Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Winners 2020 | Page 17
Hong Kong Young Writers Awards 2020
“I’m sorry, the fishermen have been selling them more expensively. There’s nothing I can do.” The
fishmonger said.
“Can’t you give old customers like me a discount?”
He shook his head and insisted upon his pricing, while the fish struggled next to foam
board naming its price. The fishmonger kept his eyes on the assortment of live seafood,
sifting his hands through the shallow-watered tank of the clams and oysters, and occasionally
splashing water to hydrate the displayed fish.
My legs took me forward, deciding for me where to go. I had no direction in mind, so
I wandered towards the nearest exit out of this market.
“Careful!” She said, regarding me with a ‘tsk’ in her voice. In my absent-mindedness,
I collided into an old lady.
“I’m sorry, I can’t speak Cantonese!” I tried to explain myself, but she was already
walking away. Her small stature hunched over her metal trolley with layers upon layers of
cardboard fastened on. Her tiny, anxious steps propelled it forward slowly. It was larger than
her body, heavier than her weight; she shouldn’t be doing this, not at this age.
I could not understand why this old lady was labouring away in her old age. Did she not
have children who could support her? Retirement savings? Government pensions?
I followed her onto a third street. Old buildings, no taller than twenty floors, lined either
side of me. Below, the ground floor rented itself to shops and restaurants. I saw more of these
cardboard picking grannies, squatting on the pavement and folding cardboard that once held
fruits, daily appliances, and products.
They scavenged for cardboard by rummaging through orange trash cans, examining it
and throwing it back what they deemed it unusable. Crouching over the fruits of their labour,
these grannies stacked more cardboard onto their stockpile, their contorted backs stiffened
beyond ever straightening again.
The buildings behind them each had identical blue notices plastered over the metal gates.
Announcement: Illegal and unsafe infrastructure, residents of this building have three months to leave.
The area will be designated for reconstruction. It wrote, in both Chinese and English, with the
government insignia branded at the corner of the page.
Above, an old man stared down at me from his window on the third floor in said illegal
infrastructure, his skeleton-thin fingers wrapped around the mesh wires that lined the open
window. Behind the windows above, many more old men stared down, the lines of age that
marred these faces remained immobile.
Framed windows had clothing draped over the bars fixed under it. The units of air
conditioners, all leaving brown trails of leakage, were attached to the corner of the window
panes. Almost all buildings suffered from discolouration, and had streaks of rust coloured lines
running across their peeling surface of the exterior. The more senior of the aged buildings
were boxed by bamboo pole scaffolding, but had no workmen climbing on them. It was an
unsightly, messy contrast to the tall glass-paned towers across the harbour.
In three months, these people would be forcibly evicted from their homes; their houses
would be mowed down in favour for towers as tall and as sleek as the ones south of this district.
“Mei Mei! What are you doing?” My mother’s voice rang out from behind me. My hands
were grabbed, and I was jerked towards my disapproving parents.
“I couldn’t find you guys, so I decided to explore the market.” I tried to explain.
“What are you talking about Mei Mei?” My mother demanded, before yanking the paper
out of my hands and reprimanding me. “Didn’t I teach you not to pick up trash? Look at your
hands now, you’ve gotten red all over it.”
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