Witi Ihimaera - Pounamu Pounamu

‘Why do I have to be the only boy in the family?’ he grumbles to himself. ‘Why does everybody pick on me! Georgina should have been a boy too. It just isn’t fair!’

He passes his parents’ bedroom and glares accusingly at the locked door. His thoughts are very rebellious this morning. Just as well his father cannot read them, otherwise Hema would get a clip over the ear. But the thoughts are soon gone. His mind becomes a piece of machinery, the tumblers clicking and turning, and prompting him to the chores he has to do every morning.

‘First, light the stove,’ his mind directs. ‘What do you know! Georgina has actually done her job properly this time! The wood is all ready in the stove, but I bet you she’s used green kindling again. And what’s this? She’s ripped up one of your comics for paper! How would she like it if you ripped up one of her stink love magazines? Never mind. Light the stove. You’ve read that comic anyway. No, don’t use the kerosene to make the fire blaze, you know what your father said. No, don’t do it. Well, don’t blame me if he finds out. Now put the pots on to boil. One for the porridge and one for the tea. Good! Mum will be pleased with you this morning, eh.’

For a moment, Hema stands there, watching the wood burning. He turns his back to the stove so that his behind will get warm. But then the tumblers in his mind click again. Like an automaton, he obeys their orders.

Out onto the back porch he goes. His gumboots are waiting for him, cold and clammy. On they go! A quick wash at the basin in the bathroom. A bit of water here, a bit of water there, just enough to get the pikaro out of his eyes. Even that little wash makes him shiver. Quickly he grabs for the towel and rubs at his face, gasping and blowing and shivering, as if he’d just risen from the freezing Antarctic sea.

‘We’ve got electricity but how come the water’s always cold,’ he moans. ‘Our farm must be the only one in the world where the hot water is always cold. No hot water, no electric stove, no nothing! Jeez, this is supposed to be modern civilisation isn’t it? And here I am, still having to chop wood all the damn time. It isn’t fair.’

He grumbles bitterly to himself and thinks of his woes. A young boy like him, stuck out in the sticks while everybody else in the world must be having a good time in their flash city apartments and going on round-the-world cruises. And all those people, sipping at their champagne, they’ve probably never even heard of Waituhi. What a dump! But when he’s a man, ah, watch out world!

He looks up and sees himself in the square mirror above the wash basin. For a moment, he is entranced. Then he turns his head so that his best side is showing and beams a slow and careful smile.

‘Boy, you’re handsome!’ he whispers.

He winks. He makes his face stern. He cocks one eyebrow. Narrows his eyelids. Starts a slow, shy smile. Now a crooked one. Juts out his jaw. Turns to see his left profile. Aaargh! Another bloody pimple! Hastily turns to his best side again. Studies his hair just to make sure he hasn’t got dandruff. Then smiles again.

‘I’m a man, now,’ he tells the mirror.

‘Oh no you aren’t,’ the mirror replies in the voice of his mother.

‘Oh yes I am!’

‘Seeing is believing,’ the mirror responds. ‘I see it, but I don’t believe it. You still look like a kid to me.’

‘Don’t you call me a kid! I’m thirteen years old.’

‘But still a kid.’

‘Just you look at this!’ the boy yells. He thrusts his jaw at the mirror. ‘Can’t you see?’

‘What?’

‘My chin! Look at my chin!’

‘Where?’

‘The hair! Are you blind or something?’

‘What hair? Look boy. You’re only five foot two and a quarter inches tall and you better believe it. You’re still a kid and you better believe that too.’

‘So? I’m catching up to Dad anyway.’

‘Yeah, but you aren’t a man like he is.’

‘I am so too! Just look at these muscles.’

‘What muscles?’

‘And look at this chest.’

‘Sunken as it always has been. You’re still a kid, just as you’re still only five foot two and a quarter inches tall.’

‘Aaah, shut your mouth!’ the boy yells.

‘And the same to you, doubled,’ the mirror replies.

Hema turns away. A slow, triumphant smile spreads across his face. He turns back to the mirror.

‘You think you’re smart, don’t you!’ he leers. ‘Well, I am a man and I got proof. You want to see it?’

‘I know your proof, Hema,’ the mirror sniffs. ‘I don’t wanna see it and you better believe it. You’re too cocky, boy. Just because you’re sproutin’ hair all over the place, you’re still a kid.’

‘You’re always pickin’ on me!’

‘I’m just telling you the truth for your own sake, boy. And while I’m at it, you’re not so handsome as you think you are either. Your nose has got a bump in it and those lips! They’re not lips; they’re rubber tyres. You need a haircut. You got pimples and no amount of squeezing will get rid of them. And those teeth!’

But Hema has had enough. He walks away and goes down the steps to the wash-house where the milk bucket is kept. A firm grip round the cold handle and away he shuffles, head down, in the direction of the cow bail.

‘Pick, pick, pick, everybody picks on me,’ he mumbles to himself. ‘They all tell me I’m still a kid, but I know I’m a man. Why can’t everybody treat me like a man? Always pickin’ on me.’

He mumbles all the way down the path, and the steam of his breath in the cold air is like smoke from a hard chuffing train. Still moaning, he comes within smelling distance of the outhouse toilet, suspends his angry thoughts and breath, hurries past, and almost disappears in steam as his thoughts and breath boil out again.

Clank, clank, clank goes the bucket as it swings against Hema’s legs.

‘Shut up, won’t you!’ he yells.

A fantail skips from a manuka and flits in cheekiness around him. He shoots it with his angry eyes.

And then, as he is approaching the gate from the house, he almost trips over a big clod of dirt.

‘Why don’t you look where you’re going! Everybody picks on me.’

Everybody.

Even the latch on the gate is against him this morning. The frost has made it stiff and unwieldy.

‘You bloody latch,’ Hema swears. ‘Move, you f.b. so and so. What the hell is wrong with you! You son of a bitch, you stinkin’ f.c. of a b.b.!’

Suddenly, he lights on the right combination of words. The gate swings grandly open, and Hema stalks along the edge of the pine trees toward the cow bail. The ground is littered with pine needles and pine cones. Hema picks one up and throws it in the direction of the house. A loud explosion reverberates through the trees. Branches break, trees shatter and fall. Thoroughly satisfied, Hema turns again toward his destination. That’ll show the so and sos! That’ll teach them to pick on him!

He is in a better mood now and doesn’t even kick the bucket with his fury when he discovers Queenie and Red aren’t waiting for him at the cow bail. Mind you, they’ll both suffer for this show of disregard for their lord and master. He’ll pull their teats so hard they’ll never forget it! They’ll just have to be taught that he’s not a boy any longer. He’s a man and has been one for a whole two weeks now. Watch out, world! Hema Tipene is a man now! And why? Why has he become a man all of sudden? Because two weeks ago, two marvellous weeks ago, he, Hema Tipene, discovered sex .

‘Tom, how do babies come?’

‘Don’t you know, Hema?’

‘Course I do! I only wanted to know if you knew.’

‘Don’t tell lies! You don’t know at all, Hema. Own up and tell the truth.’