‘Ha,’ snorted Nan Waikawa. Nan Tureiti refused to cook on the new stove; she couldn’t, because she wasn’t used to it. She bought some lightbulbs and soon after that she went blind. Imagine that. For a moment Nan paused in thought. This place is well named. Whanga-Tai-Tini. The harbour of many tides.

  When Waikawa started school at age five, she spoke Māori. By the time she was eight, she’d almost stopped and only spoke it at home. You had to speak English at school. Too soon, the few old people who spoke Māori at home died and she gradually stopped speaking it. The language flickered out and died like a light. She had been keen to learn English. Everyone agreed it was for the best. Now, she had to pause and think back before putting just a couple of phrases together in Māori.

  She remembered the old people again. They knew all about fishing. When and where to go. They fished from the deep sea, scoured the rock pools and combed the shore looking for food. She remembered how they would catch the tiny delicious piharau that in some places were disappearing from the estuaries and the oceans forever. ‘Bah,’ she gasped and thought for a moment. ‘Rāhui,’ she said. That’s the word the elders would use, she remembered. If the sea was over-fished, the elders put down a rāhui. A ban forbidding anyone from taking fish or any food from that area until the sea had time to revitalise itself. ‘Bah,’ she grunted again. That’s what the world needs, rāhui all over the show. But who would take any notice of the rāhui? she wondered. Who would listen? She felt sad. The sorrow was sweetened and deepened as she remembered the kindness Nan Tureiti and her old people fed her with when she was a child. For a moment, she felt an urge, a call to talk Māori again as she once had.

  After breakfast the next morning Nan looked up from the table, wrinkled her brow and said to her moko. ‘Haere koe, kia kite mehemea a Hine Tai kai te koma i ōna makawe.’ (Go and see if Hine Tai is combing her hair.)

  Hukarere’s eyes opened wide like bowls, ‘Was Hine Tai real?’ She ran out of the house and down to the beach.

  When she returned Nan asked, ‘I kite koe i a Hine Tai kai te koma i ōna makawe?’ (Did you see Hine Tai combing her hair?)

  ‘No, Nan, I didn’t see Hine Tai combing her hair.’

  Another storm wracked the coast that evening. ‘Bah,’ grunted Nan. ‘Just like that girl to sleep through the rough stuff. I can’t sleep a wink.’ She felt tossed about like the waves.

  Terry wasn’t much company that evening. He spent all night on his cell phone. He had bought her a cell phone a few years ago. She had had to go out to Henry’s orchard and climb to the top of Henry’s apple tree just to get reception on the phone. Once that was sorted out, Terry bought her an updated phone with all the bells and whistles. She seldom used it and hadn’t learnt how to ring all the bells and blow all the whistles.

  ‘This young generation,’ she said to Terry. ‘You spend all your lives talking to people on the other side of the world and never say a word to those sitting next to you. Soon Māori mightn’t go to the marae. We’ll just text our karanga in and go online with our whaikōrero. We’ll text our sad songs in to the funeral and tangi our hearts out into the phone.’

  There are so many troubles flowing about like streams. Coming and going like the tides. What can we do, wondered Nan. The storm blew itself out in the early morning and she drifted into sleep.

  At breakfast time that morning, Nan wrinkled her brow and repeated to Hukarere, ‘Haere koe, kia kite mehemea a Hine Tai kai te koma i ōna makawe.’ (Go and see if Hine Tai is combing her hair.)

  Hukarere’s eyes opened wide. She jumped up and sped off down to the rock pool.

  When she returned Nan asked, ‘I kite koe i a Hine Tai kai te koma i ōna makawe?’

  ‘No, I didn’t see Hine Tai combing her hair.’

  ‘We’re off tomorrow afternoon,’ said Terry.

  Nan felt sad and a little angry. They will go and leave me with nothing but fading eyesight.

  ‘We’ll be back soon to sort things out, Mum,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll be back soon, eh?’ She stared at Hukarere. ‘We will sort things out, eh? Oh yes, we will.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Mum?’

  ‘Never mind.’ She felt a tear in her eye and turned away from Terry and Hukarere so they couldn’t see her face.

  The next day Nan looked up from the kitchen table and peered at Hukarere. ‘Haere koe, kia kite mehemea a Hine Tai kai te koma i ōna makawe.’

  Why does Nan always frown at me? thought the youngster as she wandered down to the rock pool. Why does Nan keep saying those words? What is there to see? There is nothing! She enjoyed the squelch of water and sand between her toes as she daydreamed and dawdled along. Then she gazed wide-eyed into the rock pool. A breeze sighed and the waves broke into song.

  When she returned Nan asked, ‘I kite koe i a Hine Tai kai te koma i ōna makawe?’

  ‘Āe, āe, e kui. I kite au i a Hine Tai kai te koma i ōna makawe. I kite au i a Hine Tai!’ (Yes, yes, Nan. I did see Hine Tai combing her hair. I did see her!) squealed Hukarere as she jumped up and down and pointed out the window to the sea.

  ‘Ka rawe,’ said Nan. Her face wrinkled into a smile. She looked at her moko and paused for a moment. ‘We must go and welcome Hine Tai. She is our tipuna and she will bring us pāua, pipi, mussels and all the sea’s riches. She will talk to us and tell us what to do. Let’s go and get the kina.’

  ‘I don’t like kina.’

  ‘What do you like?’

  ‘McDonald’s and Kentucky Fried.’

  ‘Forget the greasies. Kina is better for you.’

  ‘Me aha rā tāua ināianei, e kui?’

  ‘Me haere tāua ki te kōrero ki a Hine Tai.’

  ‘Āe, Nan.’

  ‘Me hoki anō tāua ki te moana, e moko.’

  Īhe & Her

  BY FRAZER RANGIHUNA

  Staring at the leafy wallpaper, I’m drawing lines with my mind, going in and out between the leaves, trying to find a way out. Without crossing over the same lines again. Two weeks it’s been. Two weeks since I was last inside her. Yet she’s still inside of me. This hara, still violating me. And still Māmā is trying to soften the blow. She used to rub pages from the Rotorua Daily Post between her fists when we ran out of toilet paper so I wouldn’t get my arse hurt. And when she couldn’t soften the blow, she’d be there to kiss it better. I’ve told her a million times I don’t want to talk about it, but she’s still standing there, her mouth is still moving! What does I don’t want to talk about it mean, Māmā? Probably, how I wouldn’t want to talk about having cancer of the balls or something. Even if I was worried a ball was going to drop off, I’d still say nothing. Not even point to where it hurts. But my ex-girl, she’s the disease I don’t want to talk about.

  ‘I’m sorry, baby. You two were good together. Hei aha though — you’re still my chief,’ she says, holding up my freshly ironed overalls. With creases that tell everyone I’m only a quarter of the man I used to be.

  Out on the road, I don’t know how many times I’ve pulled at my hi-vis vest, listened to it slurp off my bare chest. And how is a man supposed to feel staunch when he looks like a giant fuckin’ highlighter, anyway? But I make it work. By pulling my overalls down to my waist and tying the sleeves at the front. This job is Stop. Go. Stop. Go. All day. Not me, though. The lollipop sign. In a fit of ingenuity, I found that if I stuck the pole into the hole at the top of a road cone, all I have to do is swat the sign from go to whoa. And now, all the breethas do it. Sometimes when I see a sticky chick pulling up, I take it out of the road cone and swing it around, taiaha styles, to impress her. One time this girl even wound down her car window and panted ‘Hot-hot-hot!’ at me but before I could reply with, ‘Look who’s talking!’ I realised she had burnt her lip on a Maketū pie. Sticky chicks don’t come along often, which is stink, so a man has to find other ways to pass the time. One of the best things is doing the pūkana behind my shades at the honkies pulling up in their audis and beemers. It brings my Nan back to life every time — the bleh you pigs! and garn yas! she’d grunt at the Pākehā approaching the paepae.

  At the sound of crunching gravel, I look up to see a queue of cars, waiting for me to spin the sign to Go again. All of their lives play out inside their windscreens in frame-by-frame. And that’s my other favourite pastime — a little something I’ve made up that I like to call The Voice-Over Game with Īhe.

  Car one: Girl looks all excited. She holds up her phone to her boyfriend and says, ‘Hey babe, look at how many likes I got for this photo!’

  Bro grabs her phone from her. He looks all aggro. Flicks through the comments from all of the horny guys who are posting shit like: #girlfriendgoals; and ‘Do you have a boyfriend? Lol.’ He turns her phone back to her and points. ‘Who the fuck are all these clowns? And how come you’re friends with them?’

  Girl turns away, flicks her hair. ‘They’re friends. Just friends.’ She turns back to him, puts her hand on top of his. ‘I’m with you, babe. Do you think I’d show you if I was rooting any of them?’

  He flicks her hand off of his, gives her the side look, ‘Maybe you’re a fucking skank like everyone says you are.’

  She tries to touch his hand again. ‘Babe, you gotta stop this. I can’t handle much more.’

  ‘Well fuck off, then!’ he shouts.

  I sniff hard up my palm. ‘Fuckin’ loser.’

  ‘Hey Īhe, smoko time!’ the boss shouts.

  ‘I’ll E-hey you,’ I mutter under my breath as I drop my smoke butt onto the gravel and crush it.

  ‘That us?’ I reckon to my mate DaShaun who’s been snapchatting his missus. He doesn’t think I saw him take a selfie with the puppy-dog filter on. Fuckin’ puppy-dog ears, puppy-dog tongue, and wagging tail.

  When we get into the smoko room — this shed dumped on the side of the road — there’s a huddle of psychedelic orange.

  ‘What’s up, my breethas?’ I ask.

  Bronson raises his head. Flicks it at the local rag laying open on the table. ‘Fuckin’ check this out my bro!’ He’s pulling that face he pulls when he hugs a sticky chick at the pub — eyes rolled back, snorting the Pantene out of her hair. This must be good! Pushing my way into the huddle I see what all the dirty noises are about. Not even the stank breath and pīhau can put me off.

  ‘Man, I’d dip my wick in that anytime!’ DaShaun reckons. And even my uncles, who would usually pounce on the chance to tease him about his pencil dick, aren’t taking the bait. My uncles, who pat bloody handprints on the arses of their jeans after butchering a sheep. Chew tero tero like chuddy.

  They’re all pussy-whipped. First, by our aunties — who they thought of as mythical creatures but found out they weren’t mythical at all, just real princesses and now, by Her and the Patupaiarehe. Her, eh. This hard-out beauty is doing a show tonight. Only trouble is I’m pōhara as, and yay-day, pay-day, is tomorrow.

  ‘10.30’s late for a show, isn’t it?’ Bronson asks.

  DaShaun says, ‘Look at that white skin though, bruh. Doesn’t look like she’s seen much sun.’ He giggles, ‘Maybe girl likes it in the dark?’

  ‘I’d tan her!’ shouts Uncle Dar, his jowls clapping.

  Everyone turns to stare at him.

  ‘I’m not joking!’

  For ages I stare at Her’s face. For so long, it’s like staring at one of those pictures of dots, that when you look up, you have a vision.

  ‘Oi, back to work!’ the boss shouts at us, but I don’t move. Just wait for all of the breethas to leave. Just stand there wiping the cold sweat out of my hard hat.

  ‘Hey, boss. Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Make it quick, Īhe.’

  My real name slips off the tip of my tongue, ‘Can I have an advance? Please?’

  ‘An advance?’ He laughs then lifts a boot up on a chair. ‘What for?’

  ‘I just wanna have a drink with the boys after work.’

  ‘Advance means you’ve actually done some work that I can pay you for. But you’ve done fuck all. Now, advance out that door and get back to work.’

  ‘C’mon boss! It’ll be the last time. Promise, man!’

  ‘Out!’

  Stink fulla! I think, ripping out the page with ‘Her’ on it, careful not to crease over Her’s natural ones.

  Out on the road again, me and DaShaun are playing kiss, shoot or shag and he’s answering ‘Yo’ mama’ to all of them. All I’m thinking is it must be true, how a man can die of thirst. Sculling three cuppa teas does shit to quench my thirst. The slimy backwash from DaShaun’s Coke bottle doesn’t either. Man, I need a drink. A real drink. Turning away, I cup my hand and raise it up to a frothy cloud, imagine I’m sucking the head off an icy, cold Steiny when my text tone goes off. It’s Māmā.

  ‘Sorry chief … A.N.Zilch this week xxx.’

  ‘Fuckin’ sun. Just as well you can’t get any blacker, eh?’ DaShaun says as I’m putting my phone back into my pocket.

  ‘Bei, are you looking for a crack?’

  ‘Bei, what’s up your arse?’

  ‘Tūtae.’

  ‘No shit! But what else?’

  ‘Nothing bruh,’ I say. ‘Just hanging for a drink, eh. Hey, are you gonna come see that chick tonight?’

  ‘Can’t, bruh. My missus’d go ape.’

  ‘Can I borrow twenty huck, then?’

  ‘Eh? That’s all she gives me for pocket money, bruh. Just enough for a 30 gee. And hey, it’s stink about you and that chick, bruh.’ Then he goes back to looking at his phone.

  ‘DaShaun? I’m real fucked up, bro,’ I say, reaching out my hand to him. But when he turns to look at me I freeze. Then I just pick up the lighter sitting next to him.

  ‘What was that bruh?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing,’ I say.

  At home, Mum lifts the lid off a pot of spuds and pours salt in.

  ‘She wasn’t good enough for you, Chief. Come to think of it, I never did like her. What kind of weirdo doesn’t eat kaimoana?’

  ‘Someone who’s allergic to it, maybe?’

  ‘Strange girl, that one.’ She shudders. ‘Gave me the creeps.’

  I pull up my hoodie. Then I feel her tug on the cords. Watch my world close in.

  In my bedroom, I move over to the window, push it open and look out at the backyard from two storeys up. Every now and then my bedroom door shudders to a stop with Mum’s weight behind it. And every time I make a floorboard creak, she moves away. We — my ex-girl and I — met at kapa haka. It all started off as a flirty and light waiata-ā-ringa. Our tutor, Aunty Tangi, said I had to imagine she was this girl I was trying to woo, which wasn’t hard because I was trying for reals. Baby-oiled up, I hoped she’d take a shine to me. The winks, the heel kicks, I even imagined the rape spiralling over my arse cheeks hypnotising her. All of the boys wanted her. Each haka was a competition, not only against the other rōpū but with each other, too. We tucked our dicks into the waistbands of our undies in case we got an embarrassing stiffy in front of her, even if it might’ve proved I was the bigger man. We’d get red tits from scratching at our chests, crossing our hearts, for her. We fell over ourselves to be her partner in the haka so we could play out our fantasies. We all wanted to be the one who got to pump his fist while she held the front of her piupiu open, her face all bloated and amazed.

  It was my first relationship and, being in love, I assumed things. No one told me I couldn’t carry on being myself. I’d assumed I’d be the one who stayed skinny, while she packed on the pounds. But by that time, I’d be too old to score anyone else so we’d be stuck with each other, forever. At the end though, it was all a mōteatea. And I no longer felt a fake singing one anymore. Before the break-up, I used to just pretend to look sad and bewildered by grief and loss, but suddenly I was living it. The breeze coming through the window crawls up my arms and takes a cold grip. I move forward, until I feel my hip bones press hard up against the windowsill when something in my pocket crinkles. Unwrapping the piece of paper, it’s Her again. The window slams shut.

  I’ve put on my best gears. My tan Dickies jeans, a white singlet and my pin-striped vest. In the bathroom, I watch myself doing bicep curls among the white spatter all over the mirror when the thought hits me — what if I actually score this Her chick? Finishing my set, I moisturise with my Jazz cologne then I cruise down the hallway to the linen cupboard to look for fresh sheets. I choose the ones with little flowers on them because girls like flowers. After I’ve made my bed, I rummage through the pockets of my jeans and trackies I’ve stepped out of and left in piles on my bedroom floor, hoping to find some loose change, but all I find is a Minties wrapper and a strand of hair.

  When Māmā hears me coming down the stairs, she shoos Snowy the foxy off her lap. Māmā’s got this thick coat of hair stuck to her. She tries to brush off the shitty korowai, but then she realises there’s hundreds more where that came from so she just wears it. Then she leans right forward in her chair for a good ol’ nohi. Her gold-coloured heart necklace swings out and she says, ‘Phuuuu, Chief! You look neat, alright!’ Then she sits back and her gold heart beats on her chest, ‘Kei te haere koe ki whea?’

  ‘Out.’

  Her eyes light up.

  ‘Nah, not with her.’

  ‘Anei,’ she says, handing me a stack of these damp-smelling coins.

  The further out of town I get, the fewer lamp posts and cops there are looking for Māori driving on their learner licences and expired regos. Feeling safe enough, I park up on the side of the road and roll a ciggie. Then I check myself out in the rear-vision mirror. My lips blow out smoke that I watch rise then it begins to unfurl over me, but I wave it away, look out the window and up to the maunga thinking it’s a strange arse place for a show, that!

  The dirt road is so steep and windy that my little Honda’s bumhole squeaks as it rounds every bend. And even with the headlights on full, I can only see a few metres in front of me, as if anything beyond that is too dark to imagine. A little darkness never put a Māori off, though. Not Kupe, not me. And we’re kind of the same. So, I just grit my teeth and hope no one is coming the other way. Finally, after rounding yet another bend, I come to the summit. A sign on the side of the road says ‘No lights beyond this point’. So, I turn off the lights, park up and have a jack nohi around. It’s out-of-it how there’s no other cars. My watch says 10.25 p.m., just five minutes until the show is supposed to start. In the distance, there’s the pub tagging shapes into the moon. Another sign says it’s ‘The Altar’.