Part Two – Farewell, My Brother: Remembering Li Bakoi
My friend — or rather, my brother — Rosli Bakoi, better known to all as Li Bakoi or Mamu Li, passed away on a quiet Sunday. He was laid to rest at the Masjid Jamek Jelutong on Jalan Tunku. Among the few close friends I have had in this life, he was the truest — always there when I needed a companion, or simply a place to belong.
Li Bakoi owned and ran the small coffee stall at the Restoran Ikan Sembilang, a humble gathering place by the sea, now tended by his sons and their friends. To the community of fishermen, he was more than a drink maker; he was a pillar of the Pondok Nelayan Jelutong, the one who held the threads of the place together. The huts that lined the shore, floating and fragile, bore his handiwork. The last one he built from scratch stands now as his legacy — a testament to the strength and generosity of his hands.
When I first met him, he was behind the counter, stirring tea and pouring coffee with the grace of someone who loved what he did. I was sketching quietly at a table, and he came over to see what I was drawing. That simple gesture began a friendship that lasted more than twelve years. From him, I learned not only about the life of fishermen but about humility, perseverance, and laughter in the face of hardship. He never seemed idle, always fixing, building, or helping someone in need.
At his mandi jenazah, as I stood by the room where they gave him his final bath, I was struck by how small he seemed. For a man who had built so much, who carried the weight of boats and huts and people’s trust, his physical frame was slight — yet his spirit immense. I had long sensed he might not reach old age. He had undergone a bypass operation and refused to take his medication, his elder brother told me at the mosque that day. Still, he worked tirelessly, as if he knew his time was short and wanted to leave behind something solid — and he did.
That night, the heavens opened, and rain poured heavily over Jelutong. I found myself thinking of him — wondering if his grave might flood, and smiling through my tears at the thought of him building a sampan right there in the afterlife, ready to sail into the next world.
Epilogue – The Empty Seat by the Jetty
These days, when I sit at the jetty with my sketchpad and a cup of tea, I still glance toward the empty stool where Li Bakoi once sat. His laughter used to rise above the sound of boat engines, a kind of music that gave life to the mornings. Now there is only the creak of wood, the cries of gulls, and the rhythm of the tide. Yet, somehow, his presence lingers — in the smell of coffee, in the easy chatter of the fishermen, in the very boards of the hut he built.
I sometimes catch myself turning to make a remark to him, only to find the space beside me filled with air and memory. But I know he hasn’t really gone. The sea remembers. The walls remember. And I, too, remember — through every brushstroke and every word I write.
In this way, I keep him alive, as we all do for those who’ve crossed over before us — not by mourning, but by continuing the work, by bearing witness, and by giving thanks for the gift of having known them.
Bon voyage, my friend, my brother.
May Allah make your passage light and peaceful, and may your good deeds be the sails that carry you home.
#LessonsInImpermanence #FarewellLiBakoi #PondokNelayanJelutong #CheeseburgerBuddha #PenangFishermen #FriendshipAndFaith #WitnessToChange #HealingThroughArt #InMemoriam
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