Nuhu Ponontogon – The Untold Hill That Held My Childhood

Misty hilltop forest resembling Nuhu Ponontogon, ancestral land in Sabah

There are places that raise you—not just in height, but in spirit. Nuhu Ponontogon, the hill my father called home, was one such place. This story is a piece of my heart, a remembrance of the life I lived there—barefoot, wild, and deeply free. I wasn’t a princess in a castle, but a daughter of wind and rain, raised by forest trails, animal calls, and the rhythm of storms that knew my name.

The Hill That Raised Me

My home was not just built on land — it was cradled on a hill, one my father called Nuhu Ponontogon. We lived on its crown, surrounded by forested hills like old guardians circling a sacred hearth. To outsiders, it might seem like we lived in the middle of nowhere. But to us, we lived in the heart of everywhere that mattered.

Back then, my father’s efforts had built a life where the land and our home felt like one. He owned the land we lived on, and the hills that wrapped around us were ours — wild, breathing, and full of life. It’s easy to assume I grew up like a princess, spoiled and sheltered. But the truth was different. I wasn’t raised in polished shoes and ribbons. I was barefoot, mud-streaked, and completely in love with the forest. I am Kadazan, one of the indigenous peoples of Sabah, Malaysia, a community whose traditions and history are deeply tied to the land (learn more about the Kadazan people).

A Kingdom in the Wild

Below our house was a place my father built with his hands and heart — an animal kingdom carved into the wilderness. He raised payau (deer), kijang, and pelanduk there. We weren’t just told about these animals in books — we lived among them. One rule was always clear: never stand behind a payau unless you wanted to be kicked into next week.

A mossy stairway led down to their enclosure, and just before the gate stood a rambutan tree. I used to climb that tree just to chill, dangling my legs while watching the animals roam. There was something peaceful — almost magical — about sitting there alone with the forest, like the hill knew how to hold silence without making it awkward.

Our forest was abundant — not just with animals, but with fruit. When the season came, our air was thick with the sweetness of durian, tarap, cempedak, nangka, dalit, rambutan, starfruit… all of it growing freely. Our home always smelled like something ripe — like nature was offering herself at our doorstep.

We had no neighbors. But I never felt alone. My adventures never ended.

A Life of Wild Freedom

Some might expect that a girl raised in a home like ours would act entitled. But my father made sure I knew that having much didn’t mean getting everything. I learned to eat what was served, to be grateful for whatever grew or was caught, and to never treat anything — food, work, or people — as beneath me.

I ran barefoot through mud, chased wind like it was a game, and treated the rain like an old friend. When storms rolled in, I would dash outside just to feel the wind on my skin — to let the rain kiss me like the sky remembering my name.

On rainy days, I’d grab a sack, climb up a grassy hill, and slide down like it was the best amusement park on Earth. At night, we’d camp under the stars — though by midnight, the mosquitoes always won. We’d sneak back to our rooms, defeated, and laugh about it over breakfast. It became tradition — failed campouts, victorious memories.

The Past Beneath the Soil

But not all things on that hill were meant to be touched.

One afternoon, I was with my mama while she tended her vegetable garden. I wandered a few steps away, stick in hand, poking at whatever caught my eye. That’s when I saw it — a small clay jar, partly broken, the earth crumbling away from its edges.

Inside, pale fragments caught the light. Bones.

My mama noticed what I was poking, and her voice came quick and firm:
“Don’t disturb it.”

When I asked her about the bones, she explained that they belonged to a baby. The jar was small, and in our old ways, that meant the remains of an infant or young child. She told me about the forgotten tradition — how our people used to bury their dead inside clay jars: small ones for babies, large ones for adults. The bodies would be curled inside, returned to the earth through the quiet embrace of clay.

The jar I had found was shattered, which was why the bones were visible. I remember standing there, the air suddenly heavier, feeling as though the ground beneath me was breathing an old, sacred story. My mama’s words stayed with me: the land doesn’t just grow trees or food — it also keeps the memory of those who came before us.

What Remains

Now, the land is no longer ours.

The forest still stands, but it doesn’t belong to us anymore. And the house — once filled with laughter and love — is now left to ruin. A hollow shell of what it used to be.

I still ache for it.

Sometimes I wonder if the wind still remembers me. If the rain still falls where I used to run. If the rambutan tree still waits for someone to climb it and listen to the quiet.

To this day, Nuhu Ponontogon is not just a hill. It is a memory, a mythology, a monument to the life my father created — wild and warm and full of lessons. It’s where I learned that the forest has rules, animals have language, and silence can be more comforting than words.

It’s where I learned to belong.
Not as a princess —
but as a daughter of wind and rain, barefoot and free.

Nuhu Ponontogon isn’t just a hill — it’s a living archive of the lives, traditions, and whispers that shaped me. Every stone and every root carries a fragment of our people’s story, a reminder that the past is never truly gone.

If you’d like to see how growing up with this heritage shaped my words, my voice, and the way I tell stories, read my piece: How Being a Kadazan Shaped My Voice as a Writer.

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