Livora Gracely

Ahmad had never owned an alarm clock.
The village had several opinions about this.

At five every morning, Ahmad woke up.

Not 4:58.

Not 5:07.

Five.

He had been doing this for twelve years.

Nobody knew why.

Ahmad probably did, but whenever someone asked, he smiled as though the answer had been misplaced somewhere unimportant.

His rooster, Jago, had a different theory.

Jago believed he woke Ahmad.

This was incorrect.

Most mornings Ahmad was already dressed when Jago opened one eye.

By 5:10, the old bicycle was outside.

It was an immaculate black ontel, old enough to have opinions about modern transportation and polished well enough to see them reflected in its frame.

Ahmad checked the tires.

Checked the chain.

Checked the brakes.

Then came the important equipment.

A speaker roughly the size of cabin luggage was strapped to the rear carrier.

Twelve years ago, this arrangement might have looked experimental.

Now it looked constitutional.

Jago jumped onto the handlebar.

Ahmad pressed PLAY.

Dangdut entered the morning.

Not gently.

A cheerful drumbeat bounced between sleeping houses, slipped through bamboo fences, crossed vegetable gardens, and disappeared into the mountain mist.

♪ ♫ ♪

Ahmad pedaled.

Jago crowed.

The speaker provided accompaniment.

It was difficult to determine who was leading.

The village remained invisible behind closed windows.

Somewhere, a dog reconsidered its morning.

Somewhere else, a pillow was placed firmly over a human head.

Ahmad continued through the fog with the peaceful smile of a man bringing civilization to people who had not requested it.

For twelve years, the route had barely changed.

Past the little bridge.

Up the hill.

Around the old mango tree.

Then along the narrow road where the mountains appeared slowly through the mist.

At sunrise, Ahmad turned home.

By then Jago had usually stopped crowing.

There was no point competing with professional equipment.

Years passed.

Children grew taller.

Roofs changed.

Motorcycles replaced bicycles in many yards.

Ahmad’s ontel remained polished.

The speaker became better.

This was unfortunate.

Then, one morning, Ahmad did not come.

Five o’clock passed quietly.

5:10.

5:15.

No bicycle.

No dangdut.

No rooster.

For the first time in twelve years, the village discovered exactly how loud silence could be.

Doors opened.

Curtains moved.

Someone looked down the road.

At 5:23, music finally appeared through the mist.

♪ ♫ ♪

Ahmad emerged around the bend, pedaling furiously.

Jago stood on the handlebar looking deeply offended.

Ahmad’s speaker was booming.

He waved apologetically.

“Flat tire.”

Windows began closing again.

One old man shook his head and returned inside.

“Twenty-three minutes late.”

Apparently, after twelve years, Ahmad had finally become what he had never intended to be.

The village alarm clock.

And Jago?

Jago still believed it was him.