Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

Mohi had left school three years previously. He was free, out of jail and on the payroll with his father’s shearing gang, Mahana One. My cousins Andrew and Haromi and my sisters and I still had to go to school for another month before helping out in Mahana Three.

Mohi gave me a smirk. ‘It’s the early worm,’ he said, indicating his crotch, ‘that catches the birds.’

Oh, gross .

‘Hey, Mohi!’ I shouted when he was safely out of hearing. ‘You forgot to shave your palms!’

Roll over and die, Mohi.

Across the sunlight, I caught a glimpse of Grandfather Tamihana. He was standing with his walking stick today; his leg must be playing up. Beside him were his brother Ihaka and Zebediah Whatu, and they were talking with Uncles Matiu, Maaka, Ruka and Hone. The shearers were loading up the truck and cars, each of which bore the simple logo: mahana. What more needed to be said?

Mohi walked over to Grandfather to say goodbye. Grandfather feinted at him with his left fist and Mohi weaved and feinted back with his right. I envied Mohi his easy familiarity with Grandfather. Then Grandfather rolled up his sleeve and offered Mohi his right arm. They started to Indian wrestle, Mohi straining to beat Grandfather. But slowly Grandfather forced his arm down in defeat.

‘I’m going to get you one day, Grandfather!’ Mohi yelled.

Grandfather laughed. Then he saw me and waved my father over to him. Dad nodded and came over to where I was standing.

‘Simeon,’ Dad said, ‘you’re going to have to look after the homestead while I’m away. Be obedient to your grandfather and grandmother, especially your grandfather. He is remaining behind because he still has a big job to do sorting all the paperwork and making sure everything goes smoothly. He has his job and you have yours.’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘Look after your mother, aunts, sisters and the rest of the family. It won’t be for long, son. Once school is over we’ll close up the homestead and you can all come out and join us.’ He went to put his arms around my shoulder but I shrugged him off. I looked at Grandfather still talking to Mohi.

‘Why couldn’t Grandfather have told me himself?’

‘He asked me to tell you.’

‘If he had told me, everybody would realise my job was as important as theirs.’

‘When my brothers and I were your age we all had to take our turn looking after the women and children.’

I shook my head. ‘No, Dad. You did, but not the others. Now I have to do it.’

‘I don’t want any arguments. Goodbye, son.’ My father walked back to the truck.

I ran after him. ‘Hey, Dad,’ I said, ‘you’re the greatest shearer of the lot. The best!’

He smiled at me. ‘How come then,’ he asked, ‘I’m still on the Number 2 stand?’

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, Because Uncle Hone is older than you and the boss. But just then Pani called out, ‘Aren’t you coming, Simeon?’

Grandfather Tamihana turned to him. ‘Better for all of us that Simeon stays here,’ he said. ‘He’ll only want to read his schoolbooks at the shed and forget about being sheepo.’

I guess he meant it as a joke, but I felt embarrassed, especially as Mohi was cackling with scorn. I knew full well Grandfather’s contempt for education; after all, he hadn’t been educated, and look at him now.

Grandmother Ramona came to my rescue. ‘Leave the boy alone,’ she said to Grandfather. Mum and Aunts Sephora, Miriam and Esther joined her to say goodbye to the men; Miriam blushed when Pani looked across at her. There were no kisses, no sentimental goodbyes. This was simply something that had to be done.

Grandfather raised a hand.

‘Ma te Atua koutou e manaaki,’ he prayed.

‘Amine,’ the shearers replied.

There are some souls, like Grandfather Tamihana, whom God signs contracts with before they are born. You can tell who they are when something shows up in the manner of their birth or in their accomplishments as young men or women.

How else can you explain why some people are blessed in terms of physical attributes and others not? Why some are tall and others are short? Why some have fabulous hair which they will keep all their lives and why others, like me, will always worry about losing theirs before they are thirty? God also marks such souls with a special blessing. In some cases it is astounding beauty, like Helen of Troy or red-headed Rhonda Fleming. In my grandfather’s case, it was physical strength and sporting prowess.

This is why, although sometimes stirred by the sentimentality of our family meetings, I always hated the homestead drawing room. It was a shrine to blessed people, a testament to physical prowess and virility, neither of which I possess.

Look at all the photos on the walls — Grandfather as teenage sports champion in boxing, wrestling, track and field, javelin, discus; as representative team member of rugby, hockey, swimming, sprints and even playing polo with the Pakeha at the showgrounds. He is a stunning sight, his physique scarcely fitting into his clothes. He has the wide open smile of a careless youth with the entire world at his feet.

Now look at the photo of Grandfather with his parents. They are short and stunted, unlike their god of a son. See? He was born that way.

And look at all the silver trophies and shields. Not all of them have been won by Grandfather, yet he so inculcated his sons and daughters with the drive for physical and sporting excellence that, as they grew, they began winning prizes for him . That too is part of his physical triumph. His physical achievement lives on in us.

Did I say us? In this holy of holies, it is strength rather than intelligence which is worshipped. You will find no trophies of mine here, though there may be a couple of certificates for being third in class stuck away in a drawer. This room makes it clear: I am no use whatsoever to Grandfather.

I was in a foul mood when I walked in to breakfast. With all the men gone, the only ones left in Waituhi were old women, girls or the useless.

‘How come,’ I asked Aunt Ruth, who was packing up the cutlery for Mahana Two, ‘we pray all the time?’

‘The family that prays together stays together,’ she said in a sing-song way. ‘You know that.’

Yeah yeah.

‘But we weren’t always like this,’ Aunt Ruth said. ‘Not as pious, and church-going. If your grandfather hadn’t met the angel —’

Glory dropped her spoon. ‘Met the angel?’ she repeated, her eyes widening.

Aunt Ruth sighed, looked at her watch and glared at me as if it was all my fault.

‘In those days,’ Aunt Ruth said, ‘the sky wasn’t cluttered with planes and satellites. God’s angels were still able to get through to earth with messages for the faithful.’

Aunt Ruth had an unswerving belief that the First World War was when human beings began to lose their godliness. It had something to do with the use of mustard gas on the Western Front; God’s voice had come through pretty regularly until then. The gas infiltrated into His Kingdom and affected His throat, then just when He recovered He found all the frequencies jammed by radio.

‘Your grandfather was twenty-three in 1918,’ Aunt Ruth said. ‘He wasn’t exactly an ungodly man, but he wasn’t a godly man either. He was an ideal choice for a visitation by an angel. He bowed to no man and he bowed to no god. He believed in what he saw and he believed in a man’s strength. He thought man was an animal like any other beast of the field or fowl of the air’ — like all the Mahanas, Aunt Ruth had a penchant for the well-turned biblical phrase — ‘and that at the end of your life you went away, found a place to die, and got on with dying. Furthermore, there was no Hereafter. How could there be? You couldn’t see God, could you? Therefore God could not exist. You couldn’t see an afterlife, could you? Therefore that did not exist either! Yes, a man’s own strength, that’s what your grandfather believed in.’