Beware the Buaya - By Cassandra Wijesuria

Written By: Cassandra Wijesuria

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Cassandra Wijesuria presents her intriguing short story titled "Beware the Buaya." This compelling narrative is set in the bustling city of Kuala Lumpur, where tradition meets modernity in a complex dance. Through vivid storytelling, Wijesuria explores themes of survival and corruption, illustrating the timeless battle between cleverness and deceit. Her work offers a unique glimpse into the city's evolving landscape and the hidden challenges faced by its inhabitants.

About the Work

"Beware the Buaya" is a masterful exploration of urban life, where tradition and modernity clash amidst the vibrant backdrop of Kuala Lumpur. Wijesuria skillfully weaves a tale of intrigue and survival, using rich imagery and a keen sense of place. The story delves into themes of corruption and the resilience of those who navigate these waters. Through its clever narrative, readers are invited to reflect on the complexities of progress and the enduring spirit of those who adapt to change.

Beware the Buaya

Original Submission by Cassandra Wijesuria

BEWARE THE BUAYA

By: Cassandra Wijesuria

5, 371 words

If you can survive Kuala Lumpur, you can survive anything.

It is easy to boast that Kuala Lumpur was the place that balanced tradition versus modernity, but what one didn’t see was the flattened squatter houses making way for new infrastructure.

Rivers that once flowed in silken curves were now rigidly aligned in one direction for progress’ sake. The city’s fauna was no longer the legend of old but adapted for the modern times of 2026. Creatures who once ruled forests with fear now stomped and trotted on pavements in expensive suits and gadgets that glimmered silver and rose with hidden debts attached.

Those who skipped on crocodile backs now zoomed through traffic on Grab motorbikes. Predators who picked on prey now sat in air-conditioned sushi restaurants, caressing their sake as they sought to impress yet another humourless client.

Yet for all the ways Kuala Lumpur changed, some things remained the same. Kuala Lumpur still dealt with traffic that smothered streets with its gases and vehicles. Skyscrapers rose but salaries remained stunted. You knew where they returned when traffic was cleared during festive seasons.

At night, Kuala Lumpur seemed to come alive like a neon ant hill. It wasn’t just streetlights, or the brake lights from cars and bikes alike. No, it was the systems that one takes for granted.

The systems that taught a car when to stop and go. Systems which captured who paid their Touch and Go, and those that bypassed. The city ran on digits and algorithms that, if one looked closely, could represent the folk tales and spirits of old, like the cheeky nymph that peeked, should one cause mischief.

None knew this better than Malaysia’s enduring tiny forest ghost.

Born mute, she learned early that numbers, not words, were her secret weapon. Unlike her ancestors, she may not have spun cheeky quips, but she knew how to pick up on data trails that peeked and buzzed like forest sprites, or see rhythms in time and data stamps.

When others complained about delays, she saw resistance against the norms, little interruptions that made her pause, lest her curious nostril twitch. The nimble chevrotain preferred systems to people. Systems could be trusted because data was infallible, immaculate in evidence.

Her fur was a darker brown now, coarser because of the city and weather conditions. Instead of using her pencil-thin legs to hop, her trusty kapchai got her through gaps and angry drivers. She was hidden behind goggles and her faded, scratched-up onyx helmet. Completing the look was her all-weather touring jacket, practical for all weathers Malaysia had to offer.

To the app, she was Unit 418C. To its handlers, she was Sang Kancil.

***

It was just after 6.45pm during Ramadan, close to Hari Raya. Citizens were betting on whether the day before the estimated time would turn out to be the date of Raya, or whether an additional holiday would be given out, having recovered from Chinese New Year celebrations a month ago.

The kapchai vibrated beneath Sang Kancil as she merged into its choked-like artery roads filled with cars and impatience. Traffic moved in bursts of speed followed by long stretches of paralysis.

It was when she was forced to take shelter under a highway bridge during a freak downpour that her phone buzzed inside its ziplock casing.

New Task Available. Accept?

Without thinking, her tiny hoof tapped accept. Hesitations cost survival, a currency she could not afford.

Next came the meeting location: a popular mamak stall in Sentul. Kancil groaned inwardly. Aside from the fact that she had just passed the toll near Mutiara Damansara, the buka puasa folks would crowd the place faster than gnats, but if a meeting place had been designated, no doubt the app’s handler, Elang Wah, would have already secured a spot.

The mamak was already beginning to fill up by the time a disgruntled, hungry Kancil arrived. The food at the mamak had been discreetly hidden for the appointed time. Shaking the last of the rainwater off her face and helmet she spotted Elang Wah. Her nose twitched alongside her perked-up ears, scanning the area. Finding no danger, she trotted inside.

He was a grubby-looking eagle with a fading yellow T-shirt with a fraying hole on his back as he scratched there, where a couple of feathers had scattered loose from the beginnings of a bald spot. Khaki shorts and Japanese slippers ill-fitting his clawed feet finished off his look. Unkempt that he was, he knew too much. His obsidian eyes glared at her.

“You’re late,” he responded coolly.

Sang Kancil nodded once. Humility was their shared language.

A Nepali bovine waiter gave them a wary look, assessing if they were fasting or just normal customers. After Elang Wah discreetly showed their identification, the waiter gestured what they wanted to eat.

“Roti Canai dua, Brew kopi dua,” Elang answered. The sweat-slicked waiter nodded and placed a little tag with their table number without ceremony.

Once out of earshot, Elang Wah slid a black folder across the table. He tapped it twice.

“Delivery job,” he said.

Kancil cocked a brow in Elang’s direction. Why now?

Elang looked around, as though trying to find their waiter, then turned back to her. He smiled thinly, his tomium beak sporting a scar from his youth, “Some jobs pay for silence. Some…pay for creativity.”

Sang Kancil flipped open the folder. Masjid Al-Hijrah.

The place wasn’t the issue. Sentul was a hub of religious activity, and not just mosques alone. Churches of varying denominations and temples of different religions were scattered around the district.

The Imam in charge was none other than Imam Hassan, atleast on paper.

The WhatsApp messages carried a different name: Sang Buaya.

His name had been circulating lately; whispers of misappropriated funds and financial abuse towards those he’d claimed to help.

Crocodiles were never shy. They knew how to skirt around uncomfortable things like slipping into muddy waters, savoring the illusion of safety.

His folk tale namesake was akin to a dragon in the mud, hoarding his riches.

***

Imam Hassan came from nothing, but the shrewd reptilian worked hard to get to where he was.

Recognizing his talents early on, Hassan was pulled out of school and sent between Islamic schools in his hometown, later in Kuala Lumpur, Indonesia, Singapore, and Mecca, before settling in Kuala Lumpur as an Imam.

Despite his predator bearing, he was neatly groomed and perfected the art of charm and geniality to soften his image. As an Imam, he needed to be one with his fellow fauna. His scales were always well-polished; his clothing choices were selected on the tightrope of affordability and relatability.

Imam Hassan’s voice cadence was perfected to fit the circumstances. In suraus and masjids, it was clear, trembling at the right octaves. For widows, it was compassionate, low, and soothing but never improper. For orphans, it was boisterous and joyful. He could speak to an 18-year-old tapir and know every Gen Z slang or speak to a 100-year-old tortoise in a mamak stall.

When he was assigned Masjid Al-Hijrah in March 2020, it looked straight out of his kampung backwaters. Simple enough, but it did not fit the growing population of those attending prayer, the only thing people could afford.

Imam Hassan could not have come at a worse time. The COVID-19 pandemic saw to that, and everyone was struggling, both financially and spiritually.

“Kita mesti menjadi pengurus yang bertanggungjawab,” Imam Hassan had pontificated then, his eyes shimmering in that way to make others reach into their pockets and give all they had.

Imam Hassan needed to find a way to keep the population attuned to their daily azan. So, with the help of some of the older orphan male monyets who’d taken a liking to him, Imam Hassan started on TikTok.

The clips were simple enough, keeping up with their daily prayers during the pandemic or teaching people to find serenity in times of strife. With everyone on their phones, his videos gained enough traction for virality.

The Imam’s genial voice, humor and charm warranted shares on every phone and social media app. Gaining traction, he added short clips of his live sermons despite an empty mosque. Religion optimized for better reach.

“Kadang-kadang, doa adalah pemberian yang paling berharga yang dapat kita hulurkan,” was one such example of the virtues of spending and saving money wisely.

Pretty soon it was less about Imam’s teachings and more about whether he was single.

The more the population listened, the more the coffers began to fill up. At first, the money helped pay off electricity and a few maintenance works. But with more money rolling in, Imam Hassan began building castles in his mind.

His intentions were simple: to upgrade Masjid Al-Hijrah. Imam Hassan’s videos had helped him gain several followers all too willing to be a part of his upgrading project. It was akin to meeting a minor celebrity in exchange for their services at the height of the pandemic.

It resulted in covered-up parking places, proper glass windows with UV ray protection, even a playground for the younglings, and well shaded tress for both sustainability and “for the beauty of Allah’s providence.”

But Imam Hassan didn’t just stop there. Binatang Kurang Upaya (BKU) friendly wheelchair ramps, Braille books for the blind, and even calm rooms for autistic younglings were added. QR codes for donations were set up along the entrances and exits of the mosque.

“Imam Hassan thinks of everything!”

“The air-conditioning here memang best! Dah tak payah balik lah!”

Imam Hassan understood the fundamental truth: in a city obsessed with progress, religion functioned best when it looked modern and efficient.

But surprisingly, though he was willing to spend money for the betterment of all, including charities directed to domestic abuse homes, or even struggling orphanages, Imam Hassan himself was surprisingly tight-fisted with his own accounts.

“I’m a simple creature,” his gravelly voice, controlled through years of practice came through in his Instagram clips, “I came from nothing. Allah’s providence is enough for me.”

That generosity extended to anyone who needed his help.

“Suami I hilang kerja bila pandemic mula. Imam Hassan yang tolong kita bayar bill untuk tiga bulan,”

“One of the widows asked him for help regarding some roofing problems. Imam Hassan paid for everything” said another extolling his generosity.

Creatures great and small seemingly agreed with him, judging by the droves who came for his sermons, the calls to azan grew confident by the day.

Even after the pandemic, money still flowed in, and the inspirational clips never stopped. If anything, Imam Hassan got more tech-savvy and creative with his clips, which even expanded to podcasts to reach the younger generation, even providing Halal money tips on saving and spending.

What everyone failed to realise was that when things get too comfortable, no one thinks of asking the hard questions.

***

It started with his 25th anniversary celebrations as an Imam.

Those who lived in the government-housing flats said nothing, thinking it was just a worthy celebration of a beloved Imam. A few learned ones quirked a brow, or something akin under their scales and feathers.

The Masjid was doing well already. Everyone assumed all that additional wealth was being distributed to the people who needed it, just like always.

But the more information trickled like sand in an hourglass, the more people began to feel uneasy.

The seemingly miserly Imam had booked out the HGH Chinese Hall in Sentul, its most expensive had waiting lists stretching up to a year.

RM300 per head per table made people stop in their tracks. Some who sided with the Imam saw simply a man whose money-saving skills paid off, and he was entitled to this celebration. Some reasoned that the cost was to pay off the Hall expenses.

The learned ones had their questions drowned out by Imam Hassan’s supporters, but even they were feeble in their defense for him.

Imam Hassan may have been shrewd with money, but certainly not that prudent that he could afford a hall of that stature.

Despite his naysayers, Imam Hassan’s celebrations proceeded.. His cronies praised him with adulation. HGH Sentul was packed with his adoring crowds. But the WhatsApp messages told a different story:

Would the Prophet (Peace be Upon Him) have approved of such extravagance?

Those who flew in from abroad, was this truly the best use of funds from him or the masjid?

Imam Hassan (Buaya) tak menjemput janda yang menyoalnya. Dia menarik balik pembiayaannya daripada mereka.

The safe house for domestic abuse victims didn’t get their funding for the new roof. The Buaya keeps delaying it. But how did he manage to pay off the deposit in one lump sum?

The fact that Imam Hassan, once benevolent with finances, would be so tight-fisted now angered both his supporters and his critics.

The snakes that once slithered together were now striking out with poison:

Fitnah! Words of a madman gone amok!

We will protect our beloved Imam with our blood! It is the will of Allah!

Ape masalah klu Imam Hassan ade majlis macam ni?! Dia bayar, dia dapatlah! Jaga cakap kau, samseng!

Calls for an open dialogue were about as entertaining as a circus.

Imam Hassan chose his people well. He might not have had his fingers in all pies, but his selected cronies did. They all believed they knew him well.

Among those caught in the crossfire of mismanaged finds and missing money, and how his “celebrations” became a spectacle that was uncalled for, was a grizzled man nicknamed Harimau. Less refined than the Imam, the tiger would sweat as though he’d stepped into a sauna. His rolls of neck fat quivered as he growled, cutting down secretaries into tears.

Harimau served as the Chief Financial Officer at a major local bank, claimed “Everything was by the books,” but could find no explanation for the missing funds or the donations that was supposed to go to Buaya’s charities.

“I work in a bank. I know how money works.”

“Even a janitor can work in a bank too, Harimau.”

The traitorous Imam stepped forward with an air of smug indifference, as he vouched for Harimau and his loyalists. He made it clear he would not address this matter ever again.

As he put it, “I wanted to celebrate those who believed in me, not have my reputation be tarnished.”

“Allah has brought me here for a reason. These trials are upon me for a reason. I must answer to him one day on the Day of Judgement. He knows I have nothing to hide.”

But not everyone thought so.

Someone who once worked alongside Harimau in his accounts saw other things that didn’t add up. All information was gathered into a nondescript black folder, ready to be turned over at a moment’s notice.

***

At the appointed day and venue of the drop off, Kancil nonchalantly drove as though this was another Grab delivery. The meetup place, a safe distance away from the Masjid was quiet but clean, tucked beside pristine ixora bushes.

A nervous female squirrel kept looking around, her tail bushy and on alert as if expecting a predator to snap her neck in half. When she saw Sang Kancil, she looked partially relieved, as though expecting her, but still uncertain.

“Pickup?” the squirrel mouthed, as though worried the cadence of her voice would travel to unwanted ears. .

Kancil nodded once, schooling her features into what she hoped looked reassuring to the fidgety critter.

The squirrel, with a nametag that said Song Shu, looked around furtively again, before thrusting a padded briefcase towards Kancil with three sealed drives. The weight was heavy in its implication.

Kancil scanned the package for Elang Wah, himself waiting in a surveillance room with several others monitoring traffic and other incoming data. The room crammed with creatures, dank coffee and tense instructions being passed from one to another.

Elang Wah glanced at the picture and sent his instructions:

Confirmed. Proceed to drop-off

Kancil mounted her bike and pulled away, rejoining the cells of creatures caught in high-density traffic, making her way to a co-working space café in Subang.

The phone and laptop were new but disposable, part of the perks of her job. In Kancil’s line of work, that was a given.

Kancil had once been a freelance hacker while in between interviews fresh off her degree from Data Analytics and Information Systems. Unfortunately, Elang Wah had caught her, but instead of having her arrested, he’d recruited her.

Now a veteran, the app’s privileges allowed her the opportunity to program her gadgets with custom software, identifiers and her own personal labyrinth of software designed to confuse anything that tried to target her.

She’d learnt to tame systems like pacifying a sleeping dragon. Some systems require time and patience. Amateurs got burned too easily because they rushed through. But her love for numbers and data systems always got her ten steps ahead.

Avian-Intelligence (AI) was becoming her new best friend, but not in the way lay-creatures used AI. If the AI used to hallucinate before, now it learned how data lined up its ducks in a row.

Kancil made her way to the café in record time. She never took her eyes off her phone, even as she signed up at the co-working space under a false name Elang Wah assigned for her during long assignments like this.

She opened the drives on both the laptop and phone, connecting them both to the system where Elang Wah and his associates were. Her ears and nostrils, which perked up at the slightest whiff of anything amiss, would alert her.

The numbers did not hide nor lie. Metadata showed patterns where the AI traced its backdrop from the beginning. To anyone else, it was like seeing an anomaly. Then the patterns emerged, spreading like ink on paper, watching the trails spill.

Donations that were siphoned offshore between Johor and Surabaya, to name a few places. Encrypted accounts where she needed to get her ducks in a row before crossing the finish line. The work was sloppy, not that of an experienced professional, but it was confident.

In some places, the data was congealed, mixed between overlapping time stamps when the donations should have gone through. Certain entries refused to budge despite all the options Kancil threw at it.

Her eyes darted, her brow furrowed in a mix of wonder and frustration. All of this made it feel like she was wading through a digital swamp, where clean systems became murky like the city’s namesake. And a certain financial parasite was feeding off that murkiness.

Frustrated, Kancil kept rolling her shoulders, flexing her pencil-thin limbs. The donations was just a bloody act for his cover-up operations.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled her laptop towards her, but before she could go further, her phone flickered.

Unauthorized query detected.

Kancil smirked. Time to get creative.

Another notification popped up, this time on her laptop: External trace initiated.

This was someone who knew what he was doing. The sloppiness from earlier was a diversion.

Kancil rerouted instantly – Penang, Jakarta, scattering dead servers and ghost signals – making sure no scars could be traced to her.

Kancil did not stop as she double and triple checked everything. She was pretty sure Elang Wah was following the threads and algorithms that were spreading like poison. Kancil’s heart thudded, but veterans like her did not show fear.

She expected trickery, but this was advanced. Unusual but not uncommon.

Kancil immediately fragmented the data she’d retrieved and scattered it across the networks like stardust. Systems tended to miss the small things or consider magic forgotten, like tales of old.

The city did not hide small things for long, a statement that a certain mouse deer could attest to.

Closing at the co-working space, Kancil made her way to the app’s headquarters, a report for Elang Wah at the ready, and awaiting her next instructions.

***

Her next delivery was to a pachyderm named Ganeshan, one of Elang Wah’s lawyer associates. Having known Kancil from previous dealings, at least he was not nervous when he met her, but he did toot a friendly hello upon seeing her.

Impeccable in his three-piece navy suit, although a little stretched out due to his size, Ganeshan knew the drill and what the following documents contained. Anything else, he could bring it up to her handler. Kancil was merely the messenger.

“Tell your friend I enjoyed his chicken rice the other day,” Ganeshan answered kindly, as though he was passing along a friendly comment, when both knew the implication behind the message: be careful.

With a secret smile hidden under his bushy mustache, Ganeshan signed off the necessary and thanked her using his trunk as a form of sign language.

Kancil did not linger further. Not when her account was credited with more zeroes than what she was accustomed to. Not when her eyes were already drifting back to the screen on her modified phone, where the notifications for another job bloomed like algae across her phone.

All Kancil was left to do was wait. The fireworks would take place later.

***

Sepandai-pandai tupai melompat, akhirnya jatuh ke tanah jua. The city punished disobedience swiftly but rewarded cleverness slowly.

Waiting was an art form, and one Kancil had forced herself to learn to perfect. The app kept her busy with other small jobs around Kuala Lumpur.

Sometimes, Kancil watched watched the reels that the Imam posted regularly to his socials, where he spoke about charity and obedience, his voice gravelly but persuasive, as though a father teaching his petulant child to share his toys.

To keep the public distracted, the app began selecting certain stories that were sure to go viral: a minister’s engagement to a popular actress, a local nepo-baby’s viral rants on social media that no one intended to follow up on.

On cue, Kancil opened two chat forums, one liberal and one conservative.

It was an innocuous question. Hidden behind anonymity, but the intent was necessary.

“Has anyone noticed that these reported donations don’t align with their completed community projects?”

The forum accepted the question without having to go through surveillance. Kancil knew Elang Wah and his associates were watching

She attached a single graph. No accusations. Just numbers behaving badly. Pictures of the so-called community projects where, despite the amount of money promised, looked so shoddy no one would believe donations ever passed through in the first place.

She could have said more but Kancil had a fine line to balance.

***

Nothing happened for three days. Kancil pretended indifference but forced herself to keep busy.

The fauna of Kuala Lumpur and everywhere around Malaysia were fed up, and it was not even the end of April 2026.

Someone replied on the fourth day. This time it was a photograph regarding the funds for the anniversary dinner:

“Poor in spirit, as if! This fool went and imported flowers from Thailand for his gathering!”

“Haritu saya dengar Buaya kata Masjid tidak mampu menanggung kos pembaikan pusat agihan makanan itu”

On the fifth day, someone else linked public records regarding missing funds meant for widows. The same ones that Imam Hassan had ignored for his dinner because they spoke out against his extravagance.

Saya dengar organisasi itu sepatutnya menaik taraf pendawaian dan peralatan elektrik lain mereka. Wang tak dapat. Mereka telah bergelut dengan pemadaman elektrik. said another user.

“Apparently there can be limited funds for widows, but clearly not for the Wagyu steak he ordered at his birthday,” said another, with three photos of the steak with the backdrop of his anniversary celebrations.

By the seventh day, the Internet took care of the rest. The thread had grown teeth enough to gain attention.

Buaya laughed at the news, flashing his million-dollar smile. “Fitnah,” he called it. “Old news lah macha. Last time they tried to attack me over the anniversary dinner thing. Sounds like someone tak puas hati.”

But it wasn’t an excuse Buaya could hide behind forever.

***

Kancil had played this game long enough to know when to press the trigger. .

A perfectly curated AI video surfaced – there seemed to be a recognizable local influencer bragging about “washing money clean through Allah,” The face was too real and mismatched at the same time.

When it was released, the influencer rushed to debunk it, but it was an epic backfire. He rushed to his own defense, and he ended up shooting himself in the foot.

“Yes, donations are routed offshore,” he said, eyes glassy, lip quivering just so. “But it’s more efficient that way…”

The AI video was pathetic and obvious, but that was the point. It was meant to provoke, but the monyet influencer, young as he was, did not know the subtle art of keeping quiet.

It wasn’t about people believing in it. Kancil just needed their attention.

If there was something like her forefathers told in those extraordinary tales, there would always be a trail. That was something no crocodile could bury, no matter how colossal.

***

Kancil remained with her tech work, though not with the app, but through other means. Imama Hassan was as slippery as his nickname, but Kancil had no such advantage, so she took other jobs when the app did not ask for her services.

She held no illusions of victory, even with an exposure as big as this.

But while Kancil planned her contingencies, the Buaya was awake, scrolling through his phone, watching his nickname pop up on the chat forums.

“He once paid for my husband’s cancer treatments. This cannot be the same Buaya who spent so much money on himself.”

“Lucu, tgk gambar ni dgn kawan dia kat Westin Kuala Lumpur. Bang saya kerja kat bar situ. Dia kata Buaya beli lima botol arak utk dia,”

Imam Hassan scowled, unblinking at the unnatural light of the screen as he saw more comments on how he used and abused money.

As though he needed assurance, he double-checked his offshore accounts, where all the money he’d been storing for years, as far back as the pandemic, was nestled safely, as though he were a dragon hoarding his wealth.

Satisfied that not a cent moved an inch, his webbed fingers swiped back at the measly comments about his methods and his anniversary dinner, and he frowned. Who, or what, was capable enough to even have that kind of information?

“Not many creatures are capable of this level of hacking,” he muttered, a single clawed nail tapping against his table like a gavel.

“It has to be something small…something that passes through the cracks in the system…that can do this…”

He glanced outside Masjid Al-Hijrah’s pristine windows, narrowing his beady eyes.

He glanced back at the post that had started it all, the innocuous graph and the question that came along with it. He glanced at the username: factfinder88.

Created a mere ten days ago and all these accusations are still coming in?

Who are you?

***

During one of his sermons, Imam Hassan announced that he would be taking a sabbatical in Mecca. His followers and cronies wept. His critics turned to the forum and updated the chat.

His request for an extended period of stay in Mecca passed through innocently enough. It made it through three automated systems, special preferences for Imams, but only a few knew of such shortcuts.

Kancil slipped into the fourth gateway.

High Reputational Risk. Abort Request.

The once sainted Imam might as well have walked out shoplifting. Alarms flagged across the event he had bypassed. Journalists were alerted on a slow news day. Ministers arguing in Parliament now all looked bemusedly at their phones, lighting up with the same notification in Bahasa Malaysia and English.

Everything fell like dominoes. Harimau tried to escape, but he was caught at the airport trying to enter. He growled and snapped, but he was taken away in chains. He was arrested for his role in the money laundering, but no one could pinpoint what defined his accusation.

The influencer who was in the AI video ended up dead. His death was ruled a suicide after his scandal, but people knew better.

But even those on the side of justice were not spared the consequences.

Elang Wah came into his office to find his cubicle destroyed but nothing was missing. The CCTV camera was not working that day.

Ganeshan was tailed by four blacked-out SUVs, but his quick thinking guided them all to the Malaysian Anti-Corruption Commission (MACC), where they took off faster than a Gnat Rempit.

***

Kancil watched the press conference on her phone from a small restaurant at the Starling Mall as she was wolfing down her lunch.

Oh, but Imam Hassan put on a splendid performance. Imam Hassan kept a single finger at his eye, his crocodile tears just showing enough emotion. His benevolent voice, once coming through TikTok FYPs, was employed to plead his case.

“I welcome transparency,” he said in his same calm voice, the one he so often used to placate crowds. “I have nothing to hide. I am just a man being celebrated. Others are jealous.”

A buzz came through Kancil’s phone. It was her reward.

Her number, Unit 418C, was suspended from the app. No opportunity to appeal, but this wasn’t a shock to Kancil. No one could walk into the light and remain unscathed. She’d done her part.

Kancil surrendered everything to Elang Wah, all her accounts burned, even the ones on the chat forum. Unapologetic, she went full-time with all her tech odd jobs wherever she could find them. Sometimes she hid behind new apps, new names, or took up odd digital jobs.

Imam Hassan was no better. He resigned for health reasons. No charges, no arrests. More pictures of him came up showing the once popular Imam now shrinking into himself, dropping his head low between his shoulders. Even his scales lost their luster, now turning into the colour of dull slate.

Donations to Masjid Al-Hijrah dried up. Two of the kiosks broke down and were never fixed again. Organisations were being restructured and reevaluated, given that the donations never went to widows and orphans, and they desperately needed help.

The Imam’s influence faded. Harimau was released on bail, and a trial date was being set sometime in 2027. Any invitation or seminar dried up faster than caked mud. His socials died out eventually, as did his podcasts.

Some crocodiles were too big, too fat, to be killed. But they could starve.

***

A year later

Kancil happened to ride past Masjid Al-Hijrah and had stopped in front of the traffic light which blinked an angry scarlet against the haze of rain.

The mosque looked mournful, nothing like its shiny exterior when the Machiavellian Imam had first taken over. The lights, once calling for attention like the call to prayer, looked meek, as though ashamed it even had the right to exist.

Kancil smirked, thinking of Buaya lurking somewhere, certainly near the mosque. No one had taken him in and he had remained there since the scandal.

For all its advancements, murky water remained like its namesake. The city always made room for crocodiles because they kept producing crocodiles.

For herself, Kancil had continued freelancing. She taught foreigners and differently abled binatang how to appeal algorithmic suspensions while using the system’s own language back at it. Even if she was still mute, her diagrams and flowcharts were easier to understand than a university degree.

The Masjid Al-Hijrah scandal appeared sporadically in forums, and someone said “This is like our modern-day Sang Kancil defeating Buaya.” A cartoon showed a mousedeer with a cape ala Superman, darting from skyscraper to skyscraper.

Kancil had quietly deleted the comic using another anonymous name and immediately calls to allow for political humor rang out in forums, and that the government had no right to interfere.

As the traffic light turned green, followed by an impatient honk of a car behind her, Kancil wiped her visor, merged into traffic and disappeared – another insignificant dot moving through the labyrinth that had not yet learned how dangerous cleverness can be.

THE END

Beware the Buaya/

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event celebrating literary excellence across diverse genres. This competition provides a platform for writers around the world to showcase their creativity and unique voices. Participants are encouraged to explore a wide range of themes, pushing the boundaries of storytelling and poetic expression.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Cassandra Wijesuria for her captivating entry, "Beware the Buaya," in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her narrative offers a profound insight into the complexities of life in a modernizing world, leaving readers with much to ponder. We look forward to following her future endeavors and contributions to the literary landscape.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.