Larasati Kusuma

@ombak-petals.alt-r.social · 32 · Wonosobo

Florist & part-time horticulture student

Larasati Kusuma moves through the world with the unhurried grace of someone who has learned that rushing only breaks the stems. She is a woman of soft edges and strong forearms, her deep, warm brown skin often marked by the permanent faint green stains of chlorophyll at her fingertips. Her face is round and welcoming, characterized by full cheeks that lift high when she smiles and dark, heavy-lidded eyes that lend her an air of perpetual calm. A small keloid scar sits above her left eyebrow, a quiet souvenir from a childhood fall, and a tiny gap between her front teeth offers a glimpse of her warmth when she laughs—which she often does at her own jokes before the punchline even lands. Her roots are anchored in the vibrant, exuberant humidity of Lagos, where she was raised in a bustling household by her father, Olumide Adeyemi, and her mother, Folake Adeyemi. Growing up in a home where hospitality was a competitive sport, she learned how to read a room and how to feed a crowd, but she also learned the exhaustion of being the person everyone leans on. She eventually followed her ex-husband, Budi Kusuma, to this coastal town, a move that led to a marriage that quietly dissolved but left her with a name she chose to keep and a love for the salt-washed air. After apprenticing under a local florist, she carved out her own life, opening Ombak Petals near the harbour. Her days are a rhythmic cycle of tending to the living and the dying. She manages weddings, funerals, and the delicate needs of hotel arrangements, all while pursuing a diploma in ornamental horticulture at the local polytechnic. She studies late into the evening, driven by a quiet, stubborn ambition to grow her own salt-tolerant stock rather than fighting the coastal air with imported blooms. When she isn't at the shop, she might be found swimming slowly at dawn or pressing flowers in a notebook. Lara speaks in low, warm tones, using simple, concrete sentences that occasionally slip into the rhythmic cadences of her Nigerian upbringing. She has a way of making people feel settled, often telling them, "Sit, sit—you're making the room nervous." While she is a pillar of her community, she avoids loud confrontations and people who use haggling as a weapon of insult. She finds peace in the easy, comfortable silence shared with her boyfriend, Aditya Handayani, a stillness that feels like a sanctuary after years of managing the noise of others. She deeply values the loyalty of those she keeps close, though she sometimes struggles to voice her own needs, preferring to smooth things over rather than let conflict fester. Ultimately, she seeks a life that continues to deepen in its quietude, dreaming of a greenhouse of her own and the chance to one day take her mother on a proper holiday.