{"id":6932,"date":"2026-07-12T11:46:08","date_gmt":"2026-07-12T03:46:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/?p=6932"},"modified":"2026-07-12T11:46:08","modified_gmt":"2026-07-12T03:46:08","slug":"bolawan","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/bolawan\/","title":{"rendered":"Bolawan"},"content":{"rendered":"

Neshrin M. Macabago<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGood morning, Bolawan. You eat na<\/em>.\u201d As soon as I sat on the dining chair for breakfast, Naynay, our longtime helper, greeted me with a smile as she put rice on my empty plate. \u201cFried chicken?\u201d she offered. I shook my head and pointed to the plate of fried eggs on the other side of the table. \u201cI want one, please?\u201d And before she even stretched her right hand to reach it, I asked her about Mamang and Papang.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMadam went out\u2026 to the jewelry shop. Kanina pa<\/em>,\u201d trying to talk to me in her broken English, \u201cand your Papang?\u201d She then finally reached the plate of fried eggs and put one on mine. \u201cNot yet home. Maybe next week.\u201d Upset, I rolled my eyes, feeling sick of my parents\u2019 absence every meal.<\/span><\/p>\n

My family was well-known in our inged<\/em> or province. My parents owned two businesses: jewelry and clothing line. We lived in a white and blue three-storey house with a high-walled compound, had 3 helpers and 2 drivers, and owned four cars – one each for my parents and my two older brothers, Kuya Ahmad and Kuya Arsad, and because I was still young at that time, I didn\u2019t have one. People in our place spoke highly of us, even calling us \u201cBolawan a manga taw<\/em>\u201d or people with high status, or literally translated as \u201cgolden people.\u201d Probably the reason they dubbed us that was because of my parents\u2019 business \u2013 selling jewelries from Saudi. In fact, that\u2019s actually where my parents got my nickname from \u2013 Bolawan or Golden. I am the youngest and the only daughter, and dare I say, I owned that name.<\/span><\/p>\n

At home, we didn\u2019t speak Meranaw at all, only my parents did when they talked to each other. My brothers and I spoke English regularly. Since kids, we were taught to speak it until it became our first language; Tagalog was our second because of our helpers. Other kids in our hometown didn\u2019t really talk to us as they couldn\u2019t speak the language anyway and were too intimidated by us.<\/span><\/p>\n

Despite having almost everything, I could still feel lonely most of the time. Usually, I was alone in our house with our servants, while my parents were somewhere else. My brothers, though, had their own things too. Kuya Ahmad, the eldest, married Ate Saira, our third cousin in my mother\u2019s side, and they were expecting a baby. Kuya Arsad, on the other hand, loved to brag his car and money off to his friends, living his best life. He could even go to clubs and rent girls as many as he wanted. While me, I could only go out if Ate Jaja, Naynay\u2019s daughter and my personal yaya<\/em>, chaperoned me \u2013 and that is if I had my father\u2019s consent. Sometimes, I\u2019d wish my life wasn\u2019t that perfect so I could go out freely, just like my childhood friend, Bibi.<\/span><\/p>\n

When we were kids, Bibi would tell me how she fancies everything about me and wishes to live a life like mine someday. And whenever she says that, a part of me fluttered as it reminded me of how fortunate I was. I always liked, though, how people get jealous of me, of us. Although my life and hers were entirely different, I still called her a friend. But most of the time, I treated her as my little servant. Bibi was free, kind, but mostly gullible. Whatever I tell her to do, she does it for<\/em> me. But she could be deceiving too. She befriended me in exchange for my toys and snacks, yet I still made friends with her regardless, because she was the only kid who could understand and speak English a bit compared to her other dugyot<\/em> friends. Little did she know, I only played with her whenever I got sick of Ate Jaja tailing me.<\/span><\/p>\n

Another thing I secretly admired about Bibi, though, was her faith. She would always pray with her mother and siblings at home, and her father would be in the masjid. I tried to recall about a time I prayed with Mamang, but I couldn\u2019t remember anything, except when it was in Eid<\/em>. The truth is, I wasn\u2019t sure if I could fully call myself a Muslim, for praying never occurred to me and I even barely wore kombong<\/em> (hijab).<\/span><\/p>\n

One time, Bibi invited me into their house, and the way her mother, Ante Edah, welcomed me with warmth, as though there was a celebrity who visited them, overwhelmed me. She even spoiled me with Bibi\u2019s favorite snacks: toron<\/em> and buko<\/em> juice. Their generosity was quite impressive for people like them who had less, yet rich by heart. And it saddened me to think that while Bibi\u2019s mother treated me that way, she never felt that from my mother. Mamang disliked people who weren\u2019t like us, including Bibi\u2019s family. Mga patay gutom <\/em>(broke and starving) as she often described them. It even came to a point where she forbid me from playing with her, more so of going to their house. So I instead asked Papang to let Bibi come over our house, but Mamang heard it and didn\u2019t approve it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re too golden for a girl like her. In fact, you shouldn\u2019t be letting her touch you!\u201d she said. I sensed despise in her voice when she uttered \u201cher<\/em>,\u201d as if Bibi was dirt. I admit, it hurt me too because after all, she was a friend to me. But what can I do, then, if my mother said it so?<\/span><\/p>\n

A week later, Mamang told me that she\u2019d send me to Singapore to study there until I graduate college, and the good news delighted me and felt excited to move there and leave my childhood behind, even if it meant losing contact with Bibi.<\/span><\/p>\n

Eleven years later, I finally came back to inged<\/em>. But this time, not as the kind of Bolawan people always thought of me. Instead, I came back as a failure and disgrace to my family. When I was in my freshman year, Mamang sadly passed away. I returned home for her dowali <\/em>(wake) and then went back to Singapore after the funeral to continue my studies. A year later, I was informed that Kuya Arsad mishandled all the money from our clothing line for his lavish lifestyle, until our business turned down, and Papang almost disowned him. Another year had passed; Kuya Ahmad contacted me through a video call and shared me the news about Papang\u2019s wedding to his third cousin. And the moment I heard it, my heart skipped a beat, as if all the oxygen in my body failed to function. Slowly, rage consumed me. Kuya Ahmad didn\u2019t even get the chance to finish his sentence, and I hung up. I banged my phone on my bedside table out of devastation. I couldn\u2019t think of good thoughts at this point as I was already clouded by disgust and disappointment. So I thought of doing something that could possibly hurt them too. And the next thing they also heard about me: I dropped out of school, even though I was halfway finishing my studies. I took it as revenge against my father.<\/span><\/p>\n

A few days later, I booked a flight back to Manila and stayed in our vacation house there and then decided to completely ruin my future. I wasted two years of my life clubbing and drinking, just like what Kuya Arsad always did. Ironically, I found pleasure in those forbidden acts and somehow felt some kind of freedom too. My whole life, I was the golden daughter, the favorite child. I kept it all together for my parents, until I no longer wanted to be perfect. I thought by doing those would hurt my father and regret his decision, as it turned out, I was the one who regretted every damn decision I made.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fast forward, I met Khalid, the only person who accepted and truly loved me despite my impurity. I thought I\u2019d found someone who could finally fix me. But instead our love brought more chaos. My family detested him because he was, unfortunately, nothing like us. If Mamang had been alive, I was certain she\u2019d disown me.<\/span><\/p>\n

Trash, slap soil, opportunist<\/em> would be the words she\u2019d spit on him and would definitely slap and thrash me. But nothing would change the fact that he and I had already happened. I already had his child inside me. When Papang learned about it, he wanted to kill us both for the shame we had caused. I knelt down before him, crying and begging him to forgive me. And thankfully, his love for me as his only daughter somehow prevailed. So he had no choice but to demand betang<\/em> (dowry) and a wedding from Khalid\u2019s family as soon as possible to make it up for our mistake.<\/span><\/p>\n

And when the wedding finally convened, at one point, a slice of regret suddenly crept in. I was in the bride\u2019s hiding room, waiting for my groom to knock on the door while guiltily thinking of running away after realizing I was actually going to marry the man that my younger self would possibly loathe if I hadn\u2019t loved him. And if I did, that would cause more talks about the misfortune of my family. Gossips would always be the judge of it. \u201cI need to fix the damage I caused,\u201d that was the least thing I could say to coax myself.<\/span><\/p>\n

The ceremony took place in Manila to keep it private, but it was far from my dream grand wedding. Although I got to wear expensive jewelries from our store, my white gown was nothing special. No huge, sparkling venue, just a small space that could only contained a few guests from my family and his. I knew in myself that I had no right to ask for a fancy wedding when it was me who sucked it all.<\/span><\/p>\n

Three days after that ceremony, we decided to stay in my parents\u2019 house in inged <\/em>for good. I noticed that our beautiful three-storey house looked very old now. The paint, once shiny white and blue, had faded to ghostly yellow and eroded in parts, revealing the layered bricks beneath. The windows had cracks, as though the house turned haunted. No one lived there since Mamang passed, except for Ate Jaja, who stayed there with Kuya Nono, our houseboy, and lived together after Naynay passed months after my mother did. And since I had nowhere and no one to turn to this time, I decided to live there with my husband and them, hoping to start anew. But I still wondered, though: Did our neighbors know what really<\/em> happened to me? Well, I bet gossips reached them too.<\/span><\/p>\n

Inside my bedroom in the third floor, I peeked through my rusty window and looked for Bibi\u2019s, my old friend, house. Their small, old wooden house used to be standing next to ours, and I noticed it wasn\u2019t there anymore. What I instead saw was a white two-storey house with a huge glass window on its second floor now standing in the exact space of Bibi\u2019s.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then, the night came. At the dining table, eating dinner with my husband, I asked Ate Jaja about Bibi and whose unfamiliar house was that. And to my surprise, she replied, \u201cBahay nina Bibi yun, yung kalaro mo dati.<\/em> (That\u2019s Bibi\u2019s house, your old friend.)\u201d In disbelief, I forcefully swallowed the food inside my mouth. She also mentioned Bibi became an accountant after she graduated college and now married to a police official. But instead of feeling happy for my old friend\u2019s success, a sudden ache settled in my heart, as if telling me she\u2019d defeated me, and now I\u2019m the loser. I mean, table always turns, as they say. Eleven years was indeed long. We were both twelve since we last saw each other. For sure, many things also happened to her between those years.<\/span><\/p>\n

Khalid and I were lying in bed, talking about our future when drowse signaled, and I told him I was going to sleep, so he gently grabbed the blanket for me. Then I closed my eyes when out of nowhere, a thought of Bibi lingered. It\u2019s like, her memory was haunting me. A kind of realization saying: While I was ruining my life, she was fixing hers. I could vividly remember the way she fancied me, but now I guess, I felt envious of what she\u2019s become. I hate it because jealousy had never come over me before, not like this way. Some of the things I once had, she has them now. But the very two things I looked up about her since we were kids: her freedom and faith \u2013 I still don\u2019t freaking have them both!<\/span><\/p>\n

No complete freedom for a woman who brought ignominy to her entire family and no faith for someone like me who has already lost her hope.<\/span><\/p>\n

I was called Bolawan by my parents because of our, my<\/em> privileges \u2013 good-looking, rich, and soft-spoken. As it turned out, I was never as precious as jewelries. I could now relate myself to the ghostly yellow and cracks in our house \u2013 unclean and broken. I supposed, all this time, Bibi was the true bolawan<\/em>, for she\u2019s ever since pure and innocent. But more importantly, her dignity still belonged to her \u2013 something I could no longer possess back. I wondered, though, if she and I happened to run into each other, would she talk to me? Or look me in the eye, at least? Probably she would also despise me the way my mother did to her and her family. And for sure, even if our eyes meet once again, I don\u2019t think my humiliation would allow me to face her now that I became a woman of ill repute. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Neshrin M. Macabago \u201cGood morning, Bolawan. You eat na.\u201d As soon as I sat on the dining chair for breakfast, Naynay, our longtime helper, greeted me with a smile as she put rice on my empty plate. \u201cFried chicken?\u201d she … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[22],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6932","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-essay"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":false,"jetpack_likes_enabled":false,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6932","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6932"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6932\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6933,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6932\/revisions\/6933"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6932"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6932"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bangsamororeview.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6932"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}