Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

‘Whoever’s right or wrong,’ Grandfather Tamihana said, ‘doesn’t matter. The agreement is dead.’

We prayed that evening for God’s guidance and support. I had taken to staring at Grandfather Tamihana until he was aware that I was there. He looked up at me. He saw my insolence.

Yes, Grandfather, it’s me, Simeon.

The gloves were off, and not only between the Mahanas and the Poatas. If I had to, I would bring down Olympus.

Many years have passed since I was raised in Bulibasha’s house, in those times when he ruled all our lives. His power was almost invincible. How I held out against it, I’ll never know. I have never really escaped it.

If I was to admit the truth, I would say that one of the reasons I rarely go back to Waituhi is because of Bulibasha. But life in Wellington is also very full and that is another reason why I can’t spare the time. This is why Aunt Ruth, now in her eighties, has taken it upon herself to be my messenger, regularly arriving from Gisborne and bringing me news of the iwi. Aunt Ruth comes by plane. When she gets off, in her black scarf and holding her flax kete, she always touches the ground with both hands.

‘If God had wanted me to fly he would have given me wings,’ she says. She likes to impress me with her courage. ‘I take my life into my own hands.’

Time has not mellowed the absolute nature of Aunt Ruth’s beliefs. Things are black or they are white. If it’s not yes it’s no. A man is a man and a woman is a woman and a bird is a bird.

My son showed Aunt Ruth a photograph of the Pope doing the same obeisance at an airport. For all that he was a different religion, she was pleased.

‘Ehara, he copies me! So am I a fool?’ Then she banged me with her kete as if it was all my fault. ‘How dare you tell the Pope what I do!’

Aunt Ruth has become a revered kuia and much-loved grandaunt, her face lined with the beauty of age. She has, however, never lost her temper and her withering scorn. After Uncle Albie’s gonads had dried up on him and he gave up his floozies, she made every remaining day of his life a misery.

‘No mercy, boy,’ she said. ‘No mercy.’

Yet, when Uncle died, she mourned him as only one who has loved deeply can mourn. At his tangi she reached up to claw the sky down and into the emptiness of her heart.

A man is alive or a man is dead.

Mark loves Aunt Ruth’s visits. I think, in many ways, she comes to see him rather than me. At the slightest opportunity she retells the story of my grandparents’ elopement, investing the vendetta between the Mahana and Poata families with a halting, quavering passion.

I overheard Mark with Aunt Ruth in the sitting room. My mind flipped back to 1957. When I peered in to look, it was like seeing myself with Aunt Ruth those many years ago. At first I was lulled by the memories but something wilful began to buzz inside my head. I heard Aunt Ruth ask Mark, ‘Did you know that there was a song named after your great-grandmother?’

‘Don’t listen, son,’ I said, drily. ‘That song was from a silent film of the 1920s and had nothing to do with —’

Perhaps I was jealous of the intimacy that had developed between Mark and Aunt Ruth. Whatever, Aunt Ruth caught the undertone of my voice. She gave me a look of warning and went on.

‘Well, just outside the church the band was playing the song. Your great-grandmother was about to get married to our arch enemy, Rupeni Poata. I spit on his memory and on all his seed. Suddenly, your great-grandfather came down the road on his white horse and —’

I couldn’t help it. I was unwilling to let Aunt Ruth tell that old story in her same sentimental way.

‘Yes,’ I said cynically, ‘Thrum, thrum, thrum, down the road on his trusty stallion came the mighty Bulibasha —’

Aunt Ruth stiffened. She stopped her narration. She cupped Mark’s chin in her hands and stared into his eyes.

‘Don’t you listen to your father. He’s always been whakahihi — ever since he left Waituhi, went to school and got some brains and then to university for more brains. When you get older, don’t go to school or to the university, because you see your father? That’s what happens. He thinks he’s a know-all. Well, he knows nothing.’ Aunt Ruth stood up, turned to me and shook a finger in my face. ‘Turituri to waho,’ she growled. ‘Turituri! Just because you’ve never been struck by the lightning rod of God doesn’t mean it can’t happen. The trouble with you is that your schooling made you heartless. You don’t want to believe any more. Every time I come here you make fun of me and our family. Of your grandfather and of our blood. What’s wrong with you! You’re the one who Dad acknowledged in the end. Where’s your family spirit! Where’s that killer instinct! Where’s your mana! Am I, the eldest of the women, the only one to carry on the battle?’

I went to embrace her but she pushed me away. Mark was angry at me too.

‘You’re mean, Dad,’ he said.

Aunt Ruth was still seething. ‘You just go out there right now,’ she said to me, ‘and bring me back a stick.’ She pointed to the elm tree. I stifled an impulse to laugh. But this time her anger was different. It was shaking her apart. Her words were spitting out.

‘Not just a small stick, either, nephew,’ Aunt Ruth added, tremulous. ‘A big one for your big black bum. Go on now. A big stick so I can give you a good caning with it and put some sense back into you. You don’t believe any more in the fightings. You don’t believe any more in the protecting of the mana of the house of Mahana. Those Poata family, they’re still our enemy. We still have to go to war with them.’ She was shaking apart. Tears were spilling out between the cracks. ‘You may be a big man now, but you’re not too big for me to give you a thrashing. Even when you were fifteen you were too big for your boots. I should have given you a thrashing then.’

Then she said what she had probably been wanting to say to me for years. ‘It’s all your fault. What happened is all your fault. You hear me, nephew? You’re the one to blame. You —’ She took a swing at me. I grabbed her thin elbows. She was so shockingly thin. Her eyes were spilling with tears. She collapsed into my arms.

When school started I was back to being the main hand at Fort Petticoat.

‘Look after your mother and sisters,’ Dad said. ‘Another month of shearing and then I’ll be home. Be obedient to your grandfather.’

One night not long after that, I was woken from sleep by my mother.

‘Himiona,’ she whispered. ‘Wake up. Kia tere, kia tere.’ The tone of her voice alerted me. In an instant I was awake and out of bed. ‘Come on , Himiona.’

It was raining outside. I could hear Grandfather Tamihana bellowing and my aunts shouting and screaming in the main house. I shucked on my pants and shirt and followed Mum from the quarters. She was already way ahead of me and hurrying into the homestead. Lamplight flickered against the windows of the main bedroom. Shapes were chasing backwards and forwards across the curtains. There was a crack, the sound of a punch being thrown, and one of the shadows fell down with a thud.

I ran past my mother, through the drawing room and into the bedroom. Inside, my aunts Sephora, Miriam and Esther were battling with Grandfather Tamihana. He had already walloped Grandmother Ramona and was trying to get at her again. She was crumpled up against the wall trying to recover from the blow. My aunts were holding him back from throwing another punch.

‘Bitch,’ Grandfather roared. ‘That’s all your mother Ramona is. You hear me, bitch?’