by Fendy Satria Tulodo

At first, I didn’t see anything. Just the orange dust looping behind the truck and a blur that might’ve been a goat or a trick of the heat. But if you squint long enough into that kind of light – too bright, too loud – you start to see what doesn’t want to be seen. Like guilt when it crawls under your skin after everything’s already done. Or like a red baseball cap, hanging from the handlebar of a kid’s bike, rusted and still, watching, just watching.

His name was Dodo. No one really knew his full name. Maybe Edodo, or maybe it was just a nickname some kid made up that stuck too long. Names had a way of mutating in our neighborhood, like tadpoles in a jam jar. Nobody asked, nobody cared. It wasn’t that we were evil. We were just kids.

We lived on the edge of Malang, in a block where houses pressed too close together and the sky was cut by electric cables and kites. My house sat between Pak Sabar’s bengkel and a warung that always smelled like overcooked noodles and old oil. There were ten of us who hung out after school, more like a loose swarm than a gang. Me, Ardi, Fatim, Kucir, Didi, and others whose names flicker now like weak candlelight in my head. The only rule was: don’t be the one we laugh at.

That was Dodo’s role. Always. His slippers made a squelching noise when he walked. He had this habit of tugging his left ear when nervous, which was often. His red cap sat crooked on his head, and it never left his scalp – even during salat at school. Once, a teacher made him take it off and found patches of scaly skin underneath. That gave us a fresh batch of ammunition.

Ardi called him Kepala Naga. Dragon Head. Didi drew cartoons of Dodo sneezing fire and burning down our classrooms. Even Fatim, who was usually nice, joined in. And me? I was the one who laughed the hardest. Not because it was funny, but because I was scared it would be me next.

*

Every afternoon, we’d meet behind Bu Tatik’s warung. The alley was narrow, lined with mismatched bricks and dried leaves. It was where we played marbles, traded sticker cards, and sometimes just sat chewing permen karet we could barely afford. But when Dodo showed up, things changed.

Someone would knock his bag out of his hand. Someone else would hide his slippers. There were days when it got worse – when fingers turned into fists and laughter stretched into that long, slow silence that comes after hitting someone too hard.

I remember one time clearly. The day it got colder than usual, even though it was August. Dodo brought a homemade toy, some spinning thing made from a rubber band and old cassette tape reels. It was actually kind of cool, but that made it worse. Kucir snatched it, smashed it, and threw it into the drain.

“Mainan miskin,” he said. Poor people’s toys. 

Dodo bent down slowly, without a word. I could see his lip trembling, but he didn’t cry. Not that time.

Then Ardi stepped forward and pushed him. Hard. Dodo fell. Not far, but it was enough. His red cap flew off and landed near me.

And I picked it up.

I should’ve handed it back. I could’ve even tossed it gently. Instead, I flung it into a puddle, like a joke. Everyone howled. But I remember the look in Dodo’s eyes. Not angry, just hollow. Like something had clicked off inside.

* 

The next week, he stopped showing up. His bike was still parked behind the warung for a couple of days, but the red cap was gone. Nobody said anything. Not the kids, not the adults. His name just stopped being used, like he never existed.

Ardi said Dodo’s dad got a job in Kediri. Didi said they moved to Banyuwangi because his mom had a lung problem. Fatim swore he saw Dodo in the back of a pick-up truck, holding a chicken cage. But nothing was confirmed, and nobody really tried to find out.

Life went on. Exams came. The kites changed color. New candy trends replaced sticker cards. A new kid joined our group, and the rhythm of teasing resumed, just with a different target.

I never told my parents. They would’ve scolded me. Or worse, made me apologize. I wasn’t ready for that, not at eleven. Not when my own skin felt like it barely fit my bones.

*

Years passed. I left Malang, went to university in Surabaya, studied management, got married, had a kid. Adult things. The kind of things that push your past into dusty corners. But it never stayed quiet, not really.

In 2022, I was back in Malang for a seminar. I took a detour through the old neighborhood. The warung was gone, turned into a small laundry shop. The alley behind it was narrower than I remembered, and the bricks had shifted, but it was still there. And that smell of frying oil mixed with heat and dust – some things don’t change. 

And then, at a flea market near Dinoyo, I saw someone crouched beside a tarp full of tangled phone chargers and old power banks. He wore a cap – not red, but navy – and a faded green shirt. His hands moved quickly, sorting cables like he’d done it all his life.

I stood frozen. My throat got tight. I wanted to say his name, but I wasn’t sure. The years had stretched his face. The ear tug was gone. He looked up for just a second, eyes brushing mine.

Nothing.

I walked away. Like a coward. My heart pounded, each beat sharp under my ribs.

*

Sleep never came. I ended up slumped outside the hotel room, watching a vending machine buzz like a tired insect. I kept thinking, what if it was him? And what would I say?

“Sorry for laughing?”

“Sorry I threw your cap in a puddle?”

Or just, “Do you remember me?”

I hated myself for not knowing the answer. 

*

My son, Chan, is two now. He has a red cap. Every time he wears it, I feel something twist inside.

He’s small, shy, and doesn’t know how to push back yet. Sometimes at the playground, I catch myself wondering, what if he ends up being the Dodo in his group? Or worse, the me?

I tell myself I’ll raise him better, kinder. I’ll teach him to speak up. To hold out his hand instead of pulling it away. But we all think we’ll do better until we don’t. 

*

One afternoon, Chan tripped near the sandbox. Another kid laughed, just a tiny snicker. My chest tightened.

I walked over, picked him up, brushed off the dirt. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “That boy laughed.”

I paused. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” he said, “but I feel kind of funny.”  

I didn’t know what to say. So I just held him.

*

Sometimes I dream of that red cap. Not in the alley, not on the bike, but floating in the air like a balloon with no string. Dodo’s face comes and goes, blurry at the edges. In some dreams, he forgives me. In others, he walks past.

I wake up sweating.

*

I’m writing this now not because I want redemption. Maybe I don’t deserve it. Maybe no one does, really. But if by some strange chance you read this – if you were Dodo, or if you are Dodo – know this: I remember you. 

I remember your cap. Your toy. Your silence. And the way we all failed you.

Fendy Satria Tulodo is a writer and creative professional based in Malang, Indonesia. With a background in sales coordination, strategic communication, and content creation, he brings a blend of analytical thinking and creativity to his work. His writing often explores overlooked moments and everyday complexities, combining grounded storytelling with a curiosity for human behavior. He also enjoys experimenting with music, videography, and digital media tools.