Unlike us who were clean-clean always. And proud, too, of the fact that we saved lunch money to smell of Wella Apple Shampoo … which in turn led to none of the boys or men asking us if they could smell our panties … let alone our bras.
‘You’re too clean,’ the boys and men would say.
‘Too clean. You are too clean,’ they would say.
When boys and men said to us, ‘You’re too clean. You are too clean,’ I was confused for days. Why would they want to smell someone’s panties and bras when that someone smelled of a bat, a dog, a toilet? And why weren’t they attracted to the scent of apples on our skin?
That whole week Moa and I stopped taking showers. We deliberately hugged Whiskey. Which our cousins could not understand. We both hated dogs. We even put baby piss in our hair and had farting competitions. Still boys and men found us too clean. We gave up after three days. Utterly frustrated! Hating Afi more and more.
We hated and despised Afi not only because she had the smell, or that she was the strongest girl in the whole of Malaefou … and meanest … but worse.
Because despite all this—or rather, in spite of all this—she remained a good girl … a good girl in the eye of everyone.
I suppose we, too, wanted to be good girls. And we were constantly disappointed at our mothers for saying that we were not. We were in-betweens … that is to say we were not completely good and we were not completely bad.
To be in-betweens meant that we went to church: twice on Sundays and once during the fogo a kiakogo on Wednesdays—which we attended as assistants and found utterly dull since there were no boys around … with the exception of Lealofi, the faifeau’s son, who played the piano. But who wanted him?
During this dullest of all chores we were supposed to fetch things for the kiakogo—may it be bibles, or hymn books, or papers, or glasses of water, or hymn books some more—things which took up a whole two hours of our lives on Wednesdays and were followed immediately by prayers at the fale o le faifeau in the evenings.
We never missed a meeting of the Aufaipese, or of the Aukalavou, or of the Au a Keine. We were always at the Aoga a le Faifeau and the Aoga Aso Sa, passed sewing tests, learned our lines for White Sunday, helped the faletua a le faifeau weed the garden around their house, helped the Women’s Committee dry pandanus leaves, helped our own mothers dry pandanus leaves, did the washing of clothes and dishes, cooked saka, ironed Sunday clothes—which was expected of us anyway. Yet despite all this goodness we were not good—in-betweens only. We were in-betweens because we loved laughing, and laughed and laughed at the slightest things.
When Elia, a matai, was playing volleyball. And jumped up to spike the ball. And his lavalava fell. And he was not wearing underwears. We laughed.
We laughed when Mu’s father wanted to borrow money from his palagi boss and told the palagi he needed it for Mu’s funeral … even though Mu was the healthiest of all his children.
We laughed whenever Sugar Shirley, the fa‘afafige, walked around Malaefou with nothing but Tausi’s panties and bra stuffed with coconuts.
These incidents filled our days with butterflies and grasshoppers. They were labelled however by the village women—and our own mothers, especially—as aka kauvala‘au, aka kaukala‘ikiki, aka fia fai kage, aka a‘amu, pa‘umumuku … and so on. What were we supposed to do to reverse the verdict that we were only inbetweens? And why was it so important for us to be ‘good’?
*
The answer was revealed to us one evening after watching an episode of Charlie’s Angels.
Lili was Kelly. She had the best haircut, black hair (clean of uku), blue eyes (bigbig), breasts (big-big), pretty legs (with no sores blasted all around them). She always carried a gun in her purse.
I was Jill and I had blonde hair, blue eyes (too), always wore pink lipstick, sunglasses, jeans, and had an eighteen inch waist. Moa was Sabrina. She looked part-Chinese, straight black hair, never wore a dress, and was perhaps the cleverest of the three of us. She was the one that came up with the idea of exposing the eye of the fire. We jokingly referred to Mr Brown as Charlie.
Mr Brown was a palagi and worked for the Bank of Western Samoa. Lili told us he was a Communist.
‘Ei! What’s a Communist do?’
‘He counts money.’
‘Oh …!’
Mr Brown the Communist—which Afi later corrected to Economist (but we didn’t care about it anyway, because we didn’t know the difference between Communist and Economist)—lived on the edge of our village where the mango trees with fruit grew, where boys kissed girls in the dark, where that old nun died.
He lived by himself. He had a dog named Dingo.
Mr Brown knew about Jesus, but was not a church-goer. His favourite words were ‘fucking-fucking-Jesus-Christ’. Mr Brown never called Lili, Lili. He always called her Sheila … my Sheila … my Samoan Sheila.
Lili washed Mr Brown’s clothes, ironed Mr Brown’s clothes, polished his shoes, cleaned his flushing toilet, cooked dinner for him … she was just like a wife. Lili was Mr Brown’s keigefaigaluega. And Moa and I were the only girls allowed to go into Mr Brown’s house when Mr Brown was not there.
When Mr Brown was not there Lili would show us all the rooms in Mr Brown’s house.
‘This is where he sleeps. He sleeps on this bed. This other bed is for Dingo. This is where he keeps his shoes. He has eight pairs, each one for a special occasion. Sometimes he tells me to polish a pair and he’ll wear them throughout the whole week. Sometimes he gives old pairs to clerks at the bank. That’s where he keeps his books. A lot, eh?’
‘Ei! Do you think he’s read all of them?’
‘Who cares if he has?’
‘This is where he keeps the towels and the sheets and pillowcases. This is where he keeps the soap and Ajax and mop and brooms. This is where he keeps the machete and the rakes and the ….’
‘Where does Mr Brown keep the food?’
Lili stopped what she was saying and looked at us. She knew that that was the only reason Moa and I visited her, and it was written so blatantly all over our faces. She continued with her description of the house as if she didn’t hear the food question. And that’s when Moa started coughing and coughing … and I joined in, hinting that we didn’t care much about the house and that we would really like her to answer our little question.
Try as we might Lili did not pay much attention to our coughing. So Moa said something like she knew of someone who had the eye for her … and that she would only reveal his name when we were shown where the food was. Lili stopped suddenly, turned around and ran out of the house. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I wanted to ask. But then we heard thunder and more thunder … and rain was pissing on the tin-roof. We saw Lili pulling Mr Brown’s clothes from the wire.
There was a vase of teuila on the table there in the middle of the kitchen.
‘Ei! Why do you think palagis put flowers in their houses? Aren’t there enough flowers outside to look at?’
‘Who cares?’ I said, trying to avoid any further questions … all I wanted was food.
‘Maybe because they don’t go to church on Sundays, so they try to make their houses look like one. Or maybe he can’t afford to buy real flowers. You know, plastic flowers—what a shame!’
There were pictures of Mr Brown and Dingo smiling, Dingo jumping, Dingo jumping again, Mr Brown eating an ice-cream … stuck onto the refrigerator under Bank of Western Samoa magnets.
‘Ei! Do you think he has any ice-cream in the ice-box?’ Moa whispered. ‘It’s not like he’s gonna notice if we take one or two scoops out, e?’
‘He doesn’t have any ice-cream, you two.’ Lili’s voice flew from her mouth like cricket balls, hitting us both on the faces. She stood there on the steps of the house, hands full of clothes, dripping wet.
‘Shit! I knew you would be up to something! Besides, even if he did have ice-cream, you are not getting any. He never keeps ice-cream in the ice-box anyway. Only when guests come. Oh
shit, don’t look at me like that. I hate it when you do that. Okay, I suppose you could look around while I dry myself. I’ll take out some leftovers when I come back. But remember, no funny business … okay?’
We opened the ice-box anyway. Just to make sure there wasn’t any ice-cream stacked somewhere in the bottom. None. We opened the cupboard too. Opened the drawers to the cupboard. Opened the stove. Opened the cupboards again … and that’s when I spotted a box of cornflakes sitting high up on the top level of the cupboard.
I had never seen cornflakes in real life. I’d always seen them on TV. A woman pouring milk into a bowl of cornflakes. A man smiling at the woman. The woman smiling at a boy. The boy smiling at a girl. The girl smiling at a big dog. Happy music everywhere. Cornflakes made palagi people happy. I wanted to see what it could do to Moa and me.
‘No, Alofa!’ said Lili. Rushing into the kitchen. ‘That’s a new box. You shouldn’t open it! Do you want me to get fired, e?’
‘Could I just touch it then?’
Just to say I’ve touched a box of cornflakes?
As I reached up to touch the box, a magazine fell from the cupboard. It must have been folded next to the cornflakes and the tall bottle of sugar. Down came the magazine. It fell open right on my feet. Naked women were all over the pages.
‘Ei …! What’s this?’
‘What’s what?’ asked Lili back, in a very surprised/embarrassed voice. ‘I’ve never seen it before.’
‘Let me have a look,’ said Moa, snatching the magazine away from my hands, her mouth wide open when she saw the cover-page. ‘You’ve been working here now for Mr Brown for six months. And Mr Brown has never shown you any of this before?’
Lili looked outside then back inside again, pretending to not be embarrassed with Moa’s question. Everyone in the village was talking about her and Mr Brown. They were saying that the word keigefaigaluega was only a front for what Lili really did for Mr Brown. Women were constantly whispering about her.
‘I bet she cleans more than just house.’
‘Do you really think they’ve already done “it”’?
‘Stay away from her.’
‘She’s not a girl anymore.’
‘She’s a bloody woman and she’s bad.’
‘Who wears make-up to church, e?’
‘Who doesn’t wear a bra to church?’
‘She even smokes.’
‘And uses bad language.’
‘That mother of her’s should wash her mouth with Omo.’
‘And don’t even mention the father.’
‘That’s where she gets it from.’
‘She’s a bad influence on you girls.’
‘Stay away from her.’
‘Stay away ….’
‘Away ….’
Moa and I knew otherwise. We knew much more about her than anyone else—besides, her own father, Iosua. It’s true … but that’s another story. And with this knowledge in mind I wanted to bite off Moa’s head. For being so stupid as to say what she did.
To change the awkwardness of the situation I quickly asked, ‘Do you think we should look at it?’
‘I’m hungry, Alofa,’ said Moa, in her silly voice which escapes her mouth for no other reason other than to exercise her jaws.
‘I don’t want to look at anything,’ she added. ‘I just want some food and something to drink so I can hurry home and do my homework.’
‘Do your what? In broad daylight? Are you out of your mind?’
‘Oh, shut up Alofa … and hurry up with your stupid magazine.’
‘You wanna see it just as much as I do, you selfish little ….’
‘Stop it you two! Just stop it! You’re both making me sick with your whiny little voices. Just open the damn thing, look at it, and go home, okay?’
We had never seen that part of our bodies so close up before. We never knew what was behind all the hair. I was the last to grow hair (and breasts). This I knew because Lili used to say that I was bald, and that if I didn’t stop eating sugar-cane I would never grow hair … never grow breasts.
‘Sugar-cane makes your body weak, Alofa. Weak because sugar-cane is sweet and you are sour … an “in-between”. You need to be completely sour to be a woman.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ I asked, but no one heard. No one wanted to hear. This while we showered naked at Moa’s fale one evening.
Moa’s ‘aiga were the only ones who had a paipa surrounded with tin. Moa’s father decided one day to surround the shower with tin. Makaaiku, the village pervert, and Iosua, Lili’s father, were caught again—for the hundredth time—spying on Laulii’s daughters and once or twice on his wife. Since then the tin went up, and I took all my showers at Moa’s paipa.
The women in the magazine were very happy-looking … but not cornflake happy. Some were smiling a lot. Others looked like they wanted to pick fights. Some were touching their breasts with the tips of their claws. Others did not. Some were touching their vaginas with the tips of their claws. Others did not. Some spread their legs apart as if waiting for a doctor. Others did not. Some wore bras without panties. Others wore panties withbut bras. Some of the panties had holes in the crotch. Others had panties with such thin material that anyone could see all their hair.
‘That’s the idea isn’t it, Alofa?’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said …. Oh, forget it! You’ll never learn.’
Suddenly my panties were wet in the crotch … and that had never happened before. My heart was beating-beating-beating also. I was afraid of what was happening, and I was hoping, too, that Lili and Moa’s crotches were also wet.
‘Ei! O susu le maga o lua ofuvae?’ I wanted to ask.
Lili was laughing and laughing. She mustn’t have heard my question clearly, so I asked again in my snail-voice. ‘Are your crotches wet?’
I must have looked so strange, so serious when I said this, because Moa and Lili stopped their laughing immediately.
Moa said to me in her calmest voice, ‘What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you? Are you gonna tell on us?’
Because I was the youngest, and because the youngest is always the eyes and ears of the ‘aiga or of the faletua a le faifeau, Moa asked me again.
‘Are you gonna tell on us?’
I had not thought of telling anyone anything. My crotch was just suddenly wet. I wanted to know why … and I wanted to know whether or not Lili and Moa felt the same sensations in their panties.
Moa (whispering-whispering-whispering), ‘You’re not gonna tell on us are you?’
This time I didn’t hear her. I must have been dead because Moa had to practically yell—a second, or third, or tenth time—to get me to hear her.
‘No, I won’t tell. I swear. I won’t tell.’
‘Swear to God!’ they yelled out. ‘Kauko i luma o le Akua!’
‘Swear on your father’s name!’
‘But he can’t even see us! He’s at work!’
‘Swear! Kauko i luma o Filiga!’
Lili (laughing this time), ‘Swear on your namesake Alofa’s grave!’
‘Eat shit!’
‘Swear to God again … and mean it!’
I swore to Lili and Moa that I would not tell anyone about us watching women touch their fucking-fucking-Jesus-Christ vaginas!
‘Satisfied?’
They burst out laughing. They laughed some more and some more, until suddenly Moa stopped and looked at us as if she had just seen Lafoga or Filiga or Fauakafe.
‘What is it?’
‘I have an idea.’
Whenever Moa had an idea I became nervous. Most of her ideas got us into fist fights, mouth fights, and sometimes under Filiga’s wrath. She snatched the magazine from my hands, lifted her shirt up (exposing her very flat chest) and ran out of the house. The last thing we saw was her laugh, which was always the loudest, following her into Malaefou … accompanied by T—R—O—U—B—L—E.
(1996)
Briar
Grace-Smith, from Ngā Pou Wāhine
TIA The first time I saw Te Atakura it was at the bus stop. I saw the hair first. Red as, and piled on top of her head like it might escape. Oh man, she had something serious on her brain that day, scowling away into her chocolate milkshake. There goes MWA, I thought. Māori With Attitude. I didn’t want to sit next to her because I thought she might spit on me. Nah. ‘Kia ora babe,’ I said. ‘I’m Tia, ko wai tō ingoa?’ ‘Aye?’ she answered. ‘It’s cool, babe, I just asked you what your name was.’ She told me it was Te Atakura. Kura for short. Well, I thought, she’s gotta be a special chick to have a beautiful name like that. So, we talked, and she tried to tell me she was a colour analyst at Fine Foods, the tomato sauce factory. (laughs) I mean, when did tomatoes stop being red? But she didn’t stop there. No, not that girl. Then she said that the tomatoes they used were made out of surimi, the same stuff they use for making crabsticks. That’s teka, I told her, and you know it. So then she said she was the General Manager there, and she just took the bus to get to know the workers. Oh, my poor sista, I knew straight away that she worked on the factory floor checking sauce cans for defects. Yeah, those bus trips were tūmeke, she’d cram it all in. Her dreams, her out-of-it fantasies, before she’d have to leap off at Fine Foods, and I’d be left with my head spinning all the way to Varsity. Yep. She’s well and truly stuck between pō and rangi that dawn child. Pōrangi as. (to kura) You know what girl? Sauce is out. Definitely not cool. I’m the flavour of the month, so you wanna start hanging out with me for a while. (clicks her fingers) Snap snap chick, we’re talking action.
(1995; 1997)
Dean Hapeta aka Te Kupu, ‘Hardcore’
Harder than Jake da Muss I kicked his sorry ass
I’m a warrior with knowledge of the past
Words of consciousness flowin’ from my tongue
I’ll string da fucken Ku Klux Klan up one by one
Like Hone Heke don’t be no weak heart fool
The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature Page 120