The Boy Who Forgot His Mission

Children’s Day in Indonesia always felt like sunlight woven into celebration. This year, the clear and safe woods of Central Java had been transformed into a colourful outdoor studio. Four adults—Janah, Nadirah, Rizal, and Ahmad—were busy decorating and styling the young children for the festivities. Ribbons hung from branches, makeup palettes lay open on tree stumps, and the air buzzed with cheerful chatter.

“Every child needs space to play,” Janah said as she tied a bright bow into a girl’s hair.

“And every artist needs space to style,” Rizal added proudly, twirling a brush like a conductor’s baton.

It had all been Ahmad’s idea. He wanted the children to feel special, celebrated, and seen. The woods were peaceful, safe, and full of room for imagination. The children giggled as their hair was braided, their cheeks dusted with soft colours, and their outfits adjusted with loving care.

But someone else was watching.

Hidden behind a thick bush were two figures: a grown woman and a little boy. They were not citizens of Indonesia. They were not even citizens of Earth. They had been sent away from their home planet because of their behaviour—mischievous, chaotic, and impossible to control. Their troublemaking on Earth had already caused strange incidents. One night before Diwali in Jhansi, India, the little boy had eaten all the laddus in someone’s house and let out a burp so loud it rattled the windows. Another time, he somehow made the headteacher of Newlands Girls’ School in Maidenhead speak in a squeaky voice during her Earth Day speech. No one had ever seen him. No one even knew he existed.

The woman narrowed her eyes at the joyful scene. “This Children’s Day celebration… I want something precious from Indonesia. Something symbolic. And you”—she poked the boy’s forehead—“will blend in with the children and get it.”

“Me?!” the boy squeaked.

“Of course you! It can’t be me, now can it? You can blend in.”

But the boy crossed his arms. He didn’t care about being seen. He cared about something far worse: he hated makeovers. He hated brushes, bows, clips, colours, and anything that involved sitting still.

Still, the woman pushed him forward. Reluctantly, he stepped out of the bushes, creeping toward the decorated clearing with the slow, dramatic misery of someone walking to their doom.

Ahmad spotted him instantly.

“Ohhh, aren’t you a cutie wittle boy!” Ahmad scooped him up before he could escape. He planted three loud kisses on the boy’s cheek.

The boy groaned. Then spat.

Janah rushed over. “He needs a hairstyle!”

Before he could protest, she tied his hair into a cute, puffy style with tiny clips shaped like stars. The boy’s eyes widened in horror.

Rizal examined him thoughtfully. “Hmm… grey nail polish. It really brings out the colour of your eyes.”

The boy stared at his freshly painted nails. Then—unexpectedly—he laughed. A bright, delighted laugh. He kissed his nails. Then he grabbed a mirror and kissed his reflection too.

His mission? Completely forgotten.

Soon, it was time to leave. All the children—including the disguised alien boy—boarded the green-and-yellow-striped bus with the pink flower symbol. The engine rumbled, and the bus rolled down the winding Indonesian roads.

Music played. Snacks were passed around. Children giggled and sang.

But the boy…

His mind was fixed on one thing.

Not the treasure.

Not the mission.

Not the woman waiting in the woods.

He stared lovingly at his reflection in the bus window, admiring his hairstyle, his shiny grey nails, and the faint marks of Ahmad’s kisses on his cheek.

For the first time in his life, he felt… adorable.

And that feeling was far more powerful than any mission he had ever been given.