by Omar Musa
he shoots the ball like shit on purpose,
looks at his feet when he runs.
Today,
he is facing the road,
cross-legged,
pinching the heads off daisies and dandelions.
He looks back at the court
and our eyes meet.
That look.
Like Jimmy.
The next day,
he doesn’t come.
Or the day after that.
But Amosa’s All-Stars are booming.
Sponsored by a local kebab shop,
we have red jerseys now.
Slick as,
logo designed by a graff writer I know.
My palace,
my kingdom.
I am not just fluid,
I am fluidity.
I am not just immortal,
I am immortality.
27
‘Good day?’ from bottom bunk to top, Gabe directs his question to Aleks’s reflection in the stainless steel mirror. The television is on. With an Australian flag behind him, Crawford announces that he will contest for a seat at the next election, if he gets the backing of his party. Aleks changes the channel and a white comedian in blackface comes on.
‘Good? Dunno about that, brother. Busy, but. Been on the phone most of it.’ Aleks vaults down off the bunk and squats on the floor excitedly, using a stiff index finger to draw imaginary lines. ‘Here, brother. Here’s where I could plant the vines. And here, I could build a workshop to process the grapes.’
‘Have you ever been a farmer?’
‘Nah, but my granddad was. I’d learn fast enough. As long as you take pride in hard work, the rest follows, brother. What did you do, back home?’
‘I was a teacher. A poet, too.’
Aleks is too lost in his own thoughts to register Gabe’s words. He spreads his arms out as if to balance himself then stands up, gymnast-like, before leaning against the bunk. ‘I wonder. I wonder.’
‘I’ll see my own homeland soon enough. Once I finish my sentence.’ Gabe looks away and coughs into his hand; then, with a teacherly, inquisitive tone, asks, ‘Sorry for my ignorance, but what is a Macedonian? I only know Alexander the Great.’
‘Good start.’ Aleks smiles then scratches his temple. ‘Ah, brother. It depends who you ask. The Balkans is no easy place to get your head around. Ask an Albanian, a Maco, a Bulgarian and a Greek and they’ll all tell you different shit.’ His voice becomes fervent. ‘People have tried to fuck us over again and again, whitewash our history, steal our land.’
‘Like the Aborigines?’
Aleks wrinkles his nose. ‘Dunno. Never thought about it like that . . . Nah.’
They sit in silence, but it’s comfortable now. Somebody is yelling, far away and behind that is the sound of a high wind, a great river of turbulent air. Aleks thinks of Torture Terry, that now he is on the outside, somewhere, wreaking havoc on the population.
Aleks draws the bead from its hiding place in his sock. He rolls it between his palms as if it is a piece of dough, and he imagines it becoming larger and larger, as big as the planet Earth itself. Gabe observes him.
‘What is that bead? It’s very beautiful.’
Aleks looks up sharply. ‘It’s . . . something I’ve had for a long time, brother.’ He turns it and the gold flecks throw little speckles of light on his knees. ‘I done something very bad to get this bead.’
He thinks of the day he first saw it. A woman named Stephanie had moved into the flats above Aleks and below Jimmy and Solomon. She had a little daughter with her named Juliet who Jana Janeski got along with very well. Stephanie was from Sarawak, and was Malaysian-Chinese. When she was cooking with belacan (prawn paste), Aleks’ family was making pickles and the Korean family next door to them were making kimchi, Grace would hold her nose in mock disgust and say, to each of them, ‘I can’t believe you can eat that stuff!’ But she got along enormously well with Stephanie; in fact, everyone did. She was famously resourceful and would take broken tables and chairs from skips and make them brand new. And she was a storyteller:
‘This is an ancient bead. It was made in Venice, nearly a thousand years ago. Back then beads were traded across continents – Africa, Asia, Europe. They were beautiful, durable, easy to transport. Something’s worth is not just its monetary value. It’s what it means to its owner. But it is beautiful, no? See the gold flecks inside the blue. This bead was in a chest that had taken a long journey and it was the only one that survived. You can hold it if you want to. When they first got to my country, the land of my birth, Borneo, the tribes people coveted them. To the tribes people, the beads meant wealth, standing and power. The most valued were named lukut sekala amongst the headhunting tribes. These ones were worth the same as a man’s life.’ The same as a man’s life. Aleks’ eyes widened as she said that and the bead fell into his palm.
She said that she was going to give it to Juliet on her sixteenth birthday. Juliet, who would one day become Jana’s lover, who Aleks would strike again and again out of shame, from whose neck Aleks would seize the bead. The sounds of beatings were common in the flats then, punctuating the night like horn stabs on a beat, but this one was different. Aleks’ first true transgression.
‘We have all done bad things in this life. Sometimes, they can’t be helped,’ says Gabe.
‘I wonder. This one, brother, this one could’ve been. But there was something pushing me towards it. It’s like something was holding my hand when I did what I did. But once I got my hands on that bead, I couldn’t let it go, like it holds all my badness, like magic.’
Gabe runs his right thumb over a thin scar that passes from the centre of his forehead, around an eyebrow and down to his chin, level with his lips. ‘When I was on the plane here, it was like hell. My first plane trip ever. But then, as the plane got lower, I saw trees and flowers and green squares and blue rectangles. I later found out they were swimming pools. Sydney summer – the air, the sky. For a second, I thought that my life had been transformed. Then a man in uniform appeared and said, “Come this way, sir. It’ll only take a minute.” That minute turned into ten years, like magic.’
A bird cries in the distance, though it could be a hinge.
‘Do you think people can change?’ says Aleks.
‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether life lets them.’
28
Church
Fresh slacks,
black-mirror shoes,
scratchy collar,
shaved neck.
Patience.
I sit in a pew at the back.
The service is in Samoan
so I can’t follow,
but the hymns are lovely.
No greater pressure
on a Samoan than to be religious, ay?
Someone slides in next to me
and begins to translate the service
into my ear.
It is Viliamu,
a distant cousin.
Most of the Samoan fam
went to Brisbane and Liverpool,
but there’s a few in the Town
and he was always my favourite.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me,
even after all these years.
A little heavier set but still
good looking and fresh skinned.
That’s what no drink, ciggies or drugs does, ay?
I knew I’d find him here.
My palms are sweaty
and I can’t stop thinking
of the way American rappers say ‘chuuuuuch!’
The sermon:
‘Even the wilderness and desert will be glad in those days.
The wasteland will rejoice and blossom with spring crocuses.
Yes, there will be an abundance of flowers
and singing and joy!
The deserts will become as green as the mountains of Lebanon,
as lovely as Mount Carmel o
r the plain of Sharon.
There the LORD will display his glory,
the splendour of our God.’
There is thunder and lilt in the Reverend’s voice,
a rapper-like flow that builds and builds.
‘With this news, strengthen those who have tired hands,
and encourage those who have weak knees.
Say to those with fearful hearts,
“Be strong, and do not fear,
for your God is coming to destroy your enemies.
He is coming to save you.”
And when he comes, he will open the eyes of the blind
and unplug the ears of the deaf.
The lame will leap like deer,
and those who cannot speak will sing for joy!
Springs will gush forth in the wilderness,
and streams will water the wasteland.’
Sunday lunch
The Reverend Timothy Kevesi
has hands as dry as blotting paper,
wrinkled in the forks.
I tried to excuse myself
but he insisted I eat.
His wife mentions
‘Jesus’ and ‘The Lord’
at least ten times
over the delicious array of foods
donated by the congregation.
She and Viliamu
do most of the talking.
I listen quietly,
but catch the Reverend looking at me.
His voice rich and steady:
‘You look so much like your father, Solomona.
Not just the face, the spirit.
It’s uncanny.’
I pounce in the carpark
‘Cuz, I need your help.’
A quizzical look from Viliamu.
‘Course, uso. Anything.’
I begin to explain about
Amosa’s All-Stars,
the kids,
how I want to reward them with an ‘umu
but I have nowhere to do a ground oven.
That I don’t know how to do it.
‘Pssh. That all? Thought you were coming to me with a moral question.
Too easy, cuz.’ Then playfully. ‘Tsk tsk, a Samoan who doesn’t know
how to do an ‘umu. Shame.’
I grin. ‘Tell me about it. Had to come to my best man. Thanks, uce.’
He hops into his car. ‘See you next Sunday, then?’
I crack my thumb knuckles.
‘To be honest, this ain’t my buzz, bro. I just . . . never got that feel, ay.
Never had that fire like you.’
He gives me a strange look
and I start to apologise
but instead he smiles.
‘Each to his own. Lucky you’re in Aus, though.
Wouldn’t get away with that in Samoa.’
‘Yeh, I know.’
His car throws up a ghost-shaped
plume of dust
that dances away into the summer.
29
Clint and Aleks are watching the movements of birds across a hellish sky. Men around them are playing cards and chess; others just pace the yard, anything to relieve the boredom. A man walks past with a Bible quote tatted along a shank wound.
‘Dunno, bro. It sounds good. We’ll see.’ Aleks is biting his bottom lip. ‘Might be time to go straight.’ He is distracted, having been composing a letter to his sister in his head. He is set to get out soon, and feels himself tilting every which way, like an egg running over a pan.
‘Fair nuff. Remember this number then, just in case.’
Aleks stares at Clint as he recites the number, and then silently repeats it several times. He won’t forget it.
30
The ‘umu
A pyramid of hot stones
tumble
into a thick layer.
Dense, stinging smoke
and Viliamu barking orders
at five church mates.
A pig,
eyes closed and mouth bloodied,
stuffed with leaves and hot stones,
sits almost patiently,
wrapped in wire mesh.
The men place thick discs of taro
directly onto the stones
around it,
then palusami wrapped in foil.
‘Sorry, uso! If we were back home,
would’ve used the real thing,
not coconut cream from a can!’
I smile.
Dad used to say that.
Before the end,
he used to reminisce more and more,
about limu,
grape-like seaweed you could pick by the bunch in the reefs,
about pone,
the angel fish that could be eaten raw with seawater,
its flesh bitten off the bone,
stripped there and then when the fisherman came in.
Viliamu has marinated
some chicken and fish
and he smiles at Muhammad’s dad,
nodding to show that he is cooking it
separately from the pig.
Muhammad’s dad
doesn’t seem to care
and is sipping on a beer.
The kids lean in to watch.
I’ve cut my dreds short
with a nice fade up the side.
The square basslines and live instruments
of ‘The ‘Umu’ by Koolism
bouncing from the speakers.
Seems appropriate,
even if Hau is Tongan.
Scarlett sips a beer,
speaking rudimentary Samoan to some of the aunties,
who look well chuffed.
She learnt some at school,
she reckons.
Amazing.
Soon someone has a guitar out
and is shouting, ‘Turn that rap crap off.’
The sky is darkening,
being played into night
with each strum.
Several voices harmonise straightaway.
Mum sways and sings along,
smiling serenely,
wrinkles appearing at the corners of her mouth,
and it occurs to me
that she is entirely heroic –
her whole life an act of balancing, outlasting,
of living out her name.
A hand on my shoulder.
Viliamu.
‘This is a good thing you’re doing, uso.’
‘Ah, it’s just ball. A bit of fun.’
‘No. Tautua. Service. It’s important, it’s who we are. O le ala o le pule, o
le tautua. The way to leadership is in serving.’
‘Yeh. Dad used to say that.’
An auntie is dancing now,
twisting and unfurling her hands,
her big frame controlled and delicate.
‘He’d be proud of you right now. He was a good man. Used to send a
lot back to the village.’
I feel guilty. ‘Do you send any?’
Viliamu nods slowly. ‘Yeh. Yeh, I do. Wonder about it sometimes
though, cuz, ay.’
We are all music
and smoke and night and now.
The world
The world is opening up and stretching out,
being sketched in biro
and coloured in.
My skin, too.
The needle goes in –
I register it,
accept it.
Scarlett is tattooing a kite on the back of my arm.
Each puncture
is beauty and sadness,
is fear of falling back into bad habits,
is furious freedom,
is knowledge I can change,
that I have changed.
Beneath our feet,
tectonic plates are gliding,
shifting.
31
It is Aleks’ last day in prison.
He wants to wish Gabe good luck, alth
ough he knows the man needs much more than that. He thinks of giving him the cross or a hug, but instead he speaks. The words a cascade.
‘Violence.
‘Anyone can do it, brother. Just depends on the village you grew up in. And chance. Dunno . . . When I first got to Australia, I used my fists because no one could understand me, because they used to point at me and say, “Wog! wog! wog! wog!”
‘It became power, but I was powerless to control it. Figure that fucken riddle out. But that doesn’t explain everything. I’ve always had it. It starts as a feeling in your neck, in your spine, tingles all the way up and then it burns, uncontrollable, and it has to get out somehow.
‘All of a sudden you’re bashing some cunt and, if there was no reason to, you make one up; you can’t stop, you don’t want to. And when you’re finished, brother, your hands are bloody, your dick is hard. The closest I’ve ever got to poetry.
‘But that’s changed in me now, brother.
‘I won’t sell my soul for no one again. Not my wife, not my daughter. Before, my soul was out for rent. If it was for my family it didn’t matter how bloody my hands got. Hell exists here. I’ve burned on earth, many times. And I won’t do it again.’