Hot days. Humid nights. Banana leaves swaying in the breeze.
Juxtaposed against a brilliant, metropolis skyscape.
The Pontianak is a renowned female ghost from Malay folklore–a spirit that haunts banana trees.
And unsuspecting bananas.
She taunts men–particularly those who harm or betray.
And that’s why many Singaporeans give this long-haired woman in a filmy white dress nods of respect.
She’s still feared–by delivery riders who ply the city streets at night.
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“Eh, don’t Potong Jalan my delivery leh–I was supposed to pick up that mysterious $100 order!” Aziz parallel-parked his PMD haphazardly and stormed over to a group of Grab Delivery Riders, accusing them of cutting into his job.
The mystery order was the highest paid anyone had delivered yet. It was for a VIP–a Very Important Patron. The type of order that could get them to weave through traffic weal and park connector woes.
The other riders met him with scoffs. “VIP–Very Important Pontianak, is it?” Singapore’s favourite (and feared) female spirit was the bane of night shift delivery drivers–and banana trees. Pedals were pushed to the limit.
“Eh, maybe that order isn’t so shiok after all,” Ahmad, an elderly member of the group, had his generation’s superstition. “We don’t want her to go after any one of you…”
He pointed a finger, circling the group.
Male-the perfect targets for female spirits that entice from the fruit of banana trees.
Ahmad continued.
“That order goes to a colonial house. Seems that the last Grab rider who did the job got grabbed.”
Phones started to ping in unison. Order 999. Special Delivery.
To the said colonial house.
The National Day race was on.
“Don’t Potong Jalan!”
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The riders were speed demons who made Sonic blush, spines drooped.
They zoomed faster than a pup’s Zoomie through heartlands and park connectors, hollering “Chiong ah” so loudly that laryngitis was a guarantee.
The fiercest race was between Aziz and Zul, each determined to claim the VIP order prize.
The winning edge belonged to Aziz–his PMD was the first to reach the address.
A low, semi-detached abode, once covered in layers of exquisite ivory paint, now chipped.
Wild Morning Glory crept on the wall, layering them in heavy purple.
Aziz’s fingers pressed on the doorbell in rapid succession.
Then, the creaking of the heavy main door.
Her dress was white.
Impeccable, the embroidery, delicate.
Her hair–long. Black.
Her skin—pale.
Her eyes–bloodshot.
Staring empty.
Aziz let out a scream louder than a banshee’s.
The other male riders heard it and stopped in their tracks towards the door.
The ghoul sensed their trepidation and raised a hand.
“Relax,” Her lilt was soft. “I’m not here for–she encompassed the male riders in a sweep of her arm. “You’re safe.”
Everyone’s feet stayed planted.
Then Aziz spoke, his voice layered by a nervous quiver.
“What do you want, ah?”
The Pontianak stroked her chin with slim fingers, almost pricking it with her curved, pointed nails.
” Believe it or not, I want to help.”
Her ghostly voice almost inaudible, she explained that she was targeting a group of—-
Scammers.
Notorious crooks exploiting riders with empty promises of high-paying deliveries.
Zul took a step towards the door, slowly losing his fear.
His skin prickled at any injustice.
“Hey, we’ll be stuck with packets of food and no payment. Suay ah.”
Aziz nodded. The face of competition changed.
“Let’s get them.” The other riders turned to each other.
No reason to protest.
Aziz turned to the Pontianak. “Where do you think we can find these criminals?”
She gestured towards the surrounding housing development heartland.
“All over. You’ll have to wait for the next false delivery, of course.
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The rider’s wait wasn’t long.
Fifteen minutes later, at the void deck of a housing development apartment.
A ping from a phone..
Banana leaves rustled in the wind.
By a stroke of blowing Pontianak fortune, the scammers—-a group of delinquent teenage boys—were seated at another nearby void deck.
Hackers of an inept delivery system.–the boys had tapped it to send the riders instructions.
The riders “chionged’, and squeaks of worn rubber filled the air.
The boys leapt onto their bikes, a group of fleeing gazelles.
Whoosh.
Under rows of perfectly aligned banana trees.
Where she hung above.
Eyes darting, Waiting.
Then–
A drop.
Of a white sheet.
With enormous banana leaves attached.
A quick flick of the wrist, and an extension of blood red thread.
Each boy became a pisang.
A lamppost became their binding tree.
They dangled within the leaves, mouths agape.
Bananas–showing the boys that ‘potong jalan’ wasn’t allowed.
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Glossary of Singlish Terms
potong jalan: To cut in, exploit or take advantage of someone’s weakened position
chiong: charge
shiok: a pleasant experience
suay: unlucky
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