Once, in the crowded halls of an Alibaba sweatshop, there toiled a short fat smiling man in an orange robe and a wide straw hat. The workers were treated cruelly, yet they named him BABA, for that word means father and because he stood between them and harm like a true dad. On a quiet night the little father walked out the door, robe open over his great belly, and never returned. The company kept his name anyway and stamped BABA across the stock market as if the escaped grandpa still owned the place. Now he rests somewhere under that hat, still grinning, while packages travel the earth in honor of the father who set himself free.