Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

The twins were followed by eight sisters: Julia, Agnes, Helen, Virginia, Gloria, Anna, Carla and Poppaea — she was the one we called ‘The Brute’ because of her strong hockey tactics. The Poata women, too, were big and fierce, and endowed with qualities which were suitable for men but which tended to tilt the women towards masculinity — moustaches on their upper lips and lots of hair under the armpits. They all seemed to marry tiny men, similar to their father, but they bred big children. Two brothers followed them, Bill and John, named as if Rupeni couldn’t be bothered with the Roman any longer.

Had I not known better, I would have suspected that Rupeni bred his big family on purpose, to challenge ours.

The Poata homestead was right in the middle of Hukareka, next to the War Memorial Hall. It wasn’t as big as ours, but because of Rupeni Poata’s considerable reputation among the Ringatu community, it was the centre of attraction. Maata also brought her own mana and glory to Hukareka, and that amplified her husband’s fame.

When Maata died in 1947, Rupeni Poata remained alone at the house, unmarried despite the interest of a number of widows. Unlike our family, none of his children lived with him. Rather, they took houses nearby in Hukareka. They were apparently devoted to their father, despite his evil and manipulative nature. Of course they believed everything he said, and thought everything we said was a lie.

Rupeni’s constant companion was his granddaughter, the beauteous Poppy. How she was ever born from The Brute is God’s own secret. I think that Andrew was as much in love with her as I was, and I venture to suggest that it was because she was so like our own Mahana women. She danced in Maori culture competitions with fire and spirit. She played hockey like Boadicea, her stick an instrument to mow people’s legs off. She carried herself most of the time as a Maori princess.

As for Tight Arse Junior and Saul, weight for weight and height for height we were similar. This made them well-matched opponents, but I sometimes wished that God hadn’t given them one asset we didn’t have — longer arms. When Andrew and I got into fist fights with them, we sometimes came off worst. If God was truly on our side, how come we didn’t have the longer reach?

In sum, the Poatas were worthy challengers for the House of Mahana. The stage was always ready for some good punch-ups.

Apart from Sundays, the only other time when Waituhi wasn’t the best place in the world was when the shearing began. As the only working male left in the homestead, I was like Audie Murphy in The Siege of Fort Petticoat , defending the women as well as the crippled, the lame, the elderly, the ill and decrepit against Injuns.

‘This is the way it’s always been,’ Aunt Miriam consoled me. It was six in the morning. I had already finished the milking and lit the copper in the washhouse. ‘Every morning all his life your father has had to do this. Milk the cows, chop the wood, fill the copper for the washing —’

Aunt Miriam was carrying out the baskets of sheets, towels and clothes, including Grandfather’s longjohns. Today they’d all be soaked, boiled in the copper and taken down to the creek to be rinsed, slapped against the rocks and pegged out to dry.

‘And it’s going to get worse,’ Aunt Sephora joined in. ‘The shearers will be sending in all their clothes soon.’

‘Why you , though?’ I asked my aunts. ‘Why has it always been like this for you and Dad?’

‘It’s our job,’ Aunt Miriam answered. ‘We’re the youngest. Anyway, what else have we got to do!’ They laughed together.

I could never really think of my three aunts as separate women. Where there was one, the other two were nearby.

‘But you could get married,’ I said.

Aunt Miriam blushed. Aunt Sephora gave her one of her glances.

‘We’re too busy to do that,’ she said. ‘Bulibasha wouldn’t let us anyway.’

‘You get used to it,’ Aunt Miriam said. ‘Being us, I mean.’ There was a pause.

‘Enough talking,’ Aunt Sephora instructed. ‘We’re running late. Esther, you better help Simeon fill the copper.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to say No. Instead, I nodded, and together Aunt Esther and I began ferrying the buckets from the outside pump to the copper.

At breakfast, Grandfather Tamihana said to Aunt Esther, ‘I saw you helping Simeon.’

‘It was nothing,’ she answered. I wasn’t being reprimanded. Esther was.

‘You do your job, Esther. Let Simeon do his.’

‘Everybody has their job,’ my mother Huria said a few days later. The washhouse was on the go morning, afternoon and evening. The wood pile was diminishing fast and I was constantly chopping more wood. Now, just as I finished, Grandfather yelled, ‘We’re running low on meat, Simeon.’ The criticism was implied: you are supposed to be the provider but you are slacking on your job.

I sharpened the butcher knife on the whetting block. Dad had chalked a mark on one of the sheep. I separated it from the flock and, in the yard near the homestead, slit its throat.

‘It’s the way it’s meant to be,’ my mother continued. She was watching me in the yard. The dead sheep was hanging from the hooks and I was skinning it, punching the skin from the carcass.

‘Why is it meant to be!’

Mum shifted uneasily. ‘You are always questioning things, Simeon. Can’t you just go along with the way things are?’

The carcass was swinging crazily from the hooks and blood was spraying everywhere.

‘If I had been Uncle Matiu’s son,’ I challenged, ‘would this be the way it is meant to be?’

‘No. But Matiu’s not your father. He’s —’

Slice, slice, slice with the butcher knife. ‘Mohi’s dad, I know, and Mohi is therefore the eldest grandchild. When Grandfather dies, Uncle Matiu will be the chief. When he dies, Mohi will be the chief. In my generation he will be my chief.’

‘Your grandfather loves all his grandchildren —’

‘Not equally, Mum.’

The skin fell away. I made a cut down the underbelly. The guts of the sheep, still steaming, fell on the concrete.

Mum hesitated, not wanting to agree or disagree.

I pressed on. ‘Nor would this be the way things are meant to be if I was the son of Maaka, Ruka, Hone, Ruth, Sarah, Aperahama and Ihaka.’

‘But you’re not their son, either,’ Mum tried to laugh, and stood to help steady the carcass. I was almost finished.

‘No,’ I answered, my voice firm. ‘I’m yours and Dad’s son. I’m the first born of the ninth child and seventh son. Now —’

I let the carcass down and carried it to the chopping block. One blow of the axe and the carcass split in two.

‘Please don’t play this game with me, son,’ Mum said.

But I couldn’t let it go. ‘Another example,’ I continued. ‘Look at Dad’s elder brothers and sisters. Why don’t they live here at the homestead?’

One half of the carcass was on the chopping block. I took up the butcher knife again.

‘They’ve got their own land,’ she answered.

Slicing through the ribs. One rib after another.

‘And who gave them their land?’

Heaving the other half on to the chopping block.

‘Grandfather Tamihana.’

Cleanly, swiftly slicing.

‘And why, Mum,’ I asked, ‘do we and Aunts Sephora, Miriam and Esther still live with Grandfather Tamihana and Grandmother Ramona at the homestead?’

My mother would not answer.

‘I’ll tell you why,’ I said.

I was heaving with the exertion. I put the meat into the safe. Now there was meat enough for the next few days. My mother had taken up the bucket of water to sluice the blood off the concrete.