April 2026 — Life Recap

April was my birthday month.

Which doubled as a quiet excuse to eat at home, see the people who matter, and notice how fast the kids are growing.

This is the first of what I hope will be a monthly habit. Inspired by Nick Gray’s monthly recaps, but written from Kota Kinabalu… with cemeteries, coconuts, and a hat I borrowed from my mum.

It wasn’t a loud month. No big trips. No long flights. No headline launches.

Just a lot of small things, mostly close to home, that I want to remember before the next month overwrites them.

What my daughter and my wife both got right

Two gifts arrived this month, in two completely different languages.

My daughter handed me a card she’d drawn herself. Daddy in a spacesuit. A little capybara holding a coffee. Hearts everywhere. “I ♥ U XX” written in big blue marker.

She watched my face when I opened it.

Eight years old, and already fluent in the kind of love that doesn’t ask for anything back.

My wife went a different direction. A heart-shaped box of origami flowers, folded from cash notes. Real money, real petals. It probably took her hours.

I laughed. She didn’t.

“You always say practical, kan?”

A few days later, real flowers showed up on my desk. Carnations. White roses. Sitting next to my keyboard while I tried to work, reminding me every time I looked up that someone at home knows me well enough to bring both kinds of bouquet.

Practical. And pretty.

I’ll take that combo any year.

Why I asked mum to skip the restaurant for my birthday

the family was already deciding

Mum was halfway through the Imago options. The wife was scrolling through Beverly Hills. The kids wanted Sushi King, because the kids always want Sushi King.

I told them no restaurant this year.

Just boil the red eggs. Everything else, we’ll pull from the fridge.

Mum gave me that look. The one mums give when they think you’re being humble for no reason. Then she got to work anyway.

the meal that came together

Mum boiled the red eggs. Then she pulled out fresh lamb chops, specifically for me, the way only she makes them.

“No son of mine eats reheated lamb on his birthday.”

Everything else came from the fridge. Leftover noodles. Last night’s stir-fry. A meal that was half new, half recycled, all from her hand.

the song I can’t stand anymore

The cake came at the end. Mango passion fruit, with “Happy Birthday Daddy” written in slightly wobbly handwriting. The kids sang. I tried not to flinch.

Confession… I’ve started to dislike the surprise birthday song.

It’s like an unskippable YouTube ad. You know it’s coming. You smile through it. You wait for it to end so you can get to the cake.

Quiet beats loud these days. Mum’s kitchen beats anywhere in town.

Maybe that’s just what 41 looks like.

The friend group I refuse to skip

You join a BNI chapter and tell yourself it’s just for business.

You sit through enough 6:30 AM breakfasts. The same awkward 60-second introductions. The same jokes about who’s late again. And one day, ten years on, you realise these people have been showing up for you longer than most.

We left the chapter years ago. The business reason for meeting is gone.

But every few months, someone’s birthday. Someone messages the group. We pick a place. Usually Chinese. Usually with a private room. Whoever can make it, makes it.

This month it was Chinese cuisine. Full round table, lazy susan, all the classics. Half the table I’ve known since 2014. Half the conversation was nostalgia. The other half was photos of everybody’s kids.

A rare gathering I’ll always make time for. Doesn’t matter how busy the week looks.

Some friendships start because you have to be in the room. The ones that survive are the ones that keep meeting after the room is gone.

Worth every minute since.

Why I brought a camping chair to a cemetery

the night before

Slept four hours. Mum slept one.

She was up the whole night before, prepping the offerings. Boiled chicken, fruit, candles, joss paper, the works.

Woke up at 5 AM to load the car. We left the house at 7. Two hours of unfinished prep, then the drive to Tambunan, both of us running on caffeine.

I drove. She slept in the passenger seat for a bit. Sun came up over the hills somewhere on the Penampang stretch.

the moment at the grave

At the grave, she did everything herself. The lighting, the bowing, the prayers. Halfway through, she said it out loud, half to me, half to herself:

我不想再做了。

(I don’t want to do this anymore.)

Then she looked at me. She knows I won’t be the one to continue this.

I just gave her a big grin. Nothing else needed to be said.

Then I walked off.

the coffee among headstones

There happened to be a ZUS Cafe within walking distance of the graves. I ordered an iced coffee. Brought my camping chair from the boot. Set it up on the grass between two headstones, opened my book, and let the morning happen.

Best coffee of the month.

Sitting among the headstones. Birds making noise. Mum still busy in the distance.

Strangely… at peace with where we all end up someday.

What I inherited for a week when mum went to China

Mum and my sister flew off to Guizhou for a week.

Before they left, mum walked me around her garden like she was handing over the family business. Which plant needs more water. Which ones get too much sun. The orchid you absolutely cannot kill or she’ll never forgive you.

Then she handed me her hat.

It’s the wide-brim kind. The one your mum wears when she’s pulling weeds at 7 AM. I tried it on. Felt ridiculous.

Wore it anyway. Twice a day. Seven days straight.

20 minutes morning. 20 minutes evening. Hose, watering can, slight mosquito problem near the chilli plants. The sun in KK in April doesn’t joke around, so the hat earned its keep.

The plants are still alive. The orchid in particular is doing fine, which means I get to keep my mum’s affection for another month.

She owes me one when she gets back.

Or actually… I think it’s the other way around. Watering plants twice a day in someone else’s hat… it’s the closest thing to taking care of her I’ll get to do for a while.

She’ll never call it that. But I will.

What happens when the best cook in the house is on holiday

day one was exciting

Five days into mum being away, the kids stopped asking when she’s coming back.

They started asking what’s for dinner.

So we ate out. Almost every night. Burgers at Kolombong one evening. Food court noodles the next. Some Indian place near the office. Char siew rice from the shop downstairs. The wife took the week off the stove and didn’t argue.

The kids couldn’t believe their luck at first. New places, new menus, ordering whatever they wanted.

by day five they wanted grandma back

By day five, the kids were quietly asking if grandma can come back early.

Nobody said it out loud, but we all noticed it. Restaurant food fills you up. Mum’s food sits with you.

By the end of the week, they were already wishing for soup. Or rice. Or something steamed. Anything that came out of grandma’s kitchen.

It’s strange how fast a routine becomes the thing you miss.

When mum got back, I made sure she rested for a day before anyone asked her to do anything. Day two, the kids walked into the kitchen and asked if she could cook.

She smiled. Like she knew.

What my father-in-law taught me without saying a word

My car had been making a weird sound for weeks.

Not a “pull over and call a tow truck” kind of sound. More like a “this will eventually fail, just not today” kind. I kept driving it. Because I’m 41 years old and apparently still not a real adult about cars.

Father-in-law came over on a Sunday morning. Didn’t ask. Just appeared.

Yellow polo shirt. Cargo shorts. His own toolbox, the wooden kind that looks older than me.

He opened the bonnet. Pointed at three things. Started fixing without explanation.

I stood next to him and passed tools when he held his hand out. He doesn’t talk much. I didn’t ask.

He just got to work. No comments. No explanations. Hands on the engine, eyes focused, the kind of attention you only get from someone who’s been doing this since before I was born.

The sound was gone by the end of the morning.

There’s a kind of competence that doesn’t need to be performed. His generation has it. We’re losing it.

The car runs again.

I owe him several good meals. He’ll say no need lah, then show up for them anyway.

The hour I wouldn’t trade for anything

There’s a small padang two streets from our house.

A wooden shelter. Some swings. A slide that’s seen better paint. Nothing fancy. Most evenings, when I’m done with work and the kids are home from school, I drive the pickup over and park under the trees.

I don’t get out.

I lower the tailgate, kick off my slippers, and lie down in the back. Phone face-down. Sky right above me through the leaves.

The kids run off to climb things. Neighbours wander over from the houses around. We talk about nothing important. Whose dog ran off. Which uncle bought a new car. Whose kid just got into UMS.

Sun drops behind the trees by 6:45.

By 7, we’re home for dinner.

That hour… maybe an hour and a half… is easily the best part of any working day. It costs nothing. It produces nothing. It just exists.

Sabah evenings, when the weather cooperates, are something else.

Note to self… take more photos of the kids before they outgrow this playground.

They’re not going to be on those swings forever.

Why my Sundays belong to the pool now

you can’t lock them at home

You can’t lock kids at home every weekend.

I tried. Didn’t work. They get cabin fever by 11 AM and start arguing about Roblox.

So we picked up a routine this month. Sunday morning, private pool. Palm trees, no crowd, no DJ.

The kids have a 50-minute swim lesson. Same coach. Same drills.

the nightmares that drive me there

I want them swimming freely from young. Confidence in the water before they’re old enough to fear it.

Honestly… I have nightmares of them drowning. The kind that wake you up at 3 AM with your heart racing. Sending them to lessons every week is partly love, partly insurance against my own anxiety.

the dad chair routine

While they’re in lessons, the father takes the chair.

Personal camping chair from the boot. Portable speaker. Small fan if it’s a hot one. Tiger in one hand. Eyes still on the pool… I check on them every few minutes between songs.

50 minutes goes by fast.

The kids come out tired and hungry. We pack up, drive home, eat lunch.

I sleep better on Sunday nights than any other night of the week.

Maybe because the kids are tired. Maybe because I am too. Or maybe because for one hour, I’m doing nothing more important than watching them get a little stronger in the water.

How we survived KK’s hottest month

April in KK was brutal.

You walk outside at 11 AM and the air feels like it’s about to apologise. The aircon at home worked overtime. The cat refused to move from the tile floor.

So we leaned into the heat instead of fighting it.

I bought a bunch from the market. Twelve, fifteen at a time, still attached to the stalk.

My dad came over to help work through them. Sat on the porch with the parang, opening one after another while I lined up the glasses.

We chop, pour into glasses with ice, add a straw. That’s the whole recipe.

The kids wait their turn at the kitchen counter. Sometimes we don’t even talk… we just sit on the porch, sipping cold coconut water, watching the heat shimmer off the road.

Tropical heat hits different in your 40s.

In your 20s you grumble about it and keep moving. In your 40s, you stop fighting and start adapting.

Coconut. Ice. Glass. Repeat.

If you find yourself sweating in KK and don’t know what to do… that’s it. That’s the whole secret. Find a coconut. Find a quiet porch.

The local beer nobody told me about

You know the feeling when you walk into a place and the menu has something you’ve never seen before?

That was me at Yan Ge in Plaza 333.

Cold tossed noodles with shredded chicken. A small mountain of fried mala wings, crispy, peanut-y, dangerous. The kind of food where you keep saying “one more bite” until the plate is empty.

wait, Sarawak?

The real surprise was the beer.

1602 Pale Ale. Brewed in Sarawak, of all places.

It’s clean. Easy. Not too hoppy. Pairs better with mala than I expected. Three cans in, I’d already decided this is my new Plaza 333 spot.

Made me wonder though… when is Sabah going to come up with our own version? We have the water, the palm sugar, the stories, the local pride. Sarawak is already there.

The thing about KK is that we’re surrounded by good local stuff and we don’t talk about it enough. We default to the imports. Carlsberg, Heineken, Tiger, the same five fonts on every fridge.

The local guys are quietly making things that beat the imports. You just have to walk into the right shop.

Local beer with local food, eaten slowly with friends who don’t check their phones.

Hard to beat.

What happened when I picked the restaurant

today I make the decisions ah

“Where do you want to go?”

“Dont know.”

“Today I make the decisions ah, you cannot say no.”

She rolled her eyes. Got in the car. This is roughly how every date night starts when she’s tired or out of ideas, which means it’s how a lot of date nights start.

I took her to Barbarian food court. A covered hall full of local stalls. Live band on the second floor. Mini KDCA vibes. Wooden chairs, beer fridges, satay smoke drifting from every other table.

I was excited.

Started with a Carlsberg. Switched to a Connor’s stout. Ordered the crispy pork rice with a runny egg, plus a side of offal because that’s the kind of person I am.

The wife sat across from me, scanning the menu, getting quieter.

She didn’t complain. She never does. But the menu… let’s just say it didn’t quite suit her tastes.

She ate something, eventually. Smiled politely at the band. Took a few photos. Pretended to enjoy the offal because she loves me.

By the end of the meal, I knew. She knew I knew. We laughed about it on the drive home.

“Today I make the decisions” is fun, except when it isn’t.

Different palates. Same date night.

Either way, we go together.

Why we’ve had a standing date every week for years

A different week. Different vibe.

The Barbarian week was my pick. This week, she had a place in mind. WeDrink, after dinner. Ice cream, sweet tooth night.

I didn’t ask “where do you want to go” this time. She already knew.

We sat in the corner. She had matcha. I had something with too many toppings. We talked about the kids first… they always come first… and then about us. Whether we’re getting enough rest. What we want from May. The little things that, if you don’t talk about them weekly, pile up into bigger things.

The food changes every week.

The conversation stays the same.

People assume marriage is about big gestures. The trips. The anniversaries. The public displays.

I think it’s about whether you have a standing slot in each other’s calendar that nobody else can take.

We’ve had this slot for years. Through busy seasons. Through tired weeks. Through phases where we didn’t even feel like going.

We still went.

That’s why it works.

My two-floor ritual for working and winding down

upstairs, deep work

There’s a café in town that I’ve quietly claimed as mine.

Upstairs is for deep work. Big wooden tables. Quiet most afternoons. The kind of place where you can spread out three notebooks, two laptops, and a coffee, and nobody bothers you for hours.

I do my best thinking up there. Strategy work. Long emails. The kind of writing that needs four uninterrupted hours and a phone on Do Not Disturb.

downstairs, cold one

Downstairs is a different vibe. Bar seating. Tiger on tap. People playing pool. Somebody’s birthday usually happening in the corner.

When the brain is done for the day, I close the laptop, pack up, and walk down one flight of stairs.

Order a cold one. Sometimes two.

Two floors. Two modes.

The transition is almost ceremonial. Closing the laptop is the period at the end of a sentence. The walk down the stairs is the breath in between. The first sip of Tiger downstairs is the comma before whatever the rest of the evening is.

I used to think you had to leave the building entirely to switch modes. Drive home. Change clothes. Decompress in traffic.

Turns out… one flight of stairs is enough.

If the upstairs is right. And the downstairs is right.

The meeting that made me feel like a beginner again

Once a month, a friend invites me to sit in on a small meeting.

Coffee, paperwork, four or five older men around a table. They talk about Sabah projects in the way only people who’ve been here for fifty years can. Quietly. With long pauses.

The first time I went, I didn’t know what to say.

So I didn’t say anything.

I just listened.

These are the people who built things you’ve driven past your whole life without thinking about. Yayasan Sabah. The major KK highways. Sinsuran Complex. The land reclamation that became Tanjung Lipat.

All initiated by people in this room.

Nobody in there was loud about it. They sipped their coffee. Argued politely about timelines. Showed each other photos of grandchildren in between policy talk.

I was the youngest in the room by twenty-five years.

Felt like I’d walked into the wrong meeting.

But also… I was honoured. Quiet legends are still legends. The fact that I get to sit in this room and listen is the kind of thing you don’t realise is rare until you’re 60 and looking back.

I just listened. Drank my coffee. Felt grateful to be at the table.

I showed up to an AI talk and accidentally won a prize

the win

Sfera Studio runs an AI coffee talk every now and then.

This month, they invited me. Good crowd. Industry folks across KK, agency people, a few founders, a couple of curious uncles who weren’t quite sure why they were there but stayed for the snacks.

The talk was solid. The conversation in between was better.

Halfway through, they ran a quiz. Live. Whoever answers the most questions about AI tools wins a small prize.

I won.

“Listen lah… as a paid AI user since the GPT-3.5 days, kalah pun malu.”

(Translation: losing would be embarrassing.)

Daily Claude. Daily ChatGPT. Daily Cursor. I’d be an embarrassment to my own toolkit if I went home empty-handed.

So I won. Politely. Tried not to smile too much.

the bigger shift

The bigger win was the room. Local KK is starting to take AI seriously. People are trying things. People are curious. Two years ago, this same talk would have had eight people in it.

Now it was packed.

Something is shifting in the local scene. Slowly, but real.

Glad someone in town is putting these conversations together. We need more of this.

People talking about tools. People building things. People showing up just to learn.

The drastic step I took before going full botak

you don’t notice gradually

You don’t notice it gradually.

You wake up one day, look in the mirror, and the hairline you remembered isn’t there anymore. The shower drain has more visitors than the actual shower. You start angling your phone camera differently when you take selfies.

April… I decided to do something about it.

Started a hair treatment programme. The dermatologist explained the science quickly. Apparently my testosterone is too active. The body hair backs this up… I have plenty of it everywhere except the place I actually want it.

the scalp is farmland

The plan is to dial down the stuff that’s killing the follicles, and revive the scalp itself.

Basically, gardening.

Wrong soil, plants don’t grow. Right soil, things start coming back. Nobody told me my scalp was farmland.

the alien interrogation panel

Each session, I lie under a panel of red and yellow lights for 20 minutes. Looks like an alien interrogation set-up. Feels nice and warm.

I try not to fall asleep. I usually fall asleep.

So far… so good.

A few weeks in, no dramatic before-after photos yet. The shedding has slowed though. The shower drain is making fewer cameos.

Going full botak isn’t the worst thing in the world.

But if I can delay it by a few years… why not?

Onward to May

April was quieter than the calendar suggested.

Patterns I want to keep… more home dinners. More padang evenings. More pool weekends with the kids. More coffee in unlikely places. More time with the people who’d show up if I called.

Pattern I want to break… skipping sleep before long drives.

Thanks for reading.

If you knew me ten years ago and are wondering what I’m up to now… this is mostly it.

Married. Kids running around. Building things in Kota Kinabalu. Slowly learning the value of slow.

See you in May.