The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature

by Jane Stafford

  Standing with feet apart, Grandfather balances on the balls of his toes, head tucked into shoulders, arms outstretched. He had the art, even then, of appearing twice as large as he was. He did not merely enter a space; he claimed it. Territorial, he expanded his arms and decreed. This is mine. If he saw something he wanted, he took it. He was a Samson of a man.

  ‘The irony was,’ Aunt Ruth said, that although your grandfather was ungodly, your great-grandfather was the very godly minister in the Ringatu church, second only to Riripeti Mahana, its priestess. When they saw that a Samson had been born into their midst, ka tika, they agreed he would help to lead the people out of bondage to the Pakeha and into the land of milk and honey known as Canaan. But if only he could believe in God. Oh, he was trial to them!

  All through the war your great-grandfather and Riripeti waited for him to take up the jaw of the ass and smite the Philistine Pakeha. But he just didn’t seem interested in anything else except sport, women and—’

  ‘Why women?’ Glory asked.

  ‘Never you mind,’ Aunt Ruth answered. ‘By the time the war ended they had almost lost hope that your grandfather would bring the Temple of Dagon down on the Pakeha. So when the angel came, they took it as a good sign. At last God would let Tamihana see him through one of his angels. Then your grandfather would turn to the paths of righteousness and help to fulfil the Ringatu destiny.

  ‘So it was that on a summer day in 1918—’

  Tamihana Mahana was behind the plough in the maize fields when the angel visited him. It was a Sunday, and coming on to midday. Tamihana didn’t care much about the Sabbath. There was work to finish, a crop to be sown. Very soon there would be another mouth to feed. Ramona was with child again, her fourth, whom they would name Hone if he was a boy or Ruth if she was a girl.

  ‘Hup!’ he called to the two draught horses. ‘Hup!’

  The day was peaceful and quiet. Most of the people in the village had gone to karakia, to church, at Mangatu. There was nobody around except old man Kuki who was sick and Maggie who had taken the chance to tell everybody, ‘I’ll look after Kuki.’ What she really meant was that she wanted to stay by the window, watching Tamihana. Tamihana grinned to himself. He had taken his shirt off so that Maggie could really see what he was made of. He was proud of the V shape of his shoulders and the washboard tautness of his glistening stomach.

  The horses came to the end of the field. ‘Ka mutu,’ he shouted. He took off his hat and sweatband, unhitched the team and let them head for the long grass on the side of the field. Perspiration poured from his brow and into his eyes. The ploughing should have tired him, but it didn’t. His body had never let him down, and in this he knew he was unlike other men. When they dropped by the wayside or fell out of a race, he kept on going. He relied on his physical strength to get him through life, to till his land and, more important, to secure cash work from the Pakeha farmers in the district. Now that he was a married man and a father, he relied on the crops from his land to feed his family. But obtaining cash work was harder. What he needed to do, he realised, was to create a business, something that would bring the work to him.

  Perhaps I should pray, Tamihana thought. If I ask God, He might tell me what I should do to prosper. He started to mumble some words to God. Then he shook his head—only fools and old women prayed. He looked up to the sun and was momentarily blinded by sweat and sunlight.

  Huh? He aha tera?

  Printed on his retina was an after-image. The clouds had rolled back, revealing a blue kingdom. Something golden was fluttering down from the sky.

  ‘So the angel had wings?’ Glory asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Aunt Ruth responded. ‘How do you think angels get down from Heaven?’

  ‘Was it a man angel or a lady angel?’ Glory continued. ‘Or was it a baby cherubim?’

  ‘Shush,’ Aunt Ruth said, ‘don’t you see? Even though our father managed to get only a tiny bit of his prayer out, it was answered. Now keep still because you’re spoiling my story—.’

  Tamihana shook his head again. He took a cloth from his trouser pocket and wiped the sweat away.

  ‘E hika,’ Tamihana exclaimed.

  The angel was standing on the roadside. He was blond and had blue eyes and looked like Jesus in a cotton suit.

  ‘But I thought you said the angel had wings,’ Glory said accusingly.

  ‘The angel folded his wings away,’ Aunt Ruth answered. ‘After all, what would you do if you saw an angel with wings on the road. Would you believe it was an angel?’

  ‘No,’ Glory said, after pondering this for a while. ‘I’d probably think the man was on his way to a fancy-dress party. Or had forgotten it wasn’t Christmas yet.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Aunt Ruth said.

  ‘Kia-a- oraai-a, ee hor-a,’ the angel said in an American accent. He had a hideous Midwestern crewcut and looked like he’d just flown in over the rainbow from Kansas City or Salt Lake.

  ‘Kia ora,’ Tamihana replied.

  The angel came closer, leaned on the fence and blew away a feather that had fallen on his shoulder. He plucked a straw and began to chew on it. Still blinded, Tamihana saw golden rays emanating from the angel.

  ‘Ko ko-ay a Tamihana Mahana?’ the angel asked. His Maori accent was atrocious.

  ‘Ae,’ my grandfather nodded.

  The angel smiled, a sweet smile which showed perfect white and even teeth. ‘Ah,’ the angel said. ‘Ten-ay ko-ay.’ The golden rays began to shimmer, spilling their radiance across Tamihana’s face. They spun across the sun, whirling like spokes in the sky. ‘I couldn’t be sure,’ the angel said. ‘That was a pretty quick prayer you said there!’

  Tamihana laughed. He must have said something out loud and this Pakeha walking along the road had overheard him.

  The angel shook his head. He gave a lazy sigh and then stood proudly, pointing a finger at Tamihana. ‘The Lord has great work for you to do, Tamihana Mahana. He has blessed you with great strength and sporting prowess. Such men and women are valuable to the Lord and because of this suffer temptations beyond those of ordinary mortals. That is why He, the Lord thy God, has sent me.’

  ‘He aha?’ Tamihana asked.

  ‘He wants you to use your strength to be a living witness and testament unto all your people that God lives.’

  ‘However,’ Aunt Ruth said, ‘your grandfather wasn’t going to believe any angel that came along the road, least of all a Pakeha angel! So he said—’

  ‘How do I know you’re an angel?’

  ‘I have wings,’ the angel said.

  ‘So do birds,’ Tamihana answered, ‘and devils.’

  He paused, suspicious. The angel was smiling with those clear cornflower-blue eyes, amused. Tamihana knew that he had to test the angel.

  ‘And what do I get if I help God?’ he asked.

  ‘Why, what you prayed for! The Lord will help you to prosper and, as He did with Israel, bless the fruit of your loins all their days.’

  The slick-sounding promises left Tamihana unconvinced. ‘My people tell me I am their Samson. They say God gave me this strength. I will wrestle you, for nobody has ever beaten me. If you are truly an angel, God will take my strength away so that you can defeat me.’

  The angel roared with laughter. ‘I accept your challenge,’ he said.

  ‘The best of three falls?’ Tamihana asked.

  ‘Yup,’ the angel answered, spitting on his hands.

  ‘So it was,’ Aunt Ruth said, ‘that in the middle of the day your grandfather Tamihana wrestled with the golden angel—.’

  ‘Wingless, like a crispy chicken,’ I interpolated.

  ‘But an angel all the same,’ Aunt Ruth continued, swatting at me with her hand. ‘They wrestled all that afternoon and soon Grandfather realised he had met his match and that this indeed was an angel. He hoped that Maggie wasn’t looking out her window to see him getting beaten.’

  Then the angel executed some pretty unorthodox moves. With horror, Tamihana fel
t his strength suddenly leave him. He fell to the ground. Once. Twice.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Tamihana said, stunned. He went down on a bended knee.

  The angel was panting. ‘No, I am not God,’ the angel said, ‘but I have been sent by Him. Will you now agree to undertake your part of our bargain?’

  Tamihana hesitated. He was humiliated by his defeat.

  ‘I ask you again,’ the angel said, ‘will you agree to our bargain?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tamihana said.

  The angel put his hands on Tamihana’s head and Tamihana felt the strength pouring back into him. It was a new kind of strength, godliness was in it, and he felt like crying for joy.

  ‘You will be blessed, as Abraham was blessed,’ the angel said, ‘and so will your children and your children’s children for ever. And you yourself will prosper from this day forth just as you family prospers. So, Tamihana, thou servant of God, do as the Lord has commanded.’

  The angel let Tamihana see his brilliant golden wings, so glorious that they filled the sky with their radiance.

  ‘So the angel did have wings,’ Glory said.

  ‘Did I say it didn’t?’ Aunt Ruth sighed.

  Tanihana became a Samson all right. The trouble was, the angel wasn’t a Ringatu angel. He was a Mormon angel.

  Within the space of two decades, Tamihana converted all the Ringatu members of the Mahana family, with the exception of his father, Riripeti herself and his brother Ihaka—though Ihaka began to weaken in the 1950s.

  However, the conversion part of the Waituhi Valley began a great Ringatu-Mormon conflict. Huge splits appeared between the four sections of Waituhi itself, and the Pakowhai, Rongopai, Takitimu and Pere families involved; Nani Mini Tupara was so angry about it. I even used to think that this same conversion was the cause of the trouble between our family of Waituhi and the Poata family of Hukareka. There, the Ringatu religion remained powerful. Was I ever wrong?

  My grandfather Tamihana was at his physical peak in 1918 when he met the angel. There was no task that he could not accomplish. However, God had now set Grandfather a task—to raise his family so that it was an exemplar to others. God had also promised him that he would prosper. But how?

  These were the great questions which Grandfather set about to answer. It was his twelve days in the wilderness.

  The prospects for young Maori men living in rural areas were not promising. Much of the Patutahi block had been confiscated by the Pakeha, and by 1918 many communities had had their lands alienated because of their inability to pay the rates. Riripeti had been one of the lucky ones in that her ancestor, Wi Pere, had maintained an estate for her family. The Mahana clan, however, were only one of a number of dirt farmers eking out a subsistence living on small patches of land alongside the Waipaoa River. All around him Tamihana could see the results of Maori poverty. The Great War had claimed some lives, the 1918 flu epidemic had just ravaged the district and people were saying that a world depression was on the way. Although his sporting reputation had kept him regularly at work as stockman, scrubcutter, forestry worker, fencer, orchardist—as labourer for the Pakeha—even those sources of income were diminishing. Land development had virtually come to a standstill. Drink, debauchery and dissolution were all around the newly converted Tamihana. How was he to prosper so that he would become a model of God’s word? What did God want him to do?

  For the second time in his life Grandfather Tamihana decided to pray. He went down on his bended knees before God.

  ‘Where’s my miracle?’ he asked.

  The Lord sent Apirana Ngata.

  At that time Ngata, the Maori member of parliament for the East Coast, was in Tikitiki, at the dedication of the Anglican church commemorating the Maori soldiers of the First World War. Ngata had encouraged his Ngati Porou people into dairying. Land development had remained his main preoccupation.

  ‘I must go to Tikitiki,’ Tamihana said to Ramona. ‘If I can talk to Ta Api, perhaps his administration will agree to lend us the money so we can go into dairying.’

  Tamihana walked and hitched his way to Tikitiki. The trip took him three days. Apirana Ngata saw Tamihana striding into the township and was taken by Grandfather’s strength and purpose. Tamihana asked Ngata for a loan to get him going.

  ‘I will see to it,’ Apirana Ngata said, ‘but only if you will agree to one matter.’

  ‘He aha?’ Tamihana asked.

  I will give you the money but I want you to go into the sheep industry. Wool prices will go up soon and you will be well placed to take advantage of that.’

  ‘Ta Api,’ Tamihana said, ‘I do not have the wisdom to be a sheep farmer. Let me make you a counter offer.’

  Apirana Ngata laughed. ‘He aha?’

  ‘If you give me the money I will build up a shearing gang. Let the Pakeha be the farmer and let me shear his sheep.’

  ‘So that you can fleece him?’ Apirana asked, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘Ae, Ta Api.’

  ‘So it was agreed. The story of the Mahana shearing gang began.

  ‘So you see,’ Aunt Ruth said finally, ‘our family shearing business has been blessed by God from the very beginning.’

  Glory clapped her hands. ‘And we lived happily ever after!’ She was always a sucker for happy endings.

  ‘Well—.’ Aunt Ruth looked doubtful.

  Glory’s eyebrows furrowed.

  ‘Yes,’ Aunt Ruth said hastily.

  (1994)

  Hardcore

  Sia Figiel, from Where We Once Belonged

  When I saw the insides of a woman’s vagina for the first time I was not alone. I was with Lili and Moa. Lili’s name was Ma‘alili, but everyone called her Lili. Moa’s name was Moamoalulu, but everyone called her Moa. Lili was seventeen and Moa was sixteen. They were older than me. They were already menstruating.

  Lili got it when she was eleven, which is a record in Malaefou history. Moa got it when she was thirteen … and couldn’t stop bragging about the fact that not only did she get it at thirteen, which was only two years after the record, but that most important of all she got it before me.

  Which meant I had to give her half my earnings from the coke bottles we all sold at Faamelea’s.

  I had lost the bet.

  I was the last in our circle to catch the moon sickness.

  *

  To all Malaefou teenagers, girls and boys, we were Charlie’s Angels. Everyone who knew us called us by our TV names—Kelly, Sabrina and Jill. As is the custom in Malaefou, girls went around in groups. Some were glued to their own cousins. Others, like Lili, Moa and me, came from different households.

  Sometimes a girl would be a loner. Like Makaoleafi—eye of the fire—who not only was the goodest girl in the whole of Malaefou, but also the meanest and the strongest.

  She spent most of her time at the faifeau’s house serving matai on Sundays. Laulau le sua. She knew the faalupega o Malaefou backwards, plus all the polite forms of chicken, pig, and other food. She proudly said them out loud enough for those of us who didn’t know and struggled always to remember.

  She never tried a cigarette—that is, no adult had ever seen or heard of her smoking. Didn’t own a pair of pants—that is, she never wore one in Malaefou. And no stories ever lead to her—that is to say, she was not a faikakala.

  Our own mothers would say, ‘She is such a good girl. I wish she were my daughter.’

  Girls would say, ‘She’s a snake in disguise.’

  A disguise we all knew too well. A disguise we ourselves used from time to time.

  Afi was the epitomy of a Malaefou young lady. And because of this she was safe … safe to do anything … safe to be a bad girl at nights and no one suspected.

  Boys paid her money just to smell her panties. Grown men paid her money, too, just to smell her panties and bra. Some were even allowed to smell her panties while she was menstruating … if she was in the mood for it.

  She made a boy cry one day, with a slap on the face and an elbow to his st
omach, for beating up her older brother, Semisi. She was only ten and in Standard Four. He was thirteen and sitting the national exams.

  She pulled Miss Cunningham’s hair one day at school after Miss Cunningham gave her an F in Maths, ripped up the suspension note and spent her days at the movies or the market. She warned anyone against telling her parents about it. She would rearrange their faces if she ever found out. She was twelve.

  When we talked about Afi we whispered. We whispered and whispered. And when she would see us she would say, ‘If I find out you’re whispering about me, I’m gonna break your face! Understand?’

  We whispered anyway. Anyway. In our very invisible voices. Loud enough for ants and snails and beer-bottles to hear.

  In our circle we whispered about Afi being a pau‘elo. Her skin stank because she never took showers. And she wore the same dress Salu, her sister, wore on Mondays and Thursdays. It was never washed and you could smell it. She was practically afraid of water, practically afraid of soap. Like a flying-fox hanging from a cave—from a cave—so was her scent. She smelled of bats … a hundred bats put together. Bats lived in her armpits, in the crotch of her panties.

  ‘Faipepea!’ we would yell out in our beer-bottle voices.

  ‘Afi, faipepea! Pa‘uelo! Le kaelea!’ we whispered and whispered.

  Afi always caught Moa, whose voice took on visible form, on rare moments. And Afi would pull her hair, scratch her face, throw stones at her legs … or called Max and Rum on her—Max and Rum being the fiercest dogs in the whole of Malaefou—while Lili and I ran and ran, to the mango tree, to the church, to the pig-sty where we all met later and talked some more about Afi … and how one day we were gonna make her pay.

  In all our whisperings, and in all our yelling and our insulting her scent, it almost sounded like we were praising her … which perhaps we were, but never quite wanted to admit to. Even as we yelled out these insults in our ant voices, we knew deep down that we were envious and jealous … and we hated it and despised it. Why did she have to be so-so sure of herself? So-so good? And so-so strong? And so-so smelly?