and eeeeek a hungry boy from Pasil emits. From him, I learned for the first time that the sound of weeping is universal and has no accent. It's a very …ahm…profound realization to me.

I conceded. Nicko (that's his name) has more things to teach me than I have to teach nephews and nieces about grammar and the history of speech. He was watching his favorite kartun karaktir on TV when I switched the cahnnel for updates of the coup threats hounding Malacanang last week. "Noooooooo," he screamed like a rallyist in Edsa. I told him "Niku, I'm watching something important here."

"It's Nicko, N-I-C-K-O, Nickow!"

"Ok, N-I-C-K-O, Niku. A coup. Kay-Yu, coup," I was already shouting.

Miraculously, the little boy stopped and stared at the TV screen, where policement were beating protesters to a pulp.

"That's a coup, Niku. You'll never get to see this happening back home, man," I told the little boy.

"It's Nicko," he whispered.