The Banana Girl

Bournemouth in early June felt so comfortable. It was the end of spring, but summer hadn’t fully arrived yet. The sun was out longer, the days were warmer, and the town vibe was starting to change. Summer in Bournemouth was something else entirely. People from the north flocked to the south, chasing the sun and soaking up the warm weather after enduring the long, cold winter.

I found myself at the 30th Summer Ball, the university’s annual music festival. It was a huge celebration to mark the end of term, where students could finally let loose after exams and deadlines. The campus court had transformed into a buzzing festival ground—music stages, food trucks, and lights everywhere. Everyone was dressed up in quirky, over-the-top costumes, adding a playful, carefree vibe to the night. Laughter filled the air as people clinked their drinks together, toasting the end of another academic year. Groups of friends swayed to the music, some breaking into wild dance moves, while others gathered around the food stalls, balancing plates of burgers and fries. It was the kind of night where worries didn’t exist.

I always tried to drink moderately because I knew I could be a huge mess if I had too much. But I was there with my group of friends, including my Vietnamese friend Yen—or as I liked to call her, the queen of the party. Yen had a "we need more drinks" mentality that always kept the night going. Thanks to her, we had countless Jägerbombs lined up at one point, and before I knew it, the laughter got louder, the conversations funnier, and the world just a little bit blurrier. At one point, Yen turned to me with a serious look in her eyes and said, "We won’t be here next year, Hans. We’ll never get this time back." She knew how to have fun, and that's why I liked her. It didn’t take long before we were all spreading out, mingling with different groups, bouncing between conversations, and just enjoying the moment.

Later on, I found myself in front of one of the stages, enjoying the drag show. It was a lot of fun, and the energy was infectious. Then, before I knew it, I accidentally made eye contact with a girl wearing a banana hat that covered most of her head. She approached me with a smile, and I couldn’t help but notice her long blonde-brown hair and sparkling blue eyes, glittering under the disco lights. I smiled back at her, and she got closer, saying, “You’re a very good-looking guy. Do you know that?” Before I could even say thank you, she took off her banana hat and placed it on my head. “See? You even look good with a banana hat!” she screamed enthusiastically.

We danced together that night until we eventually separated, but that moment stuck with me. I’m the kind of person who believes in telling people when I see something beautiful in them. I remember once while waiting for the traffic light to turn red in Budapest, I complimented a girl’s shoes, and she said, “You really think so? You made my day.” Or in BarSo, I noticed a guy’s tattoo and told him, “That looks badass,” and he genuinely appreciated it. It’s these little exchanges that remind me how powerful small compliments can be. That’s why, when someone unexpectedly complimented me, it felt like my energy found its way back to me.

Now, almost a year later, I’m back in Jakarta. Sadly, I never got the chance to get to know the banana girl better, but I hope she knows that even though it only took her a few seconds to say those words, they’ve stayed with me and travelled thousands of miles, all the way here. Lately, I’ve been focusing on myself—going to the gym, and working on being a better version of myself. Like everyone, though, it’s been a journey of ups and downs. There are days when I look in the mirror and notice a layer of fat, and instead of letting it bring me down or hating myself for eating too much like I used to, I’ve learned to approach it differently. I tell myself, “Hey, stubborn fat, I’m going to lose you over time.” And in those moments, I can almost hear the banana girl’s voice in my head, “You’re a very good-looking guy. Do you know that?”

Jakarta, 28 January 2025

Hans Febrian