My mind could no longer hark back to the exact time when I last called Ahia by his first name, but I clearly remember the situation that led me into addressing him like that.
The tale of me calling him ahia began when he and his shoti—younger brother—went to a legit Chinese restaurant, together with me and my Kuya Arthel. While we were gathered at one table, one of the waitresses began to speak to me in Chinese. But I could not understand a single word she said so Jehu, his younger brother, answered the lady on my behalf.
Everyone in their family speaks fluent Mandarin, Cantonese, and Fookien. But Ahia is a notch more well-versed when it comes to languages because he understands Japanese, too.
Anyway, it turned out that the lady was trying to have a conversation with us and she was asking if the three of us were a family—not including Kuya Arthel. Perhaps, because he doesn't have the same eyes. Because Jehu found it painful to explain the situation, he just said that yes, we are and that his brother was our ahia.
They translated what transpired in their conversation as soon as the lady walked away from our table.
If I'm not mistaken, that has already been more than a decade ago. Maybe it was during my first or second year in college. And since then, I have been calling him Ahia.
It has been so long and I have even forgotten the sound of my voice when I address him as either Jin or Jino. It has now become so foreign to my own hearing.
"So . . . Ahia is actually an honorific?" my neighbor asked with his widened eyes and mouth that fell completely agape.
My forehead creased. It never occurred to me that he was clueless all this time. As much as I don't want to admit it, there are times when I perceive him as someone who's quick-witted. He easily gets things and he can sometimes read my mind. And because I told him about angkong ang guama before, I thought I didn't have to explain what ahia means.
Wasn't he able to infer from that conversation? It's not that hard to find out. It wasn't rocket science. So, how come? Was it his first time to hear the word ahia before? Hasn't he encountered other Filipino people with Chinese blood in the past? I find that a little weird. Chinese people are literally in every corner of this country.
But what mystifies me more is the fact that they know each other.
"Yes. It's a Hokkien or Fookien honorific," I answered.
It technically means first older brother but the filial order is of no importance since I don't call any of my brothers using Hokkien honorifics. I'm the only one among the four of us who mirrors our Chinese blood, anyway.
"Oh," he muttered rather abstractedly. It's as if that still doesn't make sense to him but he forced himself to utter something—even when it's completely insignificant.
The befuddled look in my eyes was reinstated when I gazed at the person standing behind me.
"Ahia, do you know him?" I repeated my question earlier.
He pursed his lips and shrugged indifferently. "Barely," he replied with no trace of enthusiasm, at all.
The way he's impassively looking at my neighbor tells me that he doesn't seem pleased with this encounter.
"Grabe 'yung sagot na barely. Parang wala tayong pinagsamahan, ah," my neighbor taunted, chuckling.
"Wala naman talaga," Ahia countered flatly.
I've known Ahia for half of my life. I've seen all the good, the bad, and the ugly in him. This morning, the latter seems to have resurfaced naturally—which is very out of the common.
