Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

‘E kui, ma te Atua koe e manaaki,’ Mum said. Mother, go with God.

‘I’ll never forgive you, Mum,’ Aunt Ruth said.

In desperation Aunt Sarah yelled out, ‘Hone? Matiu? For goodness sake, stop her.’

My uncles reacted without thinking to the peremptory demand, but in a flash Dad was there, stopping them.

‘Let her go,’ he said. ‘Let her go.’ He looked up at Aunt Ruth. ‘She’s already been through enough, sis.’

My father, Joshua. Finding his voice, his authority. And knowing that he owed Grandmother Ramona much for the piece of land she had given us.

‘Go to him, Mum,’ he said.

Grandmother nodded. She kissed Dad’s hand as if he alone had made it right for her to leave. As she passed by me, she bent her head in acknowledgement.

I will never forget the look of love on Rupeni’s face. His eyes were filled with tears, spilling with glowing moonstones. Then I looked at Grandmother Ramona, and it seemed that the years were folding in on themselves with every step she took from the verandah. She was getting younger and younger as time turned back forty-five years.

There was magic in the air that evening. It had the power to set things right.

And Ramona was coming along the road, a sixteen-year-old bride-to-be, and dogs were growling and snapping at the wedding party. But Ramona didn’t care about the kuri nor about the cowpats and horse dung strewn along the way. In the distance she heard a woman in karanga.

‘Haere mai koutou, haere mai, haere mai, haere mai —’

Ramona saw the old Model T Ford standing there beside the church. She searched among the crowd and there was Rupeni gazing at her from afar.

Ramona thought, He should be inside waiting for me. Doesn’t he know that this is bad luck for him to be standing there? Then she was there, facing him.

‘Rupeni —’

‘Ramona —’

She giggled because the band was playing her song.

‘Ko taku aroha ki a koe kaore e mate,’ Rupeni said. ‘My love for you will never die.’

‘Nor mine for you,’ she answered.

Suddenly Ramona heard the drumming of horses’ hooves. Something screamed in her mind. Her own voice called out to the gods: Kaa-ooo-rrr-eee — She turned, frightened, expecting to see a white horse coming down the road and a fierce man whom she did not know stooping to snatch her away. But it was only the wind playing tricks with her imagination. Only a white horse ambling riderless along the road. Nothing more. There was only Rupeni taking her hand.

I saw Rupeni open his arms wide to Grandmother Ramona. Some trick of light turned them into youthful bride and groom. It was almost as if the years between had been a mere delay.

Grandmother Ramona lifted a hand to Rupeni. They touched for the first time since that aborted wedding day. The lightning rod of God struck .

So that is what it’s like. The tingling sensation compounded of love, desire, lust, yearning and aching for completeness. With a moan, Grandmother Ramona collapsed into Rupeni’s arms. And they were again a man and a woman, both in their sixties, weeping, tracing their faces with each other’s hands, not quite believing, holding each other.

The recording had stuck in the groove of the record –

— bells a-bove a-bove a-bove –

Rupeni took the needle off the record. He escorted Grandmother and opened the passenger door for her. She hesitated a second.

I thought, No, don’t look back at us, Grandmother. Don’t. Although you know the strength of Rupeni’s love you still might change your mind. This is your chance, Grandma. Take back your life. Go for it.

‘Hey, old lady,’ Uncle Hone called. ‘Haven’t you got a suitcase?’

Grandmother turned to us. ‘I came to your father’s house with what I am wearing. I leave his house the same way. He owns everything else.’

‘You are a foolish old woman, Mum,’ Aunt Ruth cried. ‘You, Rupeni, you are a stupid old bugger.’

Aunt Sarah began to sob again. ‘Mum? Please don’t go. It’s not too late to stay. Mum?’

Grandmother Ramona seemed to waver. Then she took a deep breath and stepped into the car. Rupeni closed the door behind her.

‘I thank you all, sons and daughters of the King of the Gypsies,’ he said. Then Rupeni made a sweeping sign for me alone. ‘And I pay my respects to you —’

He bowed low. His eyes were twinkling, as if he knew I had dealt in chicanery, taken a card from the bottom of the pack and put it on top. Theatrically, he flung his arms in the air.

‘True heir of the great Bulibasha.’

Rupeni started the car. He turned it out of the driveway and along the road. Aunt Ruth began to run after it. Aunt Sarah ran after her. Then all the other sisters were running, Sephora, Miriam and Esther, running, running, running –

‘Mum? Mummee !’

It was too late. The road was a ribbon of moonlight.

My parents Joshua and Huria still live in Waituhi. Lately, though, my mother has been pestering my father to move into Gisborne so she can be nearer to her mokopuna — Faith and Hope’s children. My father, being the youngest son, has had the unenviable task of mourning and burying his elder brothers Matiu, Maaka, Ruka and Aperahama, and his sisters Sarah and Sephora. My father has taken it all in his stride, as if this is one of the natural blessings to befall the youngest son. It is his job.

‘Better me to bury my brothers and sister,’ he says, ‘than some stranger.’

His brothers and sisters lie beside their father Tamihana Mahana in the hillside graveyard.

The homestead, although ravaged by age, managed to survive the effects of Hurricane Bola and is still standing. Uncle Hone lived there for a time, but then he shifted to Wellington where his daughters had gone to find work. Aunt Ruth lives there now, alone since Uncle Albie died. But she has my dear cousin Haromi’s children to look after. When Haromi died of breast cancer, the children went to Aunt Sarah, but when Aunt Sarah died, they then went to Aunt Ruth. The childless one has been gifted children in her late years.

Aunt Ruth and Dad are the only ones left in Waituhi. The rest, Ihaka and my aunts Miriam, Sephora and Esther, have moved to Gisborne.

As for the grandchildren, we became scattered to the four winds by the world of the Pakeha. Its insistent clamour enticed us all away from the simpler pleasures of our lives. My cousin Andrew Whatu and I were sent to boarding school together, and we both managed to survive terrible marks and make something of our lives.

Somewhere in the middle of all this I lost touch with my sister Glory. I went to Auckland to work and it was a surprise to realise she was a teenager. One night I received an urgent telephone call from Dad in Waituhi. Glory had run away to Wellington. I left work to go to find her, and when I did so she ran to me and started to hit me with savage blows.

‘You promised,’ she screamed. ‘You promised you would never leave me and you did.’

We wept in each other’s arms.

I felt like saying, No, Glory, I didn’t leave you. We had to grow up, both of us. That’s what happened, Glory, we simply grew up.

Contrary to their expectations, my sisters Faith and Hope never managed to improve on their looks. What they lack in beauty, however, they have made up in personality. And do they both have heaps of children! Hope’s husband, Zac, has always bemoaned the fact that he should have listened to his mates when he took Hope into the bush. The fertility of the Mahana women remains unabated.

My sister Glory and I resumed what turned out to be a volatile brother and sister relationship. Glory ran away again and became a ship girl. I found her again, lost her again, found her again. For a while my cousin Chantelle was there to pick Glory up whenever she fell. Then Chantelle fell victim to HIV and was soon dead.