Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

‘I could have done with the pocket money,’ I said.

‘It’s all a plot,’ Andrew said. ‘They think that if we don’t get any pocket money we can’t get up to any mischief. So they make us milk cows instead.’

Haromi tossed her hair, working herself up into a dramatic storm. When her voice came out it could have been Natalie Wood’s. ‘Oh I despise everything about being a Mahana and what they’re doing to me,’ she emoted, batting her eyelids furiously. ‘I’m just too good for this family. One of these days I’m getting on the first bus out of here. I’m going to all those places where my kind of people are. New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, anywhere except here. And you know why? Because I’m worth it. I’ve got talent. And I’ll just die here, I know I will, I’ll really die —’ She subsided into cinematic sobs.

Yeah yeah, Haromi, yeah yeah.

‘At least we have each other,’ Andrew said.

Haromi stared at him as if he hadn’t understood one thing she had said. Finally she nodded, ‘Yes, and we’ll show them.’

‘Oh shit, there’s the bus,’ Andrew said. He stood up and stamped the cigarette out. There was just enough time for me to start our secret catechism, the words that bonded us together as the Three Musketeers of Waituhi.

‘In the beginning was our patriarch Tamihana Mahana!’ I yelled. Andrew grinned and Haromi took my arm. ‘He was like unto Samson and known far and wide for his strength and as a man among men. All the people clamoured for him, pleading that he be their champion in rugby, hockey, boxing, wrestling and other sports. Yea, and because he was handsome to look upon, even the concubines and harlots of the city of the plains desired him. But in the land of Nod he took to wife Ramona, who was a virtuous daughter of that land.’

Andrew took over. ‘Then an angel came unto Tamihana and said unto him, “Alas, Tamihana, you have strayed onto the path of the ungodly. The Lord thy God has therefore sent me to save you.”’

Haromi gave a giggle. ‘But Tamihana closed his heart to the angel and it was only until they had bargained and had wrestled that Tamihana verily realised that the angel was indeed a messenger of God. Yeah, he got trounced .’

By this time we were laughing out loud.

‘Then Tamihana said unto the angel, “What is the Lord my God’s will?” And the angel said unto him, “You and your wife Ramona will be blessed with many children. Raise them and all that are yours so that they may be counted among the faithful. Let others see your works so that they come to God and inherit the sweet Beulah land.” ’

We completed the catechism in unison. ‘Thus did Tamihana know that his mission was to be the father of many children, yea, as Abraham was. His loins poured out seed and he was blessed with sixteen children, alas, four dying at childbirth. Nevertheless, Tamihana was content, saying, “Although my children number only twelve they will be as the twelve thousand. Verily I shall raise them as a family in God, for that is how He has willed it and thus it will be done.” And Tamihana’s children had children including —’

‘Simeon Mahana!’ I shouted.

‘Andrew Whatu!’ Andrew shouted.

‘And Haromi Whatu!’ Haromi shouted.

‘And because we were different,’ we said together, ‘we were treated like shit.’

‘Me,’ I said.

‘And me,’ Andrew said.

‘And most definitely me,’ Haromi said.

We had reached the bus. We shared a secret glance at each other before we hopped on. ‘All for one and one for all!’ we cried. Then –

‘Grandfather sucks !’ we shouted.

We didn’t give a damn who heard — not even the Poatas.

Ever since I was an infant and began to understand what people were saying the first tenet of my life had been ‘The family always comes first’; the second was ‘Never trust a Poata’. Had I not assumed — wrongly as it turned out — that this enmity was based on religious differences, I would have thought it the product of some ancient quarrel of biblical or Sicilian proportions.

The adult members of the two families treated the relationship with magnificent disdain. If Uncle Hone met Caesar Poata in the street he would cross over to walk on the other side; if Aunt Sarah saw Poppaea Poata in a shop she would pretend there was a strange odour in the place and walk right out. The younger members, however, were more reckless. My cousin Mohi, for instance, once goaded Fraser Poata into a drag-strip race along the sandy stretch of Wainui Beach. Late one night, with the Poata youths at one end and the Mahanas at the other, they drove headlong at one another. It was Fraser Poata who quailed and pulled over, allowing Mohi to win. He just didn’t have the killer instinct. Just as well, as Mohi was driving Grandfather’s De Soto.

In our younger generation, the Poata counterparts for Haromi, Andrew and I were Poppy, Titus Junior — we called him Tight Arse — and Saul. We went in for eyeballing and swaggering — you know the sort of thing:

‘You’re a black bastard,’ we might say to our duelling threesome at high noon just before a movie matinee.

‘Not as black as you,’ they might reply.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Oh yeah?’

At their most serious, our conflicts ended as screaming matches and fisticuffs in the main street of Gisborne, but our arenas of conflict were mainly ritualised. The race to the bridge was one; shearing was another. However, the main arena was the sportsground. Here, we could engage in gladiatorial combat which assuaged our blood lust and allowed us to put the boot in. Had it not been for sports, I am sure our conflict would have escalated.

In all this, what was at stake was the mana of our leaders — in our case, Grandfather Tamihana; in their case, Rupeni Poata.

Again, had I not assumed religious differences as the cause, I would have looked to some sporting incident at the heart of the conflict. For Rupeni Poata, like Grandfather, had been a sporting champion in his youth. Haromi, Andrew and I found this incredible, because Rupeni Poata was what my cousin Mohi would have described as a real short arse. At five foot two, he was more than a foot shorter than Grandfather; he was even shorter than Grandmother Ramona. How he ever managed to beat Grandfather Tamihana in wrestling and track events — which he was reputed to have done — was beyond us. Rupeni Poata was also dumpy and ugly. When Haromi and I went to see The Ten Commandments we clutched each other with shock at the sight of Edward G. Robinson playing the lascivious Jewish turncoat who threatened Debra Paget with a fate worse than death.

‘Rupeni Poata!’ we hissed.

It was all the more incomprehensible to us therefore that Rupeni Poata was reputed to be so successful with women. When he spoke there was a slight whistling sound on his sibilants. His lips were big and fleshy, and he had a gap between his teeth. He was a snappy dresser, though, I have to say that for him. He had a habit of wearing dark suits and a fedora with its brim rakishly pulled to one side. He also drove a Lagonda.

‘But he has another car,’ Andrew told me.

‘What kind?’

‘An old Model T Ford,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s locked in one of the sheds on his farm.’

‘What would Rupeni Poata be doing with a Model T?’

‘He must collect vintage cars,’ Andrew shrugged.

In 1918, Rupeni Poata married a woman of high rank from Waikato; he knew how to get ahead. His wife’s name was Maata and together they raised fourteen children. Although Rupeni began having children later than Grandfather Tamihana, his household overtook Grandfather’s by having two sets of twin boys to begin with. Whether this should be taken as an indication of rampant sexuality I don’t know, but if so, Rupeni was obviously on par with Grandfather Tamihana. The twins were Uncle Ruka’s age now, big, fierce men who had taken their physical size from their Waikato mother; and their names were all from Roman history: Caesar, Augustine, known as Augie; Titus, or Tight Arse Senior, and Alexander. They were an answer to their father’s prayers, forming as they did a rugby front row of equal size to ours. To witness them against our front row of Uncles Matiu, Maaka, Ruka and Hone was to witness a battle between Leviathans.