MY phone was at four per cent battery, and honestly, so was I.
Before my parents dragged me to Jong’s Crocodile Farm, my world existed within 6.7 inches of high-resolution glass. I was a professional scroller, a master of the ‘skip ad’ button, who thought nature was just a cool wallpaper on a home screen. I had my earbuds jammed in, drowning out the humid silence of Siburan with heavy bass, content to be digitally sheltered.
Then, I saw the skull. It sat in a dimly lit room, encased in glass. At first, I thought it was a prop from a big-budget monster movie. I was so busy trying to find the perfect moody lighting angle for a snap—walking backward like a cinematic genius—that I tripped over a low wooden bench and landed flat on my face.
My phone skittered across the floor, coming to rest right beneath the display. As I scrambled to grab it, I found myself eye-to-eye with the skull of Bujang Senang.
The music in my ears felt suddenly shallow. I pulled out my earbuds. The silence of the room was heavy, smelling of old wood and something ancient. The skull did not care about my TikTok feed; it was a massive, jagged mountain of bone that looked capable of swallowing a motorcycle whole. For the first time in years, I did not want a selfie. I felt as though the skull was looking right through me.
“Battery’s dead?”
I jumped, nearly tripping again. An old man with skin like sun-dried leather was watching me, a small, knowing smirk on his face. He didn’t have a smartphone, but his eyes looked like they had seen things the internet could never explain.
“No,” I stammered, clutching my cracked screen. “Just… is this real? Like, actually real?”
“Real enough to turn a warrior into a god,” he said.
He told me the story right there, standing over that giant jawbone. He spoke of Simalungun, a legendary Iban warrior from the Batang Lupar River. Simalungun was no ordinary soldier; he possessed ancient magic that made him invincible against blades and bullets.
But humans are fragile. Betrayal broke his magic, and his enemies murdered him. As he sank into the muddy depths of the river, his rage did not die. It mutated. He made a deal with the darkness to return and protect his waters, transforming into the White-Backed Giant.
“He wasn’t just eating to survive,” the old man whispered, pointing at the massive eye sockets. “He was settling a score that lasted a hundred years. He was the river’s revenge.”
I looked at my phone. The screen flickered once and went black. Dead. For the first time, I didn’t feel the usual no-signal panic. Instead, I felt a strange chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.
The story had hit me. I spend my life looking at influencers chasing clout, but here was a narrative of raw loyalty, terrifying power, and a spirit that refused to be deleted.
Simalungun, known to the world as Bujang Senang, was the ultimate firewall. He was the guardian of the river’s respect. In my world, everything is fast, fifteen seconds long, and disposable. But Bujang Senang was patient. He waited in the silt for decades, a reminder that some things: our history, our land, and our justice, are permanent.
I looked at the teeth of the skull. Each was a lesson: respect what you don’t understand. We think we are so smart with our 5G and our artificial intelligence, but put a human in the middle of the Batang Lupar at night, and all that tech is just expensive plastic.
As we walked back to the car, I saw a dark shape glide silently through the water near the edge—just a small ripple, barely a shadow. Normally, I would have sprinted to the car for a charger to record it. Instead, I just stood there. I realised that the Easy Fellow, the translation of Bujang Senang, was not easy at all. He was a heavyweight in the soul of Sarawak.
I learned that day that my home isn’t just a place on a map; it is a living, breathing epic. We are walking on ground that remembers warriors.
My phone stayed in my pocket for the entire ride home. I didn’t need a screen to see the legend. I had seen the skull of the king, and I realised that while my battery might die, the spirit of the Batang Lupar is infinite.
Bujang Senang isn’t just a folktale. He is the reason we look at the river, and the world beyond our screens, with our eyes wide open. — DayakDaily
Thirteen-year-old Elizabeth Lau Ke Jia was born in Kuching, Sarawak, and is currently a student at St. Joseph’s Private Secondary School. To relax and stay active outside the classroom, she loves getting lost in books and going for bicycle rides.
Elizabeth is one of the two consolation winners (Youth category) for DayakDaily’s 2026 Writing Competition with the theme “Sarawak Folklore”.
