The Snoring Man Who Saved a Village
Abz. Alagabia
It is because of the people’s respect for him that he got his name, Momoy. A father of five children, a tailor on the corner of his hut during daytime, and fisherman at night. He rented a manual sewing machine from his sister-in-law. It may seem difficult to deprive himself of rest; however, he could’t do otherwise, for he needed to feed his sons and daughters. Sabi, his wife sometimes helped him sew clothes for rush orders. Occasionally, she accepted customers who wanted to have their hair curled and dyed. The couple both finished vocational studies in Manuel Luiz Quezon University, in Manila. When they settled down, they moved back to the Pagba for good.
Aside from being a worker day and night, Momoy was also once an official in the barangay. He led the council in establishing street electrification, instead of purchasing a service truck for cockfight bettors back in the 90s. He hadn’t had his reelection due to the fact that a lot of the villagers disliked him for always sticking to the law, and doing what’s ethical and just. It can even be remembered when he had a dispute with Mangnay for stopping him gather stones and boulders as he constructed a breakwater system to cover his house from strong currents.
The neighborhood, in the same way, had their reason to hate Momoy, for causing disturbance because of a very disturbing sound as he made when he snored at night or during siesta. Sima, an elementary teacher was the one who severely disliked this situation in the whole neighborhood.
“How I wish this man had a nightmare”, muttered Sima, as she raised her hands towards her waist. “We are so unfortunate to have a neighbor like him”, she exclaimed, with her mouth pointing towards the house of Momoy, which was made of coconut timber and nipa shingles.
It was believed that fatigue was one of the causes of Momoy’s loud snore. And it was always observed by Sabi that he easily falls asleep every time his back touches a flat surface.
I went with my father, on the 31st of December, to catch fish for the New Year’s Eve. I was ten years old then, so I was good in paddling a subiran owned by Mano Berting, and rowed from our house to the sea and back, for approximately thirty minutes. Most of the times, we didn’t bother asking for permission as long as Tatay would give him “panura sura”, when we came back from the sea. Sometimes, if there were no baloto near the shore, I just accompanied my father by foot. It was enjoyable keeping my father company, especially when I knew he catches big fish, shrimp, or kulambotan.
One morning, I glanced at him and eventually knew that he was tired. I asked Tatay, “You want to drink coffee? I’ll make you one”. He seemed not to notice my presence, so I continued eating “hinorno” from Apoy Meding, the famous baker in our village. After how many seconds, I heard Tatay snore again, as if air hardly came out from his nostril. His snore was different, it made an agonizing sound, like a person who was being strangled. On that moment, I thought someday I could afford to send him to the hospital to check on his condition.
Few years passed, both my parents were getting older and older every day. More white strands of hair were added to Nanay’s head, while the bald spots of Momoy became wider and more visible. Nevertheless, the family remained strong and happy, maybe because they put God on top of everything, and did not miss a Sunday worship service, that’s why despite the hatred of other neighbors, Momoy and Sabi did not seem to beg for food, but made sure their kids were sent to school, achieved good grades, and taught to be morally upright.
Ma’am Sima’s husband was a military officer. Mano Ynam, who originally came from Isabela province, was very kindhearted. As a matter of fact, when her wife was not around, he would invite Momoy for a drink after a long day of work. Their friendship led me to knowing Mano his son, Jack, who later became my friend too.
Mana Sima got infuriated when she knew that Tatay and his husband had a short session for drinking.
“If you invite that dying fool into our house again, I would swear to God, I’d file for an annulment of our marriage”, shouted Sima at his husband who momentarily froze in shock and disbelief.
“I am the richest woman in this village, I don’t want filthy beggars to even stare at my mansion”, she boasted furiously.
Meanwhile, Jack and I became close friends. He transferred from Borot to the school where I was studying. He had a lot of toys, and we played his toy soldiers in their backyard secretly for his mother would be so mad to know that I could have the chance to set foot on their compound. Jack, as a rich kid, did not know how to make sulpot, hiringga, karukarabaw who were basically made of wood, bamboo, and coconut branches, but enjoyed so much playing them. So, I gave him these native playthings in exchange of five pesos, so I could have something for may snack in school.
As time passed by, soldier toys turned into movie marathon, harana, and we began admiring ladies of our own age. I envied him for getting to know more beautiful girls easily as he was obviously good-looking. Going together to a small acre of coconut farm, which was entrusted to Momoy by my Lolo Barawalte, was one of our most unforgettable experiences, more so, after getting stung by a swarm of gibay whenever we were careless.
“I want to become a police officer, padi”, Jack mentioned to me with a snicker. “That fits you so much padi, follow the footsteps of your father”, I replied. “I plan to be a teacher someday or a lawyer”, I stuttered, for I did not know if my parents could afford sending me to school, while my older siblings were also studying.
After our graduation, I was told by Momoy to gather sacks of rice with the help of Mano, my brother. I carried the rice upon my shoulders or sometimes on top my head, while my older brother simply guided a kanga pulled by our only one hardworking carabao. Weeks after, the rice field turned very dry, hays became stiff because of the six-month drought. On the edge of the kabalingasgan, I saw from afar my father slumbering under the shade of an old karukatingan. As usual, the sound of his snore flaunted all over like a passing twelve-wheeler truck.
“Boto!, my father called my attention, it is time for bed”. Yes ‘tay, I’ll just finish drinking my coffee”, I earnestly responded. I drank coffee before going to bed more often, than having it during breakfast, which sounded insane.
I looked closely at the window of the mansion, and saw the silhouette of a grumpy woman. I know she was waiting until Momoy falls asleep and start murmuring countless curses. Before I closed my eyes, the woman shouted blunt and harsh words like never before.
“How I wish this poor house be burned to ashes, for this loathsome family to find another place to live miles away from me”, she said while laughing like a witch in her midst of casting spell.
The night gradually engulfed the village. No single house seemed to have turned a light ‘till the morning. Silence wrapped every corner and street of Duruongan. There was no sight of life outside. Every direction appeared as dark as a sight of a forgotten graveyard, except for a smoke that wiggle upward with the mild hot wind of summer night. I peeped on the window again and noticed a smoke near the mansion. Later that afternoon, I saw Taok, the mother of Sima burned thick heap of dried acacia leaves. That did not bother me anyway when I remembered why there was a smoke outside.
Few minutes after, I returned to bed, and clang to a pillow tattered with marks of dried sweat and gunk. Though it smelled bad, there was no problem for I was used to its odor. Then it all went dark. Last thing I remembered was my father wheezing alarmingly loud.
“Ginoo ko Tabangi kami! Tubig!, tubig, tubig!” vociferated Sima, trembling in fear for the very first time.
I jumped off my papag when I heard her screams. I saw Tatay panicking as he reached the pail from our dim and dirty kitchen, and hurriedly went to the atabay to scoop water. I followed Momoy as he staggered hastily to throw water to the fire which was consuming the bodega of the rich family. More villagers added the lineup, passing pails from one to another. Water splashed everywhere. The affluent family evidently panicked, but the bayanihan did not stop, though it seemed impossible to control the blaze anymore without the true firefighters. Others were already tossing water towards the mansion, to stop the conflagration from spreading.
“It’s not too late, we can do this! More water” Tatay reassuringly yelled at everyone. “This is the best time for us to show our oneness”, Nobody should give up”, he added as he led the whole group like a family member or relative.
There was a voice within me circulating, telling myself of how I was proud of my father. The emotion I had at the very moment was uncontrollable indeed. I always looked up to the goodness of a man who did not know how to show any sign of revenge and indifference to the people who, for no reason, had belittled him since the days I could remember. I sat on the protruding root of an anislag, I was sure to myself I was not of any help to the situation, for I was supposed to stay in a safe place like every boy and girl of my age did.
“Salamat, Ginoo!”, Momoy, momoy, dako nga salamat” I caught Mana Sima speaking humbly in front of my father. I saw her gripping the hands of tatay, while gazing at the other villagers.
The fire was, at last, totally out after an hour and a half of manual firefighting. Good thing that the fire did not expand throughout the neighborhood.
I once again looked at Mana Sima who was already on her knees this time, and uttered softly. “It was 3:00 o’clock, I was disturbed by the noise of your snore, Momoy. When I stood up, I felt something strange, there was an unstable source of brightness at the back of our storage house. After a few steps, I was shocked that our bodega was already on fire”, she confessed.
“If it wasn’t about your loud snore, I would’t have gotten up to check what was happening outside.