Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

Meanwhile the younger men and women were playing sport and, coincidentally, falling in love or having sex. The old people were quick to see who was falling for whom. If they were caught sleeping together, there was nothing for it except to get married. The old people were stern that way. They loved nothing better than to sit around a young couple who had overslept in the morning. When that couple woke up: marriage bells.

In some cases the old ones went further. Sometimes a girl was introduced to a boy she had never seen in her life and told she had been taumau’d to him — promised to him as his bride. This was the way political alliances were maintained.

Apirana Ngata was one of the most successful marriage brokers of all Maoridom.

‘Come on, Mum!’ Faith and Hope yelled. Although I had grown taller, my two sisters hadn’t grown any prettier. They lived in hope and wanted to get to the tournament before all the boys were taken.

This year the seven-a-side tournament was held in Nuhaka. Grandfather and Grandmother — everybody in Waituhi — had left already, taking with them the shields and trophies that were stored in either Mini Tupara’s or Pera Smiler’s house. As usual, we were the last ones left to turn out the lights. Why did we still have to go over to the homestead, lock up and check that the stock were well fed? Would Mum and Dad ever finish?

‘Wait your hurry!’ Mum laughed. Her complexion was rosy and she was giddy with delight.

‘All set?’ Dad asked.

‘We’ve been ready for ages,’ Hope moaned.

‘Let’s put our foot down then, shall we?’ Mum said. With a zoom and a bit of a skid we were off.

By the time we arrived in Nuhaka the main meeting house was packed to capacity. Other marae were taking people in, and it was a matter of going from marae to marae to find our own iwi.

‘Where’s Waituhi sleeping?’ Dad asked.

‘Down the road at Hemi’s pa,’ we were told.

Before we even got there, Mum’s sister, our Aunt Jackie, saw us and screamed a welcome to Mum. ‘I’ve saved a place for you with us!’

As soon as Mum saw Aunt Jackie they burst into tears. They hadn’t seen each other for years. It was so embarrassing to see adults acting like children. Oh, the shame.

‘Didn’t Bruce come with you?’ Mum asked. Bruce was Aunt Jackie’s fourth husband.

‘Him! I think I might trade him in. There must be another man here for me. The local people are expecting to feed a thousand.’

‘Where have they all come from?’ Dad asked.

‘Palmerston North, Whakatane, you name it and they’re bound to be here. I saw Ruatoki and Murupara arriving earlier this afternoon and —’

‘Excuse me,’ someone said. A red-headed young man blushed as he walked past.

‘He’s come with the team from Auckland,’ Aunt Jackie said. ‘If there’s any red-headed kids born next year we’ll know where the shotgun wedding will be held.’

We unpacked, made our beds on the straw mattresses and hung our clothes on the line which ran down the middle of the meeting house. People always brought three or four outfits — hockey clothes, formal wear for the dance, and informal wear for lounging around in. The women took the socialising very seriously, making beautiful dresses of tulle or organza and painting their shoes with glitter. The men wore sports jackets to the dance — literally a white sportscoat and a pink carnation.

Glory started to sneeze — oh no, hay fever.

‘Kia ora!’ people called. ‘Kei te pehea koe?’

Within the melee I saw more dazed blond Pakeha wandering around the meeting house wondering what had struck them. They had been brought to the tournament by whanaunga who were now living in the cities of gold — Auckland, Wellington and Christchurch. They were just ripe to be caught by some young Maori girl or boy. My cousin Moana met David, her naval officer husband, when her brother brought a team from the naval base at Devonport.

‘He just fell into my arms,’ Moana laughed, ‘like an apple from a tree.’

‘Actually,’ David whispered, ‘she had to give the tree a good shake first.’

The dinner gong sounded. Over we went to the wharekai to join the throng and marvel at the meat, pork, fish, crays, watercress, kumara, potatoes, pumpkin which graced the long trestle tables.

‘Haramai konei!’

The local people urged us into their dining hall. Wasn’t the smell of hangi food, fresh from the earth oven, delicious? Look at all that other food! Titiro! Mmmm, Maori bread, fried bread, paraoa rewana, kina, oysters, pupus! And over there, pavlovas, steam puddings, trifles, jellies and soft drinks. Truly, the horn of plenty. How would we be able to lift our hockey sticks in the morning!

I saw more relatives — my cousins Donna, Cindy and Chantelle who used to be Don, Sam and Charlie Jones from Te Puia.

‘Hello, Auntie Huria,’ Chantelle said, and kissed Mum on both cheeks. She left more lipstick on Mum than Mum did on her.

‘What are you doing home?’ Mum asked.

‘We couldn’t miss the hockey tournament,’ Donna said. ‘Anyway business is slow —’ Chantelle hit Donna with her handbag. ‘Oops,’ Donna said. ‘Uh, we decided to come home to see how the folks were.’

My cousins worked days at Carmen’s Coffee Bar and nights up around the strip joints in Vivian Street.

Meantime, Cindy was eyeing me up and down. ‘This isn’t little Simeon?’ she breathed.

‘Yes,’ I squeaked.

‘Oo la la, enchant-é, formi-dable, mon enfant,’ Cindy answered.

‘Take no notice of that one,’ Chantelle whispered in my ear. ‘She went out with a French sailor last week and hasn’t been the same since.’

I saw Saul Poata ogling my cousins in a derisory fashion. Poppy was next to him and she jabbed him in the side: good on her. Most people were used to Donna, Cindy and Chantelle. Although they were loud and bright, like brazen and brilliantly coloured birds of paradise, they were still hometown boys. I was just about to go over and take a poke at Saul when Aunt Sarah’s voice cut through my anger.

‘We’re all wanted back at the marae,’ she told Dad. ‘Come quick. Now.’

In the meeting house the entire Mahana clan was clustered around Grandfather Tamihana, who was lying on his mattress. His eyes were wide and staring. Aunt Sarah was beside him, caressing his hands. We thought he had been taken ill.

‘What’s the problem?’ Dad asked Aunt Ruth.

‘Father has just found out that Rupeni Poata has been made chairman of the Takitimu Maori Council.’

The Maori council framework had also been a creation of Apirana Ngata. The Takitimu Maori Council represented the Gisborne tribes and was the forum through which Maori views could be channelled to government.

‘Why didn’t the other chiefs ask me?’ Grandfather said. ‘Why didn’t they consult me? Why didn’t I know that this was happening? Why have they done this to me?’

I had never seen Grandfather like this before. This was worse than mere physical illness. Somebody had made a voodoo image of Grandfather and was sticking pins in the doll. Here a pin at his right kneecap. Here another pin at his left leg. Now more pins thrusting through from front to back, viciously impaling eyes, mouth, ears, throat, loins — heart, head and soul. The doll was bristling with pins like a human hedgehog. Grandfather was in a state of psychic collapse.

By all rights, Grandfather should have been chairman and not Rupeni Poata. Somehow, Rupeni had persuaded the other elders to choose him. Was it because Grandfather was Mormon?

Grandfather raised his throat and howled. ‘My sons, my daughters, I feel so betrayed.’

In one fell swoop, Rupeni Poata had entered Maori public life and become top man in Gisborne. In doing so he had stolen Grandfather’s mana from him.