1952, Kampong Gelam. British curfew still clamps

down at 9pm — but the Japanese Occupation taught

everyone to move in shadows. Ah Beng, once

leader of the Tanjong Pagar gang, now walks the

streets with a rusted torch, enforcing the

curfew himself. Not for the police. For the kueh

lapis.

His mother, a Peranakan woman, taught him to

stack layers of coconut milk and palm sugar in a

tin over charcoal. After the war, she sold it

under the banyan tree near Masjid Sultan. Now

she’s gone. Her oven is cold. The last tin sits

in his room, wrapped in banana leaf, untouched

since she died.

The new HDB flats rise like concrete tombs.

Families scatter. The Malay stallholder across

the road, Pak Hassan, keeps his stall open past

curfew — sells nasi lemak to sailors and

students. No one dares challenge him. Not since

the Night of the Broken Kerosene Lamps, when

three youths tried to torch his stall for “too

much noise.” They vanished. No one spoke of it.

But Ah Beng knew: the old ways had teeth.

One night, a Chinese boy from Tiong Bahru —

skinny, in NS uniform — slips under the fence.

He’s got a tin of kueh lapis from his

grandmother’s recipe. He wants to trade it for

Pak Hassan’s durian paste. “My mum says yours is

the only one that remembers her mother,” he says,

voice cracked. Ah Beng doesn’t reply. He takes

the tin. Slips it into his coat. The boy runs.

At 9:02, the sirens wail. Three colonial

officers in khaki storm the alley. They’ve had

complaints. “Illegal operation. Curfew breach.

Arrest.” They grab Pak Hassan’s bamboo basket.

Kerosene lamps shatter. Rice scatters like ash.

Ah Beng steps out. No weapon. Just the tin. He

holds it high. “This,” he says, “was made by my

mother. Before the British came. Before the Japs

came. Before your laws.” He doesn’t shout.

Doesn’t curse. Just holds it. The officers stare.

One recognises the pattern — the seven layers,

the rosewater drizzle. His aunt in Penang used

to make it. He lowers his baton.

The next morning, the tin is gone. But at dawn,

three HDB flats down, a Malay grandmother and a

Chinese widow sit on the steps, sharing slices.

No one speaks. But the kueh lapis is warm. The

curfew still holds. But now, when the siren

wails, people light candles. Not to hide. To

remember.

The last tin is gone. But the recipe? It’s in

three kitchens now. And no one’s dared to burn

another one.

The officers never came back.

Ah Beng still walks the streets. Torch in hand.

But now, he leaves a slice on every doorstep

before curfew.