BBoMbay the flavor of bruises

JEFFERSON QUIPIT

(it’s something) sometimes i readjust my back, and i can taste smoke and licorice cracking from the nothingness of my saliva.

everything spins for a while, and i catch myself in a split second separating from my sentience.

(it’s bitter) it brings me to his untucked belts, and a pulsating burn on my skin while holding a cig on the other hand.

I lick my pungent runny nose, and my palm cups my sweaty eyes because it’s another sting if I cry.

(it’s sweet) i dreamt of colas in glass bottles, and my grandma buys me one after the last one hits me by the ribcage. she tells me it’s love, and i won’t die from the thwack because i’m built strong.

(it’s bittersweet) we buy a plastic-wrapped bread, and the soda i wanted which was the licorice one. five pesos licorice-dipped stale bun, and smoke from a beer-bellied man is the flavor of my childhood.

(it’s cursory) i’ve burned it down to ashes, and already buried it to the ground but the flavor of bruises comes back. but after a while, the flavor dissipates and i’m back to being ok - i think.

An Open Letter of Sky-rocketing Prices of...

JEFFERSON QUIPIT

By the time when the Filipino omelet tasted more like anxiety compared to umami and grains of unmixed salt, that is when I realized that we have already reached the pinnacle of the golden age. Especially as I want caramelized onions swamping my pale yellow eggs, and onions are now the Filipino saffron, I feel like vomiting gold. To think that the omelet I am eating is more expensive than a slice of grilled pork chop is problematic.

But I remembered the eternal battle cry that we must live by - so I am alright. Unity! Unity! Unity! Its power radiates toward my hollow Filipino soul, and I feel the paws and claws of the ultimate tiger caress and linger on my tranquil spirit. No sarcasm intended; I do feel it. It is through the skyrocketing prices of, a very minuscule violet bulb, an onion that I can feel the Department of Agriculture’s Secretary reigns on managing everything with finesse.

“Ma! Lasang manumbag sa dila ang escabitche!” I told my mother during one dinner when a tomatosauteed Tilapia feels so bitter but also so tangy at the same time. Then, she later explained how, instead of onions, she placed an alternative - onion leeks, finely-diced and smooth to the tongue but inedible.

“Yes, pwede daw na siya gamiton! Ana tung nakita nako sa TV na isahog na lang ni kaysa bombay,” my mother said. We then proceeded to enjoy our escabitche meal - feignly.

And I just think it is so stupid how a problem this small has tumbled a domino towards the lives of average Filipinos. Fine, I’ll take the defense of loyal tigernatics that the rise in prices is because of Typhoon Karding and Neneng’s agricultural disruption. But it’s already been months since the two disasters hit the country.

When you had the opportunity to open your eyes, you never reviled the truth. When numerous news reports on a suspected agricultural cartel hit the television, you screamed, “Ah! Strategy ra na niya oi. Alangan ipagawas niya tanan-tanan dayon sa tawo. Maubos napud dayon ang bombay eh.” was a coward.

And fine! Let’s be charitable with your claims. Even if it is not the typhoons or cartels that disrupted the onion prices and we’ll take your benevolent claim that our agricultural secretary is doing something by importing 22,000 tonnes of onions abroad, his economic response is too late. Though I’m not surprised; I expected even worse. I said, “Hey you read by the lines!” If the sarcasm is not powerful enough to reveal my cry, perhaps every first letter of every paragraph would be.

And that night was proof, for I ran.

I believe you were still breathing then. I could’ve stayed. Yet, I didn’t.

Now I shamelessly face your smiling portrait. That smile was an everyday sight to see – yet it was overshadowed by my heavy guilt of hoping I could’ve done something then. Something else than hastening away to any whereabouts.

Uncle approached beside me. “He was such a young lad.” I could feel his gaze shift on me. “Look…I know I’ve warned you about this. Drop the job, son.” He then stuttered, “I – I don’t want to be the one to witness you next inside the dreaded box. At least, reconsider now, yeah?”

Reconsider, as if I could.

I took it as an offense. I was angry at myself. I needed to do something to at least prevent another “accident” like this. I couldn’t let the media label your name black, brother.

I am to meet a witness of that night. There are others who died the same evening, and it was a miracle that this person approached me first. I am now listing the details as we speak.

My writing froze, however.

I asked again, “I’m sorry, you heard what exactly?”

“I saw a man of age speak about reporting journalists weeks before. He was with his friend and was talking about it so discreetly when I walked by the sari-sari store.”

“And do you know who this man is?”

I didn’t know how to react, brother.

It seems like we were both betrayed, as the woman then speaks of uncle’s name.