by Dr Rahim Said
It was one of those serendipitous mornings when the universe casually tosses a public figure into your regular café like an extra shot of espresso in your latte.
There I was at Huckleberry, our well-loved Bukit Damansara haunt, when who should I bump into — quite literally, with a clumsy elbow nudge — but YB Datuk Fahmi Fadzil, the Honourable Minister of Communications.
We exchanged the customary Malaysian handshake — firm, polite, but with a flicker of surprise in his eyes when I introduced myself as a columnist. To my quiet amusement, he’s familiar with the digital paper.
That’s the first pleasant discovery of the day: our ministers do keep tabs on local online platforms, even the cheeky ones like ours.
Naturally, being a columnist who occasionally tiptoes around political topics, I asked the most self-serving question I could muster over the hum of coffee machines: “So YB, what does this new (Online Safety) Act mean for people like me who write columns?”
Without missing a beat, and in that reassuringly calm tone honed by years in theatre and politics, he replied, “It should be alright.”
Reassuring — though whether it was meant for me or for himself, I wasn’t sure.
I then took the opportunity to jog his memory, reminding him that I used to live just around the corner from his alma mater, Sekolah Kebangsaan Bukit Damansara.
I even confessed to having watched him sprint past our house as a boy, no doubt on his way to school or chasing after a football. His parents, too, were part of our old neighbourhood circle.
He didn’t know me then, of course — and to be fair, why should he?
But he was polite, approachable, and seemed genuinely interested in the small slice of shared history.
I’ve often watched him breeze into Huckleberry for a hurried breakfast, only to dash off to Parliament when the assembly is in session. You could practically time your poached eggs by his schedule.
On this particular morning, the café was thinning out after its usual breakfast rush, leaving a calm hush punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery.
A Filipino supervisor, sensing a photo-worthy moment, offered to snap a picture of us in front of the cashier. The Minister — though yet to have his breakfast — stood patiently next to me as the supervisor fiddled nervously with the camera settings, a scene every Malaysian knows too well.
As we parted ways, I silently wished I had his number. It would have been nice to forward him that photo, a simple keepsake from an unplanned morning chat. But such is life — some encounters are meant to be left as stories.
And just when I thought the morning couldn’t get any better, I stepped into the money changer next door.
The owner, Rasul, jumped up from his counter with a grin. “Hello, I just read your column about the four wives!” he exclaimed.
That made my day.
Because if a money changer reads your column — well, I guess I’ve made it.
And maybe that’s the real moral of the story: ministers may not know you, but as long as the guy changing your ringgit does, you’re in good company.
WE