When the inevitable “cancel culture” mob once tried to come for her—accusing her of promoting sugar addiction—she went live for thirty seconds. She stared into the camera, slowly unwrapped a Hit, licked it, and said:
“Saya sudah 72 tahun. Saya lihat presiden ganti tujuh kali. Saya lihat harga BBM naik 20 kali. Dan lo mau ngatur permen saya?”
The “Ngemut Hit” brand had, against all odds, spawned a modest empire. There was Nenek’s Spicy Licorice Sauce (a bestseller at Grand Lucky), a clothing line of “Jilbab with Pockets for Your Candy,” and a mobile game called Lollipop Lane where you dodged disapproving grandchildren and collected black sweets. Nenek Jilbab Ngemut Kontol Hit
No influencers. No sponsors. Just an old woman in a lilac jilbab, a black lollipop in her cheek, whispering, “Baca, Nak. Dunia ini kejam kalau lo buta huruf.” (Read, kid. This world is cruel if you’re illiterate.)
By noon, Nenek Fatimah was not at home knitting. She was on the set of her own reality show, “Nenek’s Night Bazaar” , a hybrid cooking competition/drag-adjacent variety show streaming on a major platform. She’d judge young chefs who tried to make gourmet kerak telor while she sat on a throne made of recycled lollipop sticks. When the inevitable “cancel culture” mob once tried
Her content was simple, chaotic, and hypnotic. She’d review the latest skincare products by rubbing serum on her wrinkled, sun-kissed face, then say, “This? Feels like kecap manis . Two stars.” Or she’d react to Drake’s new album while slowly unwrapping a fresh Hit lollipop, the crinkling plastic becoming an ASMR sensation.
Her office was a corner warung that she never left. She held meetings with her millennial staff—all wearing matching jilbab and sucking on Hits—while frying tempe on a portable stove. Her business advice, often livestreamed, was legendary: “Hutang? Utang itu rempah kehidupan. Asal jangan sampai lo dimakan bank.” (Debt? Debt is the spice of life. Just don’t let the bank eat you.) Saya lihat harga BBM naik 20 kali
At 5 AM, after Subuh prayers, Nenek Fatimah would fire up her iPhone 15 Pro Max (a gift from a grateful grandson who worked at Gojek). Her TikTok handle was —a play on “standing death,” meaning she’d go viral or die trying.
(I am 72 years old. I’ve seen seven presidents. I’ve seen fuel prices rise 20 times. And you want to regulate my candy?)
That was her real entertainment. Not the views. Not the money. The quiet joy of watching a child taste something bitter—and smile anyway.