Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

Outside the church the pastor was pumping everybody’s hand, greeting his flock with his usual exuberance. ‘Good morn -ing father Mahana! Hasn’t our Lord produced a wonder -ful day? You will give the lesson again? Praise be to God! And don’t you look just di-vine, mother Mahana, mm- mmmm ! Oh, and before I forget, mother Mahana and father Mahana, may I thank you both for your oh so generous contribution? Praise be to those little white woolly sheep!’

Aunt Sephora was playing the organ today, which meant that Andrew, Haromi and I could hide in the back pew. Haromi was in absolute misery, wearing her largest pair of sunglasses and turning her collar up in an attempt to escape notice. Our one consolation was to find humour in the opening hymn, which had the line ‘And God’s love will never leave a sting behind’. When Haromi wet her pencil, crossed out the g in sting and replaced it with a k, we thought it was hilarious.

Grandfather gave the lesson. The text was taken from the parable about the good shepherd who has one sheep missing from his flock. He leaves his flock to find that sheep.

‘Amen, Father, amen,’ the faithful said.

‘Nobody’s to come looking for me,’ Haromi hissed. ‘Got that, guys?’

The congregation settled down into testimony-bearing. The procession of the faithful up to the microphone began. There they paused –

‘Brothers and sisters —’

Yes? What’s it to be today?

‘I have sinned .’

The catalogue of guilts, grievances and ills came pouring out. Swearing, shoplifting, carnal desire for the neighbour’s wife — you name it, somebody enunciated it. The sins also included grievances against members of the family — a spouse’s lapse from godliness, a son’s descent into Hell because he’d gone into the billiard saloon, a daughter’s first steps on the path to who knows where because she had drunk a cup of coffee. There were infinite variations on tear-filled eyes, trembling lips, groans, moans and shrieks and, at the end of it all, a pleading to God for forgiveness. As the woeful tales were told a collective sigh of regret wafted from the audience.

‘Amen, brother,’ or ‘The Lord forgive you, sister.’

Around the halfway mark, people’s testimonies began to be punctuated by muffled sobs from the pews.

‘Here we go, guys,’ Haromi said.

Two-thirds of the way and Aunt Sarah’s sobs had given way to explosions of agony, loud blasts on her handkerchief and gestures of melodramatic proportions. She was magnificent. Every time a brother or sister mentioned a particular sin, she would clutch at her left breast. Or swing around to nod at her nearest neighbours. Or put on her sunglasses and, a minute later, take them off so that we could see her tear-streaked face. Sometimes she would emit a gagging sound as if she was spewing up the Devil himself.

No testimony-bearing was complete without the testimony of Aunt Sarah. She was always the last to speak, and she was always the best . Accordingly, there was always a respectful half a minute or so of silence, the podium empty in front, after the second to last person had left the stage.

We all waited.

The world waited.

The universe waited.

Until with a loud wail up and down three octaves, Aunt Sarah forced herself up and out of her seat. Clutching at one pew after another, buckling under the weight of the accumulated sins of her month, Aunt Sarah staggered to the microphone. There, she stood like a shattered monument.

‘Hang on to your hats,’ Haromi said.

Tapping the microphone to make sure it was on, Aunt Sarah began –

‘Brothers and sisters —’ Sobs and quivering lips. ‘I have such woes to tell you today —’

‘Oh, poor sister Sarah,’ the congregation moaned.

‘I don’t know why I should deserve this —’ Shouting. ‘Lord, why have you forsaken me?’

Hysterics, then once everyone’s attention was hers –

‘Brothers and sisters, my husband Jack goes to the pub and gets pissed —’ Poor Uncle Jack, scowling away in the corner. ‘He looks both ways, brothers and sisters, before he goes into the pub, but you know what?’

‘What, sister Sarah?’

‘He forgets to look up!’

More hysteria.

‘And he smokes and when he lights up his smoke he looks both ways but —’ Shouting. ‘He forgets to look up! You all know he smokes —’

‘What do you expect?’ Haromi whispered. ‘You tell them every month.’

‘But even if you didn’t know —’ Looking up to Heaven. ‘God knows. He knows, brothers and sisters —’

‘Amen to that, sister Sarah,’ the congregation intoned.

‘Then there’s my eldest daughter, Haromi —’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Haromi hissed.

‘Trying to sneak out while her mother is talking. Yes, there she is, brothers and sisters —’ An accusing pointed finger. ‘I should have listened to my father. He told me that naming my daughter after Salome was asking for trouble. I should have listened to you, Dad —’ Clutching the podium with both hands. ‘She sneaks out the window and goes to dances and parties and God knows what else. She’s like her father, looks both ways and forgets to look up! That’s where the Lord is, brothers and sisters, up there, and he sees everything. Even my daughter Haromi in her short skirts without pants on , exposing her house of children to the world —’

‘Oh Ker-rist, Mumma!’ Haromi exploded.

Shock. Horror. Just what Aunt Sarah needed — something to bring down the curtain, and in the best eyeball-staring, tears-streaming, mouth-agape, Joan Crawford style. Even Bette Davis would have clapped.

A loud shriek, a clutch to her heart (I’ve told you before, Auntie, it’s on the left side) and Aunt Sarah collapsed on her knees. The pastor rushed up to rescue her. Everybody’s eyes swivelled around to look at Haromi and, by extension, the two sinful boys beside her. As if we had just murdered Aunt Sarah.

Why, the thought never crossed our minds.

Wouldn’t you just know it, but on the way back from testimony-bearing we saw Rupeni Poata’s family at Makaraka.

‘E hika,’ my father said, ‘they must have been waiting here for two hours.’

‘They want their revenge,’ Mum said, nodding at me wisely.

A Second World War two-seater fighter plane. Flight Commander Joshua is in front when his co-pilot Lieutenant Simeon spots something coming out of the sun.

Simeon E Pa, Hapani rere rangi waka!

(Subtitles: Japanese aircraft at two o’clock, sir!)

Joshua Kei whea? Kei whea? Ka, titiro ahau.

(Subtitles: Where? Yes! I see him now!)

Suddenly Flight Commander Joshua gives a cry of pain. A sharp rain of gravel on the windscreen.

Simeon (alarmed) He aha te mate, e Pa?

(Subtitles: What is it, sir?)

Joshua Aue, ka kaapo aku kanohi.

(Subtitles: I’ve suddenly become — blind.)

Simeon (grimly) E Pa, maaku he kanohi mou!

(Subtitles: Then I shall be your eyes for you, sir!)

Joshua Te mutunga taua mahi kei roto i o ringaringa … e hoa …

(Subtitles: The success of our mission depends on (gasp) you … Lieutenant …)

As soon as they saw us, the Poatas scattered to their cars. They waited for us to draw level and we traded insults and jeers, spitting from one window to the other.

‘We’ll get ya this time!’ Tight Arse Junior yelled.

‘You can try,’ I answered.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh yeah?’

Somebody gave a loud whistle and we were off, neck and neck to the bridge.

‘Keep up, dear,’ Mum said.

Of course the Poatas had taken the inside lane which meant that it was difficult for us to pass them and get ahead.