How Akah River Got Its Name
I still remember May 27, 2019, at the ruai of the longhouse in Long Sinung, my late uncle Vincent Kalang, one of the elders, was invited to share stories of our village. It was there that this story first began to be told.
Long ago, before maps were drawn and boundaries named, our ancestors journeyed through the deep forests of Sarawak. They travelled as one community, carrying their children, heirlooms, and hopes for a safer home. The rivers were their guides, and the jungle was both shelter and threat.
One afternoon, they arrived at a small tributary. The water rushed steadily over stones, narrow but strong enough to make crossing difficult. As they searched for a way across, they discovered a gigantic, ancient tree root stretching from one bank to the other. Thick and sturdy, as though placed there by design, it formed a natural bridge above the flowing stream.
After the elders deemed it safe, the group began their cautious crossing. They were soon scattered across the gap. While the first few stood safely on the opposite bank, others waited anxiously behind, clutching their spears and baskets. Suspended in the middle, a few struggled for balance with their arms flung wide.
The forest was quiet. Then a shout rang through the trees.
“Payau! Payau!”
The cry carried urgency. Payau meant deer—a blessing for hungry travellers. Meat, strength, and nourishment for the journey ahead.
But sound does not travel cleanly through jungle. The sound bounced off tree trunks and tangled with the roar of water. To those who had already crossed, the cry arrived transformed. “Ayau! Ayau!” And ayau meant something far more terrifying: enemies.
Headhunters who attacked without warning and took heads as trophies of war.
Those on the far bank believed danger was upon them. There was no time to call back across the rushing water, no time to confirm what had been heard. If enemies were coming, the root would become a bridge for attack.
Without hesitation, the men drew their parangs and began striking. Wood fibres tore beneath steel blades, each blow driven by the instinct to protect their families.
On the other side, confusion turned to horror.
“It is payau!” some cried. But their voices were swallowed by the forest. With one final strike, the ancient root split and crashed into the river. The natural bridge was gone, carried away by the current. Silence followed. Slowly, the truth settled like heavy mist. There had been no enemies. Only deer.
No blood had been shed that day, but something else had been severed. The great root that once united both banks became a reminder of how fear grows from misunderstanding, how a single moment of confusion can cut what took years to build.
From that day, our ancestors named the tributary Atung Akah—atung for the river, akah for the great root that had changed their story forever.
They settled downstream, building their homes near its waters. The river flowed calmly, as if keeping the memory within its depths.
But their trials were not over.
Years later, they moved again to a place called Lio Upang. The land was fertile. Axes rang through the clearing; smoke from cooking fires rose gently into the sky. They were beginning again.
Then real danger came. This time, there was no confusion in the warning. Enemies were advancing. Warriors readied their weapons. Mothers gathered their children. The memory of Atung Akah reminded them how quickly fear could alter destiny.
As the attackers drew close, something extraordinary happened.
From the edge of the forest emerged a mysterious figure. Its head was red, bright and fierce as embers. It stood silently between the enemies and the village, its presence almost otherworldly. No one could say with certainty what it was: a guardian spirit, an ancestor’s messenger, or simply courage made visible. But the enemies saw it. And they were afraid. Without striking a single blow, they turned and fled into the trees.
The village was saved. The elders said afterwards that the red-headed figure had appeared because the people had endured hardship, learned from their mistakes, and remained united.
To this day, the story of Atung Akah reminds us that words must be heard with care, and that fear can break what once held us together.
When the river flows quietly, the elders say it still remembers the broken root and the lesson it left behind. And that was how Atung Akah received its name. – DayakDaily
Hailing from Subis, Batu Niah, 38-year-old Felicia Laleng Jimmy serves her community as a Pembantu Tadbir (P/O). She is deeply passionate about literature and devotes much of her precious spare time to the craft of writing.
