Returning to Aawu (Yahucun)
As I sat with my wife on the stone bench in front of my childhood home in the village of Aawu (鴉湖村), an elderly lady walked by us and without pausing asked if I was the boy from that house who left nearly fifty years ago. She finally stopped fifteen metres away below the arch at the front of the laneway to rest by the entryway shrine. I followed her there and confirmed that I am indeed that boy and we quickly slipped into conversation in our Aawu dialect (countryside Cantonese), which instantly gave us a connection.
I explained the reason for my return to the village. I had never visited my grandfather’s grave. Nor had I fulfilled another Cantonese obligation: Introducing my wife to him. With the extra fear of the village disappearing due to rapid urbanisation, I had finally returned to Maaubou (茅㘵, a neighbourhood within Aawu) to fulfil my duties.
As we spoke, an elderly gentleman walked by and he too without stopping remarked as he strode past us, “I remember Kai. He would always say ‘tomorrow’ whenever we asked him when he would be moving to Canada.”
The lady laughed and confirmed the story. Over the years, many relatives have told me the same. As a child, I was loquacious and would go around greeting all the households in the laneways connected to Maaubou Street. When news came about that my family would be moving to Canada, all the people of Maaubou would ask me when the big day would be. For months my reply was always “tomorrow”.
Then tomorrow finally came. I left Maaubou Lane 15 for a better life in Toronto. However, that new beginning did not include my grandfather. I was his favourite grandchild and heartbroken that he did not join. Leaving back then – before modern telecommunications and when China was still closed off – was effectively permanent. My grandfather died shortly after we emigrated.
After I finished conversing with the lady, I walked past the entryway onto Maaubou Street facing the village pond. I strolled along the water – where I caught shrimps and carried home fish when it was drained for harvest as a child – and sought the space facing my family ancestral hall. By the benches there under a banyan tree I saw a gathering of elderly residents. As I made my way to them, I was warmly greeted as they recognised me. We had a lively conversation in our Aawu dialect. One elder asked how a man who left at age four could still speak the local vernacular. To their amusement, I got my Polish wife to sing in the local dialect a childhood nursery rhyme that I taught her. All were pleasantly surprised that I proudly retained our local speech. I explained that I spoke with my parents exclusively in dialect growing up.
Their astonishment is merited. Over the years, standard Cantonese and then Mandarin have overtaken the area as the village urbanised and migrants from other parts of China moved to the Pearl River Delta region. Few young people seem to speak dialect anymore. I fear that my generation may be its last speakers.
The pond and ancestral hall brought back memories of my grandfather. China was poor in the 1970s. Food was scant and meat a luxury. One poignant recollection was when he cooked game that he caught in the rice fields and shared that tasty meal with me. I also remembered when he would offer me biscuits, quietly slipping them to me when the other kids were not looking.
I met later with family that had stayed behind. They would be taking me to my grandfather’s grave. I had not spoken with my paternal cousins in almost twenty-five years. We were seven children — my two siblings, four cousins, and me — living under the same roof with our grandfather. I am the youngest. At a local restaurant to celebrate my return, a cousin shared a story to many chuckles: “When we were young and grandpa was cooking, we only got to savour the aroma of the food. Kai got to eat it with him.” I then shared my own memory of grandpa slipping me biscuits behind their backs. They laughed and said they all knew.
When the time came, we went to the field where my grandfather is buried so that I could fulfil my responsibilities and introduce my wife. As customary, we laid food offerings and planted joss sticks on his grave as we paid our respect. I placed gold chocolate bars on his grave, just like how he slipped biscuits to me. Fifty years earlier, my grandfather fed and spoiled me. That afternoon, I finally returned the favour. With that long-overdue duty finally fulfilled, all that remained was to say goodbye.
The following evening, the family gathered for a farewell dinner. A young boy, about the same age I had been when I left China, joined us. He approached me and addressed me as “Grandpa Kai” in the language of my childhood, which gave me hope that the Aawu dialect might survive.
After the meal, I bade farewell to my family. My flight would be early in the morning. Like fifty years ago, I told them that I would be leaving tomorrow. However, back then, tomorrow felt permanent. This time it did not.
