5 - The Last Look Before Going Home

CHAPTER 5 — The Last Look Before Going Home

Raka Maulana was now in eighth grade. His body had gotten taller, his hair neatly combed to the side, but his sharp eyes stayed the same—something he inherited from Joko Wiryawan, the elementary teacher who once told him:

> “If people don’t listen to your words, try using your eyes.”

That morning, Raka helped an old man push a becak (pedicab / cycle rickshaw) with a flat tire. He didn’t say much—just smiled and left.

Across the city, Joko Wiryawan sat on a bench near SDN 07 Republik Gulali (State Elementary School 07 of the Republic of Gulali). He had taken early retirement. Same worn-out shoes, same cup of cheap sugar-palm coffee. But his face looked calmer than ever.

“Mr. Joko,” Raka called, stepping out from behind a guava tree. “I’ve got one last question.”

“You and your questions,” Joko laughed. “Go on. Shoot.”

“What zodiac sign gets into heaven the most?”

Joko stared at the sky for a moment, then smirked.

“The ones who make it to heaven… aren’t born in a certain month. They’re the ones busy fixing themselves, not busy updating their story.”

Raka smiled. “That’s deep, Sir.”

Joko went quiet, then said softly:

“Live straight, live simple… until God says, ‘It’s time to go home.’”

---

Subchapter: Water, a Country, and a Man on His Deathbed

A few months after Joko retired, an old story went viral again.

A story about a volunteer teacher in a remote village—who dug a water channel from the hillside, all by himself, for years.

No cameras.

No NGOs.

No government medals.

He wasn’t an activist.

Not a public figure.

Just a man who wanted to help his village survive… and help people hope again.

When he was dying, his son asked him, “Dad, did you want to save the world?”

The man smiled weakly.

“I was wrong…

First, save yourself.

If you’re saved, your wife and kids will be saved.

If your family is saved, your neighbors will be saved.

If your neighborhood is saved… maybe the country will follow.”

---

Meanwhile, Bagas Prawira was still President.

Corrupt. Manipulative.

His face was plastered on subsidized instant noodles.

But Joko didn’t care anymore.

He closed his laptop and wrote one final status:

> “We can’t save everyone.

But helping one… maybe two…

That’s already enough.”

The “look” still existed.

Not in Joko’s eyes anymore—

but in the eyes of the students he once taught.

And as long as there are people quietly doing good…

The world isn’t over yet.

---

Subchapter: TikTok, Hoaxes, and a Slight Smile

Three years later, the Good Bullying Movement had mutated.

From Facebook status… to TikTok content.

And of course, the part that went viral wasn’t the lesson—

but the drama.

Kids made “staring challenge” videos in class.

Creepy background music.

Captions like:

> “If you cheat, I’ll stare at you.”

“If you skip prayer, I’ll crush you.”

Raka facepalmed.

Joko, now living in a small village, saw it on his tiny smartphone.

He just chuckled.

“Young people love dramatics.

But at least… they still remember the stare.”

---

Subchapter: The Killer Who Couldn’t Repent

His name was Fajar Arwana, 27.

He used to sell vegetables on a beat-up old Honda Supra motorcycle cub while livestreaming on TikTok.

His catchphrase:

> “Fresh veggies, healthy smile—don’t forget to smile before the world ends!”

But life twisted sharply when he became a political buzzer.

For a bit of phone credit and small payments, he got recruited into the underground team supporting President Bagas Prawira.

Then the tasks escalated:

> “You only need one stab, Fajar.

God will understand.”

At first, Fajar refused.

Then they handed him the down payment for a brand new white Honda PCX (matic scooter).

His resolve cracked.

And that night… it happened.

Inside a mushollah (tiny prayer room), during Arif Setiawan’s final prostration.

Two stabs.

Eleven seconds.

Everything ended.

---

After that, Fajar changed.

At first he felt powerful.

Then came the nightmares.

His stomach twisted every time he heard the adzan (call to prayer).

He felt weak whenever he saw someone wearing a white skullcap.

He tried repenting.

Went to a weekend pesantren (Islamic boarding school).

Sat in the front row.

But when he was told to recite Surah Al-Baqarah (the second chapter of the Quran, Islam bible)…

his tongue turned stiff like a bent spoon.

“Ustaz (religious teacher)… I think Allah doesn’t accept me anymore.

I’m scared… I’m scared I’m not human anymore.”

The ustaz prayed for him, gave him Zamzam water—

but nothing changed.

(Zamzam water is a holy water from a sacred well located within the Masjid al-Haram (Grand Mosque) in Mecca, Saudi Arabia, considered sacred by Muslims worldwide).

Every night, he felt someone watching him…

from the reflection in the window.

Arif’s stare.

---

One evening, after work at the buzzer office, Fajar sped home, chasing dusk.

His heart was racing.

His mind drifting.

At the top of a hill, an old woman crossed the road with a bucket of water.

Fajar panicked.

He slammed the brakes.

The motorcycle skidded.

From the opposite lane… a sand truck roared downhill.

HONK—

CRASH.

People ran toward the scene.

Fajar’s body lay thrown under a massive billboard of President Bagas Prawira.

On the billboard:

> “Social Stare: Saving the Nation.”

But Fajar’s eyes were empty.

No smile.

No TikTok.

The Angel of Death had already taken him.

In his jacket, police found a torn piece of paper:

> “I wanted to be good. But I killed the best man I ever met.

I’m sorry, Mr. Arif…”

The sentence went viral.

Not because it was dramatic—

but because people finally realized:

> When wrongdoing is paid with money,

what's right will never have value.

---

Subchapter: A Mad President and His Son Who Found God

President Bagas Prawira was still in office.

His face was everywhere—instant noodles, billboards, even dish soap.

The country was fed up.

Protests exploded.

Hashtags spread:

> #ShutDownTheStare

#RemoveBagas

#HellCCTV

On National Day, broadcast across 43 TV channels and 12 streaming platforms, President Bagas stood at the podium.

His face pale.

Sweat leaking through layers of makeup.

He started reading his speech—

Then froze.

For 46 whole seconds.

His eyes shook.

His lips trembled.

The entire country held its breath.

Suddenly he clawed his hair, threw the speech away, and screamed:

> “WHY IS EVERYONE STARING AT ME?!

WHY ARE ALL EYES LIKE GOD’S CCTV?!

WHO’S WATCHING ME IN THE TOILET?!”

The mic fell.

Camera shook.

Broadcast cut.

But the internet already had the clip.

Edited.

Uploaded.

Viral with creepy piano remix.

Two days later, Bagas was admitted into a luxury mental hospital.

But every night he screamed from behind the padded, air-conditioned isolation room:

> “Forgive me…

I just wanted to LOOK holy!

I never wanted to BE good!”

---

Meanwhile, his son—Riko Prawira—quietly disappeared from the palace.

Turned out, he had gone religious.

Joined a pesantren (Islamic boarding school) in Garut.

Changed his name to Ustaz Rico.

“I lived off lies. Now I’m looking for truth… even if the path is muddy.”

The former First Son now wore a sarong.

A faded jacket.

His old Mio (matic scooter) often broke down.

But he looked… happy.

People in the village called him:

> “Ustaz Rico—the former President’s kid… now the local funeral ambulance driver.”

Every night he taught Quran (the Holy Book of Islam) to the kids at the musholla (small mosque).

Sometimes he told them:

“My Instagram feed used to look perfect.

But my heart was a mess.

Now I slip on muddy roads every day…

but my heart feels clean.”

---

Subchapter: Edi Saputra and the Price of a Click

Edi Saputra—Joko’s childhood friend—used to be an ojol (online motorcycle taxi), photocopy shop owner, and wandering printer repair guy. Friendly, funny, always ready to treat people to sweet tea at Bu Tikah’s stall.

But when his kid got into a private university and the tuition hit like a hammer, Edi cracked.

He became a government buzzer.

“One tweet is 150k (150,000 Rupiah is equal to 8.96 USD on November 19, 2025).

Three a day… enough to pay my kid’s laptop installment.”

At first he just reposted.

Then he started typing his own:

“President Bagas is visionary!”

“Hoaxes are dangerous, stay alert!”

“Social Stare saves the nation!”

His heart bled every time he hit send.

One night he reread his last chat with Joko:

> “I still believe in good, Ed.

Even if the world says I’m wrong.

Being right doesn’t always mean being good…

And being good doesn’t always mean being right.”

Edi closed his laptop and posted:

> “I sold my voice because I can’t sell my kid.

But I miss being an ordinary man who can sleep in peace.”

Comments flooded:

“Repent, Bang (bro).”

“You’re a victim too.”

“May God give you a way back.”

---

Subchapter: A Father’s Sin, a Son’s Redemption

Riko Prawira—former First Son—stood alone at Arif Setiawan’s grave.

His oversized black suit hung loosely.

His hair brushed past his ears.

His face calmer than during his old influencer days.

His hands trembled holding jasmine flowers.

“Mr. Arif… I know you were killed because of lies.

And I know… it was my father’s fault.”

He placed the flowers on the soil.

Behind him, his personal aide stood waiting—

but Riko raised his hand, asking him to step back.

“I want to make things right.

I know it’s never enough… but this is my intention.”

The next day, Arif’s son—Bima—was summoned to a top law firm in Jakarta.

“Mas (brother) Bima, we represent Riko Prawira.

He wants to gift you a premium housing cluster—12 units total.

Full ownership.

Taxes covered.”

Bima stiffened.

“I’m sorry… I can’t accept.”

“Why not?”

Bima sighed.

“I don’t need houses.

I need knowledge.

Tell Mr. Riko… if he wants to redeem his father’s sin,

send me to Yale Law School.

All the way to doctorate.”

The lawyer froze.

Then nodded.

Months later, the public was stunned.

Riko Prawira—once the President’s son—officially became a donor for overseas scholarships.

No more TV.

No more politics.

Just quiet work.

Meanwhile, Bima studied in New Haven, US.

Every night he wrote in his journal:

> “Law will never be pure if enforced by the wrong hands.”

Above his desk, he kept a photo of his father—Arif Setiawan—smiling by a chalkboard.

Under the photo:

> “True justice begins in the heart.”

---

The stare still lived on.

Not in classrooms anymore—

but in future courtrooms.

And the world…

was still not over.

---

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