Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 | Page 79

The Diary of Ah Hai
Harrow International School Hong Kong, Suen, Gwyneth - 11
2nd November, 1407
I gazed listlessly at the sea. It was vast and endless. I have never understood the depth of this expanse of
briny blue. It has so many secrets. So many stories yet to tell. As I leaned my weighty head against the spar, I
closed my eyes and dozed off to the rhythmic swishes of the wind. Slish-slosh-slish-slosh, I felt myself
rising up and down with the throbbing waves.
I am Chinese, but I was sent to live with my uncle in England after I was born. My mother died whilst
giving birth to me, and my father did not want to see me again. He killed himself a year later.
Time has not stood still. I will be turning 15 next month. I was sent to Grandpa on the boat, YONGLE
333, about two weeks ago, after my uncle’s sudden death in London.
Grandpa has been working on YONGLE 333 for years - one of the enormous treasure vessels set to sail
under the command of Admiral Zheng. Grandpa has a pair of piercing black eyes as deep and untold as
space, ready to take in every detail, every move. The wrinkles on his face are cruel slashes, burnt by the sun
and wind, from the countless days he spent on board.
“What’re you doing here? Stop idling. Get on with work!” Captain Wang stormed into the kitchen as he
screamed at me in radiant malice, amidst the clanking of dishes in the chaotic dance of dinner rush. His eyes
narrowed to slits, as his smelly breath of rotten eggs worked its way up into my nose. He was in charge of
the crew.
“Something on your mind, dear?” asked Grandpa, his eyebrows furrowing with concern. I shook my head
without looking at him. I was lying.
It’s not that I hate the sea. The sea is serene. Perpetual. Straight-forward. Unlike my life. I can understand
Chinese. In fact, I would love to learn more about Chinese culture! However, I spent my childhood in
England, and so I barely speak the language. I have always been a subject of ridicule here on the ship. People
call me “Guai” 鬼, which means ghost in Chinese, a metaphor for “outsider”.
I’m a sparrow beating about in the savage wires of its cage.
“Dinner time!” I heard Captain Wang shouting to everyone in his thunderous and disdainful voice.
I went to the dining room. The air was thick with an uncomfortable aroma of barbecued food, roast
vegetables and the salty stink of sweat. Everyone in the crew was Chinese. Me too, of course. But everyone
spoke Chinese. Except me. A feeling of loneliness entered my stomach, like a black creature piercing a hole
in my heart, a darkness that has no borders, a wound to stay. I have Grandpa. But I’ve never had any friends
here. Why am I so different? Why did I have to be raised up in a different language? Would there ever be a
place where people will talk to me, understand me, and...love me? I wanted to yell but my voice was lost in
the raucous laughter of the crowd.
___