nadiera hashim: January 2026

Assalamualaikum, hi. This story is about how one cup of free Milo traumatised me for life. If you think childhood trauma must involve bullying or family issues, no. Mine involved a lori Milo and a lying Bahasa Melayu teacher. I think I was in Darjah 5 or 6, honestly I don’t remember. My memory card masa tu very limited storage. But one thing I will never forget, the day lori Milo datang sekolah.

Lori Milo datang sekolah is like Hari Raya for students. Free Milo weh. Even if only one cup, it still taste like kemenangan. Until today, I still cannot understand why Milo from lori Milo always taste better than Milo bancuh sendiri at home. Same powder, same water, but different level of happiness.

Milo is everyone’s favourite. Me too. Pergi mana-mana mesti order Milo ais. Kalau rasa kaya sikit, order Milo dinosaur. Kalau rasa miskin sikit, order Milo panas and pretend it’s fine. So back to the story.

That day, lori Milo datang sekolah masa subjek Bahasa Melayu. I don’t remember the teacher’s name. She was already old, not cikgu muda with glowing skin and Pinterest vibes. This cikgu liked to cerita random things. Suddenly, she started cerita pasal Milo ada cacing.

Yes. Cacing.

She said her daughter was studying something about food science. Her daughter went to Milo factory, did experiment on Milo powder, and found out Milo powder got worms. While she was telling this horror story, I could see students outside already lining up to get Milo. Some even ambil second cup. Third cup maybe.

Then cikgu ended her story with:

“Eeee… hampa nak pi minum jugak ka…”

With that disgusted face like we were about to drink ayaq longkang. Me and my classmates? Too young. Too innocent. Too bodoh. We believed her 100%. Almost the whole class stayed seated. Including me. Only two or three brave students went to get Milo. Now when I think back, I realise…

Cikgu kami bukan warning.

Cikgu kami membongak.

I swear, mesti after class ended, she probably went to drink Milo too. Maybe even Milo dinosaur.

Now every time I see lori Milo, I feel sedikit ada beef with that cikgu. What made it worse is back then, Milo was such a luxury drink for me. My family tak kaya. Milo was not daily drink. It was special drink. So when lori Milo datang sekolah, students like me really felt the happiness. It was not just Milo. It was moment.

So when I realised years later that her story was fake, I felt cheated emotionally. Spiritually. Milo-ly. Back then, so many stupid food rumours. Not only Milo ada cacing. People said sardine sauce used katak as thickener. I used to geli nak makan sambal sardine. All because teachers and classmates liked to add horror flavour into food stories.

Now we are older. Dunia dah maju. Internet dekat tangan. No one can fool us with “my friend’s cousin’s lecturer's grandfather said…” stories anymore. I have my own money. I can buy Milo anytime I want. Milo ais, Milo dinosaur, Milo peng, Milo with extra Milo, Milo with no shame. No one can scare me with stories about worms, frogs, or secret factory experiments anymore. I have Google now. I have common sense. I have trauma immunity.

But sometimes, when I hold my Milo cup, I still think about that small version of me. Sitting quietly in class. Being obedient. Being stupid in a very innocent way. Believing every adult like they were Wikipedia. And honestly… that kid was cute. She didn’t drink Milo that day, but she learned something more important:

Not all cikgu are right.

Not all rumours are true.

And free Milo is very precious. Now when I see kids lining up for free drinks at school events, I smile like an aunty. In my heart I whisper:

“Pergi ambil. Jangan percaya sesiapa. Hidup ni singkat.”

Forever judging that cikgu silently,

Nadiera Hashim

8:30 pm

Kedah, Malaysia.

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Assalamualaikum, hi. These past few months, I’ve been spending almost all my time with my mother. Like… literally every day. My days revolve around her. She takes care of me, feeds me, hugs me every day to fix my mood, listens to the same stories I repeat over and over again. Sometimes we talk about current issues, sometimes about random things, and sometimes about those weird AI cat videos on TiokTok that don’t make sense but somehow still make us laugh. Hidup kami simple. Quiet. Repetitive. But there’s a warmth in it that I didn’t realise I needed this much.

Lately, I started noticing things I wish I didn’t notice so clearly. My mother is getting older. And somehow, time feels cruel. Like… could you slow down a bit? Tak payah la lari laju sangat. Where are you rushing to? I still want to enjoy my life with her. Please, just give us a little more time.

My mother is 61 this year. Saying that number out loud makes my chest feel heavy. Sixty-one. Can she stop aging? I know it sounds childish. I understand, we are all just a pinjaman from Allah. Even our bodies don’t fully belong to us. Everything will be returned when the time comes. Tapi walaupun faham, hati tetap degil. I truly can’t imagine my life without my mother.

I can’t cook like her. I’ve tried. Many times. Berkali-kali. But my sambal never tastes like hers. Even when I follow recipes, even when I convince myself it’s “okay lah,” it’s still not mother’s sambal. And don’t even get me started on her pekasam goreng. She could fry plain food and somehow turn it into comfort. That kind of skill feels illegal.

I’ve also noticed her hair turning grey, slowly but surely. Her hands look older now. Even her nails. Maybe because she’s been cooking and cleaning her whole life. My mother was never a career woman. She didn’t work in a fancy office job, didn’t wear formal clothes every day. But she is incredibly good at cooking and managing a home. That was her world. And now that she’s older, her strength isn’t the same anymore. When I see her pause while cleaning, resting for a moment, my heart sinks. Sedih yang senyap. Sedih yang tak tahu nak cakap apa.

I often pray, “Ya Allah, please give me time. Jangan ambil mother dulu.” At least wait until I become something. Until I can give her what she wants. I want to take her to the beach. I want to bring her jalan-jalan, let her enjoy life a little. But I don’t have that kind of rezeki yet. And when I think about that, I feel like a loser. Orang lain dah boleh balas jasa mak mereka. And here I am, still struggling, still waking up every day just to convince myself to keep living.

My mother might not be as impressive on paper as other mothers. She doesn’t have a degree. She didn’t have a career. She was born into a difficult family. She was the oldest among her siblings. When she was little, my opah stopped her from going to school. My mother only went to school until darjah dua and didn’t even finish it. She learned how to read, write, and count using her younger siblings’ schoolbooks. Dunia dia memang tak adil.

While her siblings got to go to school and chase their dreams, my mother was forced to grow up early. She had to help take care of everyone else. Her childhood, I believe, was full of quiet sadness. When she told me how my opah once tied her to a tree full of kerengga because a neighbour said she was a bad child, I felt angry. Not loud anger, just a deep, burning angry. Angry at the world. Angry at how cruel adults can be to a small girl.

When she became a teenager, she was married off. Very young. Too young. She married my father. My father was a good father to me, but I don’t think he was a good husband to her. He wasn’t toxic...just… lacking. There were things that hurt in small, quiet ways. Like how he never brought my mother and us to his workplace family days. Maybe he was embarrassed. We weren’t rich. Back then, sometimes we had enough to eat, sometimes we didn’t.

But despite everything, my mother is still the most wonderful woman I know. That little girl who only went to school until darjah dua managed to raise seven children after her husband passed away. That same woman gave birth to me who managed to graduate with a first-class degree. How incredible is that? And yes, she can cook. Which honestly deserves at least 1000 extra marks in life.

I have a small habit, maybe a secret. I often talk to Allah quietly in my mind. Just short conversations. I tell Him, “If time could be reversed, Ya Allah, I wish my mother was born into a kinder family.” I wish she had a kind mother who let her finish school. I wish she could enjoy her childhood. Continue studying. Get a degree. Maybe even a master’s or a PhD. I wish she had the office job she once dreamed of. I wish she married a good man who lived long and made her happy. I wish she could travel, naik kapal terbang, see the world.

Even if all of that had to be paid with my absence, even if it meant I was never born. I wouldn’t mind. As long as my mother was happy. As long as she wasn’t so wounded by this heavy world. So Ya Allah, please listen to my everyday doa. If You can’t change the past, then please give me a future where I can make her happy.

And if I may add one more wish, I wish I can be a kind daughter to my mother. Not just a “successful” one, but a gentle one. One who is patient when she repeats the same stories. One who doesn’t raise her voice. One who notices when she’s tired. One who chooses her mother, again and again, even on days when life feels unbearable.

Ya Allah, panjangkan umur mother dalam kesihatan yang baik. Lindungi mother dari sakit yang berat, dari sedih yang lama. Gantikan setiap penat mother dengan pahala yang tak putus. And when the time comes, when this precious pinjaman must be returned, place her in the most beautiful heaven. A place where she can finally rest. Smile. Breathe without worry.

Because if anyone deserves a gentle ending after a hard life, it is my mother.

Written with love, and a lot of prayers,

Nadiera Hashim

11:23 pm

Kedah, Malaysia.

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