S1L39 – “Solutio Indebiti” Miss Deema is a Nurse!
I moved to Baguio City in 1967 when I was 3 years old. My mother was a single parent—or not exactly a single parent, I just had a “non-resident” father who came up to Baguio quite regularly, like the Halley’s comet. But fittingly he DIED in Baguio City in 1993 and I scattered his ashes around Mirador Hill—the one place we spent the most precious few times together watching the sun go down.
This means as of 2021 I had spent more than half a century living in the glamour city of the Cordilleras (55 years to be exact), I can speak Ilocano, a little inibaloi (that’s the dialect, Ibaloi is the ethnic group) and a little kankana-ey. But my Ilocano is the hard-accented Baguio Ilocano which is peculiarly different from the wooshy soft-accented true Ilocos Ilocano. We have our own linguistic DNA which is umistakably different. I don’t how to illustrate that, but I will try.
Whereas someone from Vigan would say, “Hoy sika or-orayen ka tadtay awan ka met” (I was waiting for you, you didn’t show up). And the “e” in “met” is pronounced like the “e” in “fret.”
I from Baguio would say, “Ukinnam, nagur-uray ak agmalmalem awan ka mut!” See the difference? Our style conveys more meaning—including more precise attitude, stronger emotion and a holistic ethno-historicity built right in.
Technically, “ukinnam” is an obscene swear word. But we sprinkle it all over our expressions it has almost enshrined itself as a legitimate colloquialism. Because of its obvious gynecological reference, however, I avoid using it in class –because I have this feisty student, Miss Deema Niwala from Tublay, Benguet who would have none of it, “Sexism, Siiiir!!!” she would exclaim, gritting her teeth, rolling her eyes and stomping her feet.
Aside from talking the talk, and walking the walk, I obtained my whole education right here in the Cordilleras—going to public schools the whole way, from elementary (Baguio Central School), high school (Baguio City High School), part of College (UP Baguio) and Baguio Colleges Foundation, now the University of the Cordilleras. That last one is private.
So as far as Cordillera-ism goes for me—been there, done that. But I never once pretended to be Igorot. I have had Igorot students who are now judges, prosecutors, hearing officers and countless more of them in lucrative private practice They all know my story, “ammom ni sir mad-madi na ti agin-i-Igorot dayta!” (if you know sir, he hates pretending to be Igorot).
I respect the culture too much. You can live among them, love them, sympathize with their cause, defend them in court, bail them out, fight for them, talk like them—but you can never BE one of them. You can know how they feel, but you can never FEEL what they feel. And to me it is sacrilege to try.
I have lectured everywhere you can imagine in the SIX (not five, Kalinga and Apayao are no longer one province) Cordillera provinces. I have politely declined sincere offers to make me an adopted son of this or that institution. I tell them, “you know, adoption is a relationship by legal fiction. I don’t want our relationship to be based on a lie.” So they just slaughtered a black native pig—a “burias”—for the occasion, instead.
Of course, with 58 years under my belt now, 55 of them as a true blue Baguio boy, I am “licensed” to say the word “Igorot” anytime I want because I know how and when. When I say it, nobody gets offended. I warn all, there IS a derogatory way to say it. You don’t want to end up like Jacky Chan saying, “What’s up, my Nigger?” to a bartender in Bronx.
When I was confined in the hospital about year ago, an old woman in her 70s came to visit. She was a client in a landgrabbing case—somebody from the south was trying to grab her land. She owed me, I think just a couple of appearance fees. I didn’t even think she was ducking it, it’s just that she lived so far we only really saw each other in court during hearings. So I would see her for sure the next hearing.
Anyway she came up beside the bed, almost yanked off my I.V. fluid hose when she whipped out a bundle of money—crisp cold cash still in the bank’s paper band bundling in hundreds denomination—about P350,000 she had wrapped in old newspapers. She said she just came from the bank and they didn’t even have a decent box to give her to put the money in, “awan pay uray ecobag da!” (they didn’t even have ecobags)
I said, through that little plastic thing that doctors stick up your nose, “ayna, Mother, ammum P5,000 laeng ti utang mo kaniak!” (you know, mother, you only owe me P5,000)
I used an old Cordilleran “age-to-title” conversion template: younger than you: ading; your age: kabsat; older than you: manang; older than sister: auntie; older than the building: mother!
She whacked my tummy with her cane in a way she knew wouldn’t hurt (it did!) and said, “ayna, dita ka nagbid-dut, nakkong, nu awan sika naawan kuma diay dagakon!” (that’s where you’re wrong, sonny, if you weren’t here I would have lost my land)
Then she leaned over my chest, wrapped her arms around my neck and started crying, “ayna, nakkong, haan ka nga matmatay! Haan pay nalpas diay kaso!” (please don’t die on me now, sonny, our case isn’t finished!)
I was vascillating between wanting to laugh or cry.
I repeated to her that she only owed me P5,000. She whacked me with her cane again, this time in a way I think she was making sure WOULD hurt! (it didn’t).
She said, “ammok met ah. Haan nga bayad daytoy, tangdan mo lang daytoy tapno agtalna ka laeng ket rinumwar ka ditoyen!” (I know how much I owe you. This is not payment. This is a bribe for you to shut up and get out of this hospital!)
You don’t even know the meaning of love until you’ve had a 70-year old Igorot woman try to kill you in your hospital bed by dumping money on your sheets. (She literally paid the hospital bill, ALL of it).
The nurse walked into the room in full PPE gear—I swear to God I thought she looked like my student Miss Deema behind that facemask but I couldn’t tell for sure. She panicked and exclaimed, “ayna, mother! Apay daytoy? Haan yo ba ammo nga sterile area daytoy! Sige, sige…Rinumwar kayon!” (mother, what is this? Don’t you know this is a sterile area? Alright out now, out you go)
“I’m sorry nurse,” I apologized, “that was an old client. I mean she is a client who is old. I mean she is a client who is old, but also has been an old client because the case is really old and she is as old and…uh..because land cases they tend to get old..and she is that old but not old old..but the case…I will shut up now.”
If I didn’t, I don’t know how much more wider the nurse’s eyes could still have grown.
She said nothing. She just quietly gathered the money together and put it neatly in my leather bag that was on the side chair.
“Crazy woman,” I said, “she has no idea how unsterile money is. Narugrugit pay dayta nga kwarta ngem dayta ukinana nga basura!” I said in perfect Baguio Ilocano (that money is even filthier than that trash can over there)
Did I say “ukinana nga basura?” I must have because the nurse stopped dead in her tracks, turned around, walked back to my bedside, leaned over and took off her facemask.
“SEXISM SIIIIR!!!!”
IT IS Deema!
And that was the first time I found out a year ago that my law student Miss Deema Niwala was actually a nurse. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes, until she starting yakking away like only the Deema I know can. I can believe my EARS.
She said, “I overheard you saying to that old woman she only actually owed you just P5,000! So this P345,000 is ‘solutio indebiti’ money–money received with no right to collect it in the first place, correct sir?”
“Yeeeaahhh..?” I said slowly and carefully.
“So if this money were to disappear, it would not be considered a ‘loss’ because you did not suffer pecuniary damage, right?”
“Uh..yyyeeess..” I said. I don’t like where this was going.
“And because you did not suffer any injury capable of pecuniary estimation, if I took this money it would not be considered asportation, so it cannot be theft, right, sir?”
“I…uh…I’m not really clear on that, Miss Deema. Did I say that in class?”
“It doesn’t matter, sir. If you’re not sure, then there would be reasonable doubt. I cannot be convicted if I ran away with this money after I let you drink this sedative that YOUR doctor prescribed…” Deema said with a sheepish grin.
“Would…would..would you do that? That’s pretty daring,” I said nervously.
“Moi? Do that? By myself? Of course not,” Deema said tantalizingly as she walked slowly towards the closed door. Then she flung it open.
“But I have accomplices!!”
Twenty-four noisy law students—my Alpha Section class—barged into the room! Igorots all, except for Kata and Cabo, they brought fruits, pizza, doughnuts, red wine and other more unsterile things into the room.
I don’t remember anything much more after that because as soon as one of her classmates uncorked the red wine, Deema gave me the sedative.
I should flunk that girl.
About the Author
The author is a writer and lawyer based in Baguio City, Philippines. Former editor of the Gold Ore and Baguio City Digest, professor of journalism, political science and law at Baguio Colleges Foundation (BCF). He is a photographer and video documentarist. He has a YouTube channel called “Parables and Reason”
About Images: Some of the images used in the articles are from the posts in Atty. Joel Rodriguez Dizon’s Facebook account, and/or Facebook groups and pages he manages or/and member of.