Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

‘The Poatas have the better team. I know they have, because I’ve timed them. They are five minutes faster than the Gregson gang and six minutes faster than us. They will leave us in the dust.’

‘Ma te wa,’ Ihaka intoned. ‘What the Lord wills will be.’

Aunt Ruth tried to jolly him. ‘Father, you never know. One of their women just might eat something the night before and get as sick as a dog —’

‘Or one of their shearers might have a little accident —’ Uncle Hone winked.

‘Just remember the angel,’ Aunt Sarah said. ‘Didn’t the angel promise that the family would prosper?’

‘Ae,’ Grandfather agreed. ‘But it didn’t say we would win the Golden Fleece championship! Anyway, we need more than an angel to win.’

‘You should have more faith,’ I said.

‘Don’t preach to me, Himiona.’

‘We will try our best for you, Grandfather, but that’s all we can do.’

‘You must win.’ Grandfather would not let go.

‘Whether we win or lose,’ I said, ‘is out of your hands anyway.’

‘Oh is it now?’

Grandfather was still trying to manipulate destiny. Not content to allow history to take its course, he was trying to write it according to his dictates. He had decided to take up the pen, forcibly cross out the intended outcome of our lives and alter our destiny to suit his own expectations. The arrogance of that assumption was breathtaking. Driven by the history of the Mahana shearing gangs, and his active role in it, Grandfather could not contemplate anything other than a triumphant ending.

Then the roof fell in.

For some reason, perhaps to do with excitement, it never occurred to us to look at the date on which the finals would be held. Sunday night: the night the family went to church. None of the Mahana shearing gangs ever sheared on a Sunday.

Grandfather called an urgent family meeting, and in a flash resumed control. Once again his decision would determine our course. I hated relinquishing our freedom.

‘Are you sure the final is on Sunday?’ Grandfather Tamihana asked. He could barely conceal his glee. This was a wonderful excuse, the perfect opportunity, for him to withdraw the team. There was even dignity in such a proposal, and it would prevent all the embarrassment of a loss. I knew he would take it.

‘There’s only one thing to do,’ Grandfather Tamihana said. ‘Mahana Four will have to pull out of the championship.’

The newspapers had a field day:

They Won’t Shear On Sundays.

Across the nation editorials applauded Grandfather’s stand. From the pulpit churchmen preached the rightness of the decision to their flocks. Even the Anglican Archbishop sent Grandfather his congratulations. Hasty and urgent meetings were held between the Golden Fleece officials. Delegations of one kind or another trod their way to Grandfather’s door.

‘We can understand your Christian principles, Mr Mahana,’ they began, ‘but is there not a way around all this?’ In other words, Can you change your mind?

Part way through all the furore I happened to have a second with Grandfather.

‘Congratulations,’ I said.

‘What for?’ he asked, surprised.

‘Well of course Poata One will win now,’ I said. Take that , you sanctimonious bastard.

Soon after that, Grandfather became very silent. When delegations came to him he was not available. Finally he said:

‘Nobody can change my mind — except God Himself.’

He locked himself in his room.

‘What’s he doing?’ the reporters asked.

Aunt Sarah dipped into the room to find out. When she came out she looked as if she’d died and gone to Heaven. A thousand-piece Hollywood orchestra and chorus blasted us with holy music.

‘My father —’ she looked holier than usual, her hands clasped in prayer and eyes seeking a vision, ‘is asking God what to do.’

The headlines were predictable:

Tamihana seeks God’s advice.

Grandfather stayed holed up in his room for two days. The press contingent at the Golden Fleece increased daily. The whole of Masterton, New Zealand, Australia and Great Britain held its breath. Sometimes during his period of contemplation and prayer Grandfather came out of his room and went for a walk.

‘Any news for the public, Mr Mahana?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Will your shearing gang be in the finals?’

‘I don’t know.’

Aha . A ‘Don’t know’ wasn’t a ‘yes’ but it wasn’t a ‘no’ either.

Then one night as he was walking, Grandfather happened across Rupeni Poata. They talked and separated. The next morning, Grandfather went for another walk. He met Rupeni Poata again. Rupeni shook Grandfather’s hand, as if congratulating him for his firm moral stand. I didn’t place any importance on the meetings until much later. As for me, my thoughts were as heretical as ever.

A telephone booth. Grandfather Tamihana approaches, enters, puts coins in the payphone and dials a number.

Heavenly voice: wai koe e karanga nei?

(Subtitles: Who is calling please?)

Tamihana: Ko ahau a Tamihana he pononga o te Atua.

(Subtitles: A servant of the Lord.)

Heavenly Voice: Ah, kei te pirangi ahau ki te korero ki a Pa?

(Subtitles: Ah, do you want to speak to Dad?)

Tamihana: Ae.

(Subtitles: Yes.)

There is a click, a pause, and Jesus is trying to tell his father to get out of the shower to answer the phone. Then a voice comes booming down the telephone line.

Te Atua He aha to hiahia!

(Subtitles: So what do you want now!)

Finally, the night before the finals, when suspense was at fever pitch and the officials had pulled out all their hair, Grandfather came out of the hotel room. The reporters crowded around. I looked across at him.

Okay, Grandfather, break our hearts. Be holier than thou. Save your face and hide behind the church –

Whaddyaknow, he surprised me.

‘Mahana Four will shear in the finals,’ he said.

The headlines announced:

God says Yes!

How we kept our heads in all that circus I’ll never know. Although it was fun at first, the movie-star treatment began to drive us up the wall. Glory summed it up. ‘Are we going home straight after this?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Mum answered.

‘Good,’ Glory said. ‘I miss our river.’

Only Haromi and Aunt Sarah, who was dying to get into Mahana Four, seemed to enjoy the stardom. She also pleaded with us to get some new maroon singlets or at least belts to replace the string on our trousers.

‘We are who we are,’ Uncle Hone said.

Why bother? We knew we wouldn’t win.

The night of the finals the traffic outside the stadium was bedlam and people were being turned away from the gates. The Golden Fleece officials were ecstatic. We weren’t. A full house meant more people to look at us and we were tired of being seen as freaks. Then Aunt Sarah burst out that three crews had arrived to film the finals. Oh great. Now our string belts, baggy pants and holey singlets would be seen in America, Europe, Asia and Outer Mongolia.

‘Ah well,’ Uncle Hone said. ‘Last time up, folks. Then hoki mai tatou ki te wa kainga.’ He was terrific. In one phrase he’d lifted our spirits.

Grandfather and Grandmother Ramona came down from the grandstand to say prayers with us. Grandmother looked so beautiful she made my heart ache. She was wearing her dress of Spanish lace. Her necklace glowed like moonstones.

‘I know you will do your best,’ Grandfather Tamihana said. Nothing more, nothing less. Then, escorted by Grandmother Ramona and Aunt Sarah, he returned to his seat.

The loudspeaker blared. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the finals of the Golden Fleece award —’