Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

I was almost done.

‘Therefore, Your Honour, I will not thank you.’

Miss Dalrymple was grim-faced as she apologised to Judge Forbes. He was thoughtful and answered –

‘No, the boy is entitled to his opinion. I commend him for that.’

I was told to go out to the bus at once and wait there.

The family group of the boy found guilty of indecent exposure was waiting beside the kerb, hoping to see him before he was taken away. The boy’s mother nodded at me, and as I passed she laid a hand to stop me. She kissed me and I felt her tears against my cheek.

Then somebody else was there. I knew who it was.

‘Ka pai tena korero,’ he said. ‘Ka pai. Kia kaha e tama. You spoke very well, young one. Very well. Your grandmother would have been pleased. Continue to be strong.’ He shook my hand and motioned that we should hongi. Then Saul Poata came out, and his mother, Agnes Poata, began to call to him.

I touched my nose and forehead in hongi with Saul’s grandfather — Rupeni Poata.

It was my misfortune that somebody from Waituhi saw Rupeni Poata shaking my hand outside the courthouse. When I tried to explain to Grandfather, he wouldn’t listen. He raged and vented his anger on Mum and Dad for allowing me to go to Gisborne that day. His reaction, however, only added to my father’s rebellion against him. Grandfather insisted that Dad give me a beating, but Dad refused, saying I was too old to be thrashed.

Then, one night, I heard Mum and Dad whispering together. When Glory joined me to listen — I put a glass against the wall to hear the conversation more clearly — we realised that something was going on .

‘We can’t keep on like this,’ Mum said.

‘We must bide our time,’ Dad answered.

‘For how long?’

‘When the right moment comes, we’ll take it.’

At the family gathering that month, the moment came. Our father, haltingly, took it and changed our lives for ever.

Dad made his move just as the meeting was ending. The korero had, as usual, mainly been between Grandfather and Uncles Matiu, Maaka, Ruka and Hone. The rest of us — the younger aunts and uncles, spouses and children, grandchildren and friends — were the respectful audience, bound together by a common fear that Grandfather would turn his attention to us — and by relief that we had escaped some censure or other. Grandfather had asked my uncles to give an accounting of the contracts for the next season — how many contracts we had received, how many still had to be negotiated, whether there were any problems now that the agreement with the Poatas had broken down, and so on. The meeting had subsided into small-talk and my aunts were getting up to go into the kitchen to prepare the family kai.

Then I noticed Miriam, who was sitting scared-eyed and staring across the room at Pani. Grandfather was laughing with Mohi, remembering the brilliant sidestep the boastful bastard had made in the rugby game against Hukareka. Sitting next to Grandfather, Grandmother Ramona was serene and as silent as always — Grandfather and his Queen. From the corner of my eye I caught again that scared-eyed look of Aunt Miriam’s, this time directed at my mother. Aunt Miriam was in on something.

‘Kaati ra,’ Grandfather Tamihana said. ‘Kua mutu?’ I saw the light dying in Aunt Miriam’s eyes. ‘Are we finished then? Good. Let’s have the karakia and grace. This champion of ours —’ he slapped Mohi proudly on the back, ‘he’s getting hungry, ne?’

Grandfather went to kneel in karakia. We were following him down on our knees. Somebody coughed. Everybody looked up. Grandfather, surprised, wobbled and then stood. So did the rest of us. Aunt Miriam’s eyes widened with terror as if to say, No let’s forget the whole thing.

Somebody coughed again. Grandfather’s eyes swept the room. He saw my father Joshua next to my mother. Both of them were still kneeling, their eyes on the floor.

‘Is that you, Joshua?’ Grandfather asked. He seemed surprised. His voice was dark. ‘He aha te mate?’

My father and mother inched on their knees toward Grandfather. I saw my mother breathing deeply, her eyes firmly closed. When our father began to speak she exhaled a soft sigh.

‘I would like a piece of land, Bulibasha,’ Dad said.

I should remind you that my father was already thirty-three and my mother thirty-one. Dad was the ninth-born of Bulibasha and Grandmother Ramona. As far as male succession was concerned, he was the seventh son. His eldest brother Matiu was ten years older than he was. His eldest sister Ruth was six years older. In the way of all things he could be easily overlooked –

‘Oh, what’s your name again? Joshua?’

When the eldest children grow up, they are the ones who inherit the mana, the prestige, the land, the succession. When that is gone, what is left for the younger ones? The ones like my father, Joshua, or my spinster aunts Sephora, Miriam and Esther? Born to elderly parents, their role is to stay at home when the others have left. To look after the parents and, in the case of my aunts, to remain unmarried.

But let me ask you, can you realise what it must be like to be the seventh and last son. To be on your knees in front of your elder brothers and sisters? In front of your parents?

Yet there he was, Joshua who never said anything or asked for anything. Thirty-three years of age. Ninth child. Seventh son.

Joshua.

Grandfather returned to his seat next to Grandmother Ramona. He waited.

‘Korero mai, Joshua,’ he teased. ‘Korero mai.’

My father began. ‘All my life, Father, I have lived in this house and I am grateful for you and mother Ramona for the roof you have put over our heads and the food you have put in our bellies. The time has come when, like my brothers and sisters before me, I should leave your kindness and make my own home.’

His words were stilted. Careful. Respectful. I wished he would look up at me so that I could flash him a sign, Yes Dad, you can do it.

‘What,’ Grandfather asked, amused, ‘have you done that I should even consider your request?’

‘I have done nothing —’ my father answered.

‘Good,’ Grandfather interrupted. ‘I’m glad you are aware of it.’

My father’s elder brothers smiled.

‘Except,’ my father continued, ‘to obey your every wish.’ His voice was like a guitar string struck right at its centre where the note would vibrate loudest. ‘Like my brothers before me I have obeyed you in every respect. Like my sisters before me I have acknowledged and loved your authority. I have stayed under your roof and been your hewer of wood and tiller of soil and have done all of this because of my love for you and my mother. But the time has come when Huria and I —’

‘Did she put you up to this, Joshua?’ Grandfather asked. ‘Is she the one who has turned your face against me?’

My mother shook her head. ‘No, Bulibasha,’ she said. ‘We do not turn our faces away from you. We have four children now and the quarters we live in are too small for a growing family.’

‘I will build another room on to the quarters.’

‘We wish to be on our own,’ our father said.

Grandfather sighed. He was dismissive. ‘Enough of this nonsense,’ he said. ‘I need you here, Joshua. I need you to cut the wood, to plough the soil, to bring in the meat, to look after me, your mother and your three younger sisters. If you go, who will do the man’s work?’

The question hung on the air. I thought my father Joshua’s cause was lost.

‘I will do it,’ a voice said.

Grandfather’s head swivelled toward the voice. He gave a quick laugh of astonishment as Pani stepped forward.