I have always been a huge fan of Stephen Chow. Growing up, I watched all (or at least I think all) of his movies repeatedly. Even today, I still revisit them on Netflix. So in 2008, when CJ7 was first released, I was thrilled. For the first time, I finally had the money to watch his work on the big screen.
I still remember, it was released during Chinese New Year when I was in Penang. I completely underestimated Stephen Chow’s ability to draw crowds to the cinema. To my disappointment, every ticket was sold out. Friends who managed to watch it told me the film wasn’t particularly funny, that CJ7 itself wasn’t all that cute, and that it had very limited screen time. They said it was more of a father-and-son drama than a typical Stephen Chow comedy. The moment I heard that, I decided to avoid it.
You see, after losing my father at the age of 13, I became extremely emotional with films that touched, even for a bit, on father-son relationships. I avoided them like a lethal virus. Even lighthearted movies like Adam Sandler’s Click or Rise of the Planet of the Apes (where an ape sees his guardian as a father figure) were enough to bring me to tears. Naturally, I stayed away from CJ7 all these years. Until last night, when I finally felt ready to watch it.
And yes, it was every bit as difficult as I feared. The scene that hit me the hardest was when the son told his father to leave him alone forever. That line pierced me deeply, because it mirrored the very same feeling I had on my last day with my own father.
I remember it vividly, as though it happened yesterday. It was the final day of a week-long school holiday, and my father was driving me with my siblings back to my boarding school. Along the way, he asked about my medicine cause I’d been down with a fever earlier in the break. I frantically searched my bags but couldn’t find it. That triggered his anger, and for the entire almost 40 minutes journey, he lectured me about responsibility.
He spoke about his own childhood, how difficult and impoverished it was. How he had to wash dishes in the school canteen just to afford food during recess. How his older brother would beat him if he was lazy or irresponsible. He told us how privileged we were compared to him. My sisters caught bits of his frustration, but most of it was directed squarely at me.
I sat in silence, annoyed, absorbing every word but wishing the journey would end quickly. My father wasn’t a talkative man, so for him to nag at such length was rare. Little did I know, those words would be his final lesson to me, a last will of sorts, his wisdom pressed into us before his time was up.
When we finally reached school, relief washed over me. I remember muttering in my heart, “Thank God, we’re finally here. I don’t have to listen to your nagging anymore.” I kissed his hand, and he looked at me with worried eyes. Later, as I unpacked, I discovered the medicine tucked neatly in one of my bag compartments, the very one I had missed.
I can’t help but think it was God’s way of preparing me. Of giving my father an excuse for one last chance to toughen me up for what was to come, to be ready to be the head of the family.
I’ve never been someone who believes in regret. My mother always reminded me to hold firmly to Qada’ & Qadar, that everything happens for a reason. Still, if there’s one thing I wish I could change, it would be the last “words” I offered my father: silent resentment instead of gratitude. If only I had a CJ7 of my own, to grant me one last hug with him and nag me all he wants cause I really really miss him.
Now that I am a father myself, I finally see things through his eyes. He wasn’t disappointed in me that day, he was worried. He wasn’t angry at me, he was questioning himself, wondering if he had done enough to prepare me for the cruelty of the world. And, Ayah, if you’re listening somewhere, you did. I don’t know if you’d be proud of me, but I think I’ve managed okay.
Coincidentally, today marks my son’s first month in this world. So, happy one-month birthday, my dearest Muhammad Noor Azfar. May you grow into the son to a father that I never managed to be~
bin Mohd Nordin
27/09/2025
Petang ini: Hujan lebat selebatnya. Seperti lebatnya air mata yang mengalir tatkala mengenang kembali saat-saat akhir bersama ayah~
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