The Time I Reincarnated As A Malaysian (And Immediately Regretted Every Life Choice)
I died in Singapore like a proper kiasu king—choking on a fishball from a $5 laksa at Lau Pa Sat while arguing with the uncle over whether it was worth the price. One minute I’m screaming “Wah lau, inflation sia!” and the next I’m floating in the afterlife queue like some budget ghost waiting for the economy-class reincarnation counter. The cosmic clerk, some bored angel who looked like he’d rather be eating roti canai, asked me where I wanted to go next. “Anywhere with strong currency and air-con,” I said. “I want that sweet S$1 to RM3 life, bro. Malaysia sounds perfect—cheap petrol, cheaper nasi lemak, and I can finally afford to own a Proton without selling a kidney.”
He smirked, stamped my soul like it was a fake MyKad, and poof—I woke up as a screaming baby in a government hospital in Johor Bahru. The air smelled like durian left in the sun for three days and regret. My new parents were classic Malaysian: Dad was a “businessman” who sold fake Rolexes from a Proton Saga with one functioning headlight, Mom was a part-time Shopee seller who specialised in “original” Korean skincare that turned your face into a durian husk. They named me Muhammad Iskandar Bin Abdullah—because apparently my soul needed three extra names just to confuse the police during roadblocks.
At first I thought I’d struck gold. “S$1 to RM3 benefit, baby!” I gurgled in baby language. I figured I’d grow up eating RM1 roti canai the size of my head, pump RM2 petrol into my future Myvi, and live like a sultan while Singaporeans crossed the causeway just to buy my overpriced Milo. Paradise, right?
Wrong. By age five I realised the “upbringing” here wasn’t third-world—it was fourth-world with extra roaches and a side of broken promises. Our “house” was a terrace in Skudai that flooded every monsoon like God himself was doing a budget car wash. The ceiling leaked brown water that tasted suspiciously like the neighbour’s curry. Dad said it built character. I said it built dengue. Every night I’d lie on my thin tikar mat, staring at the gecko that had claimed the corner of the room as its penthouse, and whisper, “This is not the cheap life I signed up for.”
School was where the comedy became tragedy. My primary school had one working fan for 400 kids and a headmaster who spent more time collecting “kopi money” than teaching. The textbook was from 1998 and still had a picture of Mahathir looking young and angry. Teachers showed up late, smelling of last night’s teh tarik and this morning’s cigarette, then spent the first hour complaining about the government while the class played “who can hit the most mosquitoes.” Maths class? “Aiyah, just divide lah, like how we divide the bribe money.” History? “British colonised us… then we colonised ourselves with traffic jams.” The canteen sold nasi lemak for RM2 that came with a free side of food poisoning. I once asked why we didn’t have proper science labs. The teacher laughed so hard his fake Rolex fell off. “Lab? We have the drain outside, boy. Study the ecosystem of plastic bags and dead rats.”
By secondary school I was fluent in three languages: Bahasa Melayu, broken English, and pure unfiltered Malaysian sarcasm. My friends were legends of laziness—kings of “later lah,” princes of “tidak apa,” and grandmasters of blaming everything on “the system.” We’d skip class to play Mobile Legends in the cybercafé where the chairs had more holes than the national budget. The girls were obsessed with TikTok dances filmed in front of the same broken escalator at Paradigm Mall. One of them told me her life goal was to marry a “tall rich guy from Singapore.” I almost told her I used to be that guy before I reincarnated into this circus.
Traffic was the real villain. Every morning the PLUS highway turned into a parking lot sponsored by Petronas. My dad’s Proton Saga wheezed like an asthmatic uncle climbing Bukit Jalil. We’d sit in gridlock for two hours while uncles in songkok cut queues like it was an Olympic sport. Road signs? Optional. Traffic lights? Suggestions. Police? Only visible when they wanted RM50 for “no summons today.” I once saw a cow cross the highway in KL like it owned the place. The cow had better traffic sense than half the drivers.
And don’t get me started on the food. Sure, it tasted amazing—for the first ten minutes. Then you realised every meal came with a complimentary stomach ulcer. Mamak stalls at 3 a.m. served teh tarik so sweet your teeth filed for divorce. The chicken was so small it needed its own passport. And the prices? “Cheap” only if you ignored the fact that your salary was also “cheap.” I got my first job at 18 selling prepaid SIM cards at a roadside stall. Boss paid me RM1,200 a month and called it “experience.” Experience of what? Learning that the national minimum wage is lower than the price of a decent pair of shoes in Singapore.
By 21 I had a diploma from a university that looked like a converted warehouse. The graduation hall doubled as a wedding venue on weekends—same plastic chairs, different fairy lights. My certificate had more spelling mistakes than my thesis. I applied for jobs in Singapore and got rejected immediately. “Sorry, your Malaysian education is not recognised.” I wanted to scream, “I used to own a HDB flat and eat $10 chicken rice without crying!” Instead I ended up working as a Grab driver in Johor, ferrying Singaporeans across the causeway who bragged about how cheap everything was. “Wah, only RM15 for this meal!” they’d say while I smiled through gritted teeth, thinking, “That’s my entire daily food budget, you currency imperialist.”
The final straw came during Hari Raya. The whole country shut down for two weeks like it was a national sport. Traffic became a sentient nightmare. My family spent RM500 on ketupat and lemang that could have bought a small car in a sane country. Uncle Karim showed up drunk on air suam and lectured me about “Western influence” while his third wife scrolled TikTok in full hijab. The fireworks at midnight sounded like the economy exploding. I sat on the roof, staring at the lights of Singapore across the strait, and whispered, “I want a refund on this reincarnation.”
That night I did what any self-respecting isekai protagonist would do—I googled “how to die and reincarnate again.” Turns out the afterlife has a one-year cooldown, but I wasn’t waiting. I drove my Grab car straight into a very polite tree on the North-South Expressway at 2 a.m. (Don’t worry, it was a Proton, so the tree survived.) As the airbags deflated and the last thing I heard was the radio playing “Negaraku” on loop, I smiled.
The cosmic clerk appeared again, clipboard in hand. “Back so soon, champ?”
“Anywhere but here,” I gasped. “I’ll take North Korea. I’ll take a war zone. Hell, send me to Australia where the spiders are honest about wanting to kill you.”
He laughed. “Told you. The S$1 to RM3 benefit is a myth. It’s actually S$1 buys you one ringgit of broken dreams and one free plastic bag full of rubbish.”
Next thing I knew I was a baby again—this time in Switzerland. Clean air. Mountains. People who actually show up on time. As I lay in my crib made of actual wood instead of recycled political promises, I heard my new Swiss parents speaking German. I didn’t understand a word, but it sounded expensive.
And somewhere in the multiverse, a Malaysian uncle is still stuck in traffic, blaming the government, eating cold nasi lemak, and wondering why life is so susah.
Me? I’m never looking back. Malaysia, you were a joke. A very long, very humid, very RM2.50 joke.