Kiaoah

By Juliette Yu-Ming Lizeray

Kiaoah by Juliette Yu-Ming Lizeray was the first prize winner of the Golden Point Award 2023 organised by Arts House Limited in partnership with the Singapore Book Council.

Erica Eng - Kiaoah (2025), Watercolor on paper. 
Image description: The vibrant painting depicts a warm, everyday scene of a Zumba class taking place outdoors. An instructor leads a group of mostly grey-haired, colorfully-dressed individuals. In the middle of this group, a young girl raises her arms to the sky and smiles in triumph. 

The Singaporean “auntie” is a cultural archetype that refers to a middle-aged (or older) woman whose many qualities include: (a) giving plenty of (unsolicited) advice, (b) showing concern about your state of full-belliedness (and feeding you regardless), and (c) anticipating five moves ahead of every theoretical situation and quantum state of existence, by drawing upon decades of knowledge hearing about people being conned, hacked or dying of flesh-eating bacteria from a bad batch of bok choy.

Someday, I’ll be one of those aunties who do back bends at the park connector. Or who slap their limbs with open palms to stimulate qi. Or dance Zumba to Canto-pop at the foot of my housing estate under an outdoor pavilion flanked by palm trees.

But that day is not today.

***

In the mall adjacent to my office, I step into a parallel universe. Disco lights speckle the black walls with red and green dots that stretch into lines and become dots again. Speakers blast “Right Here Right Now” by Fatboy Slim, which makes me realize, right there and right then, how much I’ve not missed hearing it all these years. This is how I imagine a teenager would have curated a basement party in the late ’90s, and I almost expect us to suddenly slow dance or play spin the bottle.

This is no basement. There will be no slow dancing. I am in a boutique gym, where for the next hour, I shall bounce on a trampoline.

I signed up for a free trial after seeing a flyer featuring a svelte, happy-looking person suspended in a mid-air split above the words: Jumpstart Your Exhilarating Fitness Journey Now! It was like they read my mind.

Ever since I started my highly sedentary tax assistant job ten years ago, I’ve been dogged by existential anxieties. I can’t shake the feeling that my life is passing me by. That my youth is leaching away. As soon as I sit in my 6x6 cubicle, a thousand warning bells jingle about the mortal dangers of sitting. A Post-it that reads “MAKE MYSELF FIT AGAIN!!!!” taunts me as it clings to my monitor. Between spreadsheets, I stare at it and sigh. Under the gleam of the fluorescent lights that go mzzzzzzmzzzzzzzzzzzzzzmzzzz, I crane my neck to glimpse a corner of sky. It turns grey. I sit. Blue. I sit. Pink. I sit. In the early days, I’d wake up at dawn and run up and down the stairwell of my 30-storey block before getting ready for work. But as my caseload increased, my willpower waned, until I got to where I am now: with barely any motivation to defrost a ready meal.

Devon stands at the front of the trampoline studio, in a tight sweat wicking singlet, a wireless mic suspended from his ear. I know Devon’s name because when he opens his mouth, the loudspeakers above my head proclaim: “Hi, I am Devon.”

“Welcome,” the speakers boom tinnily in unison.

Devon is my height but three times my width in bulging, convex muscle. I wave and make my way to the only free trampoline, which unfortunately is in the middle of the first row and has a much smaller surface area than I anticipated. Devon approaches, perhaps sensing my pangs of self-doubt and regret amid all the ripped bodies in matching Lululemon. I inform him that I am “not so fit” and mention a few of my past injuries, hoping he will keep them in mind. Straining to hear me over the blaring music, Devon inquiringly broadcasts my defects: “Knee injury? Scoliosis?” He continues, half calming, half dismissive, “Don’t worry. This is low intensity.”

I am reassured only temporarily because when Devon mounts his trampoline, he bellows: “ARE YOU READY TO BOUNCE!?!?” As the music changes to a techno track with a diabolic BPM, he yells, “Let’s push past our limit! Jump higher today! ARE YOU READAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY?!?”

No, Devon, I am not READAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY. But I start bouncing anyway.

Soon, Devon’s torso is hovering in the air as his legs swivel like tentacles. His neon yellow sneakers separate then meet in quick succession, landing on every quadrant of the circular mat. The others mimic him effortlessly like a synchronized school of fish. They stare at their reflections with steely determination. No perspiration. No suffering. No visible panty lines. I, on the other hand, am sweating profusely into my 7th Women In Tax Conference T-shirt, trying to land a safe distance from the edge of my trampoline (which seems to be shrinking at every bounce). You know when you flip a pancake in the air and it doesn’t quite return to the pan the way you wanted? That’s me. I, pancake. 

“Everyone, at the same pace!” Devon shouts directly at me.

Devon’s crisscrossing footwork almost leaves neon light trails as he picks up speed. Just as I “master” a move, Devon is onto the next. I am literally offbeat. I downgrade my bouncing to a dribble so I land at the same time as the others. Ten minutes in and my knees are sore. I offset some of my weight onto the bar that looks like a luggage telescopic handle, at the front of the trampoline. I have the misfortune of glancing at the floor-to-ceiling mirror and see myself – a diminutive shrimp-like imposter, blemishing rows of nimble perfection. That’s when the little voice in my head smirks, “Wow, you’ve really gone downhill. Is this all you got?”

“Let go of the bar!” Devon yodels between explosive jump squats.

Devon.

I like you.

You seem like a nice guy.

But no.

This bar right here? It’s my solid rock in the middle of a dark, turbulent ocean. My ship was not meant for these seas.

At some point, I start to daydream about having unknowingly entered another dimension populated by androids. At the next beat drop, I’m sure they’ll stare at me, unblinking, and do that thing in horror movies where possessed children tilt their heads to one side with a faint smile. Will I fight, flee or freeze? I can’t be sure. I’ve a feeling I’ll end up unceremoniously disemboweled by red laser beam eyes and haunt this mall for eternity. Which gives me anxiety because I hate malls.

“Mind over matter!” Devon jolts me out of my reverie. He pounds the trampoline then splays his legs at eyeball-level. I attempt a jumping jack. An homage to a jumping jack. My knuckles are white from gripping the bar. Fear is my oppressor, tethering my body to the ground like a vulgar slab of asphalt. Devon’s right. What if I open my mind to the fact that I am an unstoppable beast? What if I believe I can be whoever I want to be?

At that instant, I let go of the bar. Of my fear. Farewell, rock! I unmoor myself and strike out for the deep blue sea. Devon’s voice ricochets on loop inside my skull like a remixed EDM track, “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” I sense I am performing a feat of airborne athleticism. Something that will be talked about for years to come. Something never-before-seen in this respected trampoline establishment.

As my body slams into the ground, a crumpled shell, I receive news of brain-curdling pain.
“Oh my god,” says Devon, one last time, a look of concern etched upon his perfect sweatless face.
The other androids crowd around me. I freeze. I prepare for disembowelment.

***

Day 3 of my post-trampoline-debacle self-pity party:

My head is throbbing.

My knee has swollen to the size of a small pomelo.

I haven’t showered in two days.

I reek of Tiger Balm.

I Google knee injuries for the millionth time this week, then immediately close the flurry of tabs I just opened. I know all about fractures, patellar tendinitis and meniscus and anterior cruciate ligament tears. The internet tells me I’m going to die every time I open it.

I am working from home, which means I am lying in bed watching Naked and Afraid, moving the mouse every 14 minutes and 59 seconds, so the software my employer installed registers that I am being productive. Naked and Afraid is a reality show where naked people compete to survive in the wilderness for weeks. They are afraid. Of rugged brawn, I have little. If I was one of the contestants, I would die the first night. Before the first night. Right after the helicopter dropped me off. Hypothermia, mauled by a bear, acute hangriness. You name it.

I’ve a filing cabinet in my brain and one of the folders is the kiasi folder. I inherited this filing system from my mother, who is a walking supercomputer programmed for risk detection and disaster aversion (a very auntie quality). It didn’t help that I grew up in Singapore in the ’80s and ’90s, when the famous five K’s were bubbling into public consciousness.

Kiasi (惊死): scared of dying.
Kiasu (惊输): scared of losing out. 
Kiabor (惊某): scared of one’s wife.
Kiabolui (惊无镭): scared of having no money.
Kiachenghu (惊政府): scared of the government.

Fear is my culture. It’s in my bones. Of the five K’s, I am mainly kiasi (though I maintain a sizeable kiasu folder). I am not scared of death itself, but the preceding decay. And of making the wrong decisions that lead to avoidable demise. Hence my interest in survivalism. Life in urban Singapore doesn’t entail hunting and gathering — except for wild durians and lobangs. But you can never be too prepared. I don’t just watch Naked and Afraid for entertainment. I study it, make mental notes. Did you know that squirrels are 99% protein and won’t sustain you long-term in the cold because your body needs fat? And that you should never eat raw caviar in the wild unless you want to get explosive diarrhoea? Someday, I know such knowledge will avert my death and that of my loved ones. In the meantime, I store the foraged data in my kiasi folder.

A therapist once said I had generalized anxiety disorder when I told her that life is a non-stop exercise at staving off death for as long as possible. I tried explaining the usefulness of my kiasi folder, but she wouldn’t have it. I stopped seeing her because I didn’t want to waste time when there was so much more data to be gathered.

It’s ironic that I let myself get carried away on a trampoline, despite my cautious nature. How could this happen? I should know my limits by now. Statistically, I’m mid-way through the average human lifespan. There’s little margin for error. When I reflect upon my life, I feel that all I’ve done is race against the clock, against others, against myself, along a narrow track with blinkers on. To where? For what? I don’t know. What is my purpose? My mind draws a blank. My 14 minutes and 59 seconds timer goes off. I move my mouse. My mind automatically fills with pending IR21 forms, EOI Arrangements, DTA deductions, Article 36(2)(a) of the MLI, setting up GST control frameworks and the upcoming SCTP meeting. In the pit of my stomach lives the monster of everything I could have been.

When you’re born, they say, “Hey, kid, dream big.” Then when you do, and it’s outsized for the likes of you, no one sits you down and says, “Hey, kid, maybe a little smaller.” When you dream too big, you get stuck. Your brain can’t make sense of it. You dream of yourself at the peak, the apex predator at the top of the food chain, thumping your chest like King Kong, then you gaze down and all you see are clouds hugging the mountain slopes and you can’t make out the path, and you are stuck in analysis paralysis, wondering, “Which way’s up?” and so you unfold your creaky deck chair, and pop open a can of beer and you stare up, tears running down your cheeks and you say, “Man, I could’ve been someone. That up top, that could’ve been me.” And you sit, and you sip, and you weep, because time’s running out and you’re still there, sitting and sipping and weeping. No one tells you where the joy goes. They just tell you to keep on racing.

Canto-pop wafts through my open window. It’s the Zumba aunties starting their workout by the void deck below. It’s loud enough for me to Shazam the track by pointing my phone towards the window. Sally Yeh. I Google the lyrics. Heaven and Earth are timeless. Tides rise and recede. Birth. Death. The human condition. It’s a song about acceptance. I hear claps, cheers, laughs. I imagine the aunties bobbing side to side, swirling round and round. Their levity is almost palpable in the air that connects their happiness to my gloom. Do they know something I don’t? I jot down this question in my kiasi folder.  

***

“Lai, lai!” beckons Winnie, to one and all, her smiling eyes two downturned U’s. Come! She places a boombox on the floor. Her black tee proclaims her “ZUMBA QUEEN” in sparkly rainbow colors. Winnie is my teacher. I have just met her, but I can tell she’s a people person, because as a one-person max person, I instantly spot —and silently envy— others’ natural talent to address and shepherd vast herds of humans.

“Long nose, so pretty!” says Winnie as I introduce myself.

I catch her compliment in mid-air and hit it right back where it came from, “Your nose is nicer!”

She shakes her head violently and counterattacks, “My nose is so fat!”

I am tempted to continue this ping-pong of deflection, but the aunties are closing in.

The aunties are closing in and they are craving some sweat. It turns out this is a Zumba Gold class. Not only is it for seniors, but seniors of the golden category (a step up from silver). The most mature crème de la mature crème. I worry they’ll reprove of me as an age interloper. Or check my I.D. like when I was fifteen and tried to buy a bottle of Smirnoff Ice at 7-Eleven. Instead, they wave me over with a downturned palm and quick finger wiggles.

We arrange ourselves into straggly lines. Winnie presses play on her boombox. A flamenco riff rises in the air, followed by an up-tempo beat. A beaming Winnie spins her arms like a windmill, “Lai, let’s go!” She single-handedly dispenses so much bubbly energy into the world, it feels rude and ungrateful not to reciprocate. I smile back. Step to the right, to the left! Jiggle this. Jiggle that. Shimmy that thing then the other. Every phalange, every dormant muscle is gently stirred and invited to frolic. Even my stiff knee is getting its groove back.

Winnie’s playlist has K-pop, Bhangra, C-pop, and lots of Latin music. Sometimes she sings the last syllables of the Spanish lyrics. “Orado” as in enamorado (in love). “Opa” as in quitate la ropa (take off your clothes). We gleefully gyrate as a man croons about uninventive, cheesy foreplay. We twirl and clap as another warns us to stop teasing because he cannot repress his manhood a second longer.

“Pop it out!” Winnie shouts as she cups her hands under her breasts.

We thrust our bosoms forward. We defy gravity.

“So sexy!” Winnie cheers, and we laugh.

There is no shame. No spectators. No need to perform. The aunties sway and totter out of sync. I stick my hand up when Winnie’s is down. I too am displaced in time and space, whirling in the opposite direction, one move late. And it’s okay. We are a beautiful, atonal orchestra, each playing our own original composition. A salt-and-pepper sea bobbing up and down in our loose, comfortable, no-brand clothing.

It's not mind over matter. It’s letting go of the mind. Simply being a body that belongs in the present. I’ve spent my whole life tethered to the future. Chasing shifting goalposts, while trying to mitigate every risk and uncertainty. In the shadow of my kiasi folder, joy receded. It grew alien. Then, it disappeared. Maybe I don’t have a fear of death, but a fear of living.

Is there a word for that? 

Kiaoah (惊活)
Origin: Hokkien dialect.
Translates as: scared of living.
Pronounced: kee-ah owah

Today, in this Zumba class, with sparkling Winnie and the elderly aunties, joy returns to me, just like that. With searing purpose. In our aging bodies, dancing, breathing, feeling, together, I see the defiant buoyancy of life. For the first time, I understand, not intellectually, but in my bones, that to be gleeful is an obligation. A childlike act of wisdom. (Or maybe love?) That it is, in fact, the only appropriate reaction to the miracle of being alive. For however long we have, until we no longer do.

The wind dances with us. As do the rustling palms and the fluttering laundry hanging outside the windows of flats above. A pair of sunbirds flit and ferry twigs to a nest in a bougainvillea. The smell of fried garlic sashays in our nostrils. I find myself smiling like the fool on the hill. Joy, my long-lost friend, bubbles up, coaxed into the light. I smile at everyone and no one in particular. At the sun setting behind the clouds. The strangers laden with groceries. The dried leaves that crunch under our sneakers. At the aunties, though they are not looking. I like to think they too feel this tenderness for the world that has suddenly possessed me.

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Juliette Yu-Ming Lizeray is a writer and comic artist. She won Singapore’s 2023 Golden Point Award and co-authored two books on the arts in Singapore—Semionauts of Tradition and Reimagining Singapore. COMMUNION, her comic zine about ADHD, was shortlisted for the 2024 Graphic Medicine Award and is sold in over 10 cities worldwide. Instagram: @julietteyml

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Erica Eng is an Eisner-winning comic creator and gameplay animator. Her debut graphic novel, Fried Rice, was published in 2024 having been adapted from her award-winning webcomic of the same name. She has also been featured on Forbes Asia's 30 Under 30 class of 2024 and Tatler Asia's Gen T list for her achievements in arts and media. 

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