Huia Short Stories 10: Contemporary Maori Fiction

By Tihema Baker, Karuna Thurlow, Petera Hakiwai and 2 more

Here are the best short stories and novel extracts from the Pikihuia Awards for Maori writers 2013 as judged by Sir Mason Durie, Hana O'Regan and Reina Whaitiri. The book contains the stories from the finalists for Best Short Story written in English, Best Short Story written in Maori and Best Novel Extract. For over ten years, the Maori Literature Trust and Huia Publishers have organised this biennial writing competition to promote Maori stories and writers. The awards and the publication of finalists' stories have become popular as they uncover little-known writers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Huia Publishers
• Release date: Sep 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781775501510

Book preview

Found

Hana Aranga

‘Have you hit rock bottom?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Do you feel like your situation could get any worse?’

‘Lady, I don’t know. I came here to make my situation better. I don’t know. You’re supposed to know, aren’t you?’

Stupid bitch. All these bloody questions. I was at rock bottom, but what the hell was this lady gonna do? I was too proud to talk to this Pākehā counsellor lady about my shit. What the fuck did she know? I was only there because of my bail conditions. She can’t help me. I was a thirty-five-year-old Māori male with no job, no money, a broken relationship, a tendency to smoke and drink, debt coming out of my ears, an anger problem, childhood issues with my parents – the list went on. What the hell was this lady gonna tell me? How could she help me? She probably went to a great school, had a nice family, heaps of money. By the looks of her office, she had it all. No doubt the flash looking couches and desk and computer came with the office, but I could tell she was well off by what she was wearing and all that flash shit on her desk.

‘Manner-way-nooey, I am trying to understand you so that I can help you.’

Fuck this. I was getting pissed off at this lady trying to understand me when I knew that we come from two completely different worlds. How the fuck was she supposed to understand me? She couldn’t even say my name properly. Man I didn’t want to talk to this bitch, but I had to, otherwise she would write a dumb report to my probation officer. Ok. Suck it up bei.

‘What do ya wanna know?’

I don’t really know how my life got to be this shit. At high school, I was the naughty Māori boy that talked too much. I felt dumb as school. Teachers made sure to tell me too. I hated going home after school everyday. The people I knew as Mum and Dad were not my real parents. Dunno who my real parents are, but fuck knows how these two got the job. Dad was always either drunk or angry or both, and Mum was so busy trying not to fuck my Dad off that she didn’t even notice I was there. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, thank God. I used to wish that I had someone else in this family, but now that I think about it, thank fucking God those two didn’t produce a human being. They ain’t my real parents. Dad used to tell me that they found me on the street. Mum told me that my real parents ‘didn’t give a fuck’. Pffft, whatever. Fuck these parents and fuck those parents too. Don’t need anyone.

‘Mr Hetana, we may have an employment opportunity for you.’

Here we go. I aint working in no supermarket that’s for sure. Was just about to tell this bitch where to go if she even suggested it.

‘But it is only for a week, starting tomorrow. There is a festival happening, and the organisers are looking to employ security for day and night shifts.’

OK, well I can handle that. One week … sweet. Cuply shifts and off to the pub I go.

‘Where? What’s this festival?’

‘It’s in Rooaatokey, not far from here. I think it’s called the Toohoey festival? It happens every two years.’

This bitch was cracking me up. But I was used to it. I had been called ‘Manner’ my whole fuckin life.

‘Rūātoki? The Tūhoe festival? Yep ok whatevz, I’m in.’

Had heard about the Tūhoe festival never been to one though. Not really into Māori shit. Don’t wanna look dumb. Feel like I am too old to be learning and asking questions now. Apparently my real father and mother are from Tūhoe too. My Dad told me one day when he was drunk that ‘those raiding pigs should shoot your fuckin’ parents.’ That was when the Rūātoki raids were on the news. Ever since, I’d wondered whether I was from there. But yeah, whatevz.

‘Anei boy, here’s your jacket.’

Our supervisor for the week was like this old as koro. Looked like he had been doing this job forever and people forgot to replace him. He was nice though, but yeah, I was just here to make that money. Rūātoki was rural as, but the festival was pumping. Netball, rugby, kids’ haka, adults’ haka – still not my thing, but at least the next few days won’t be boring as. Now that I was right in the middle of Tūhoe land, I couldn’t help but wonder whether I was really from here. These people kinda looked like me. Bet their lives were better though. I wonder if anyone knew my parents? All I know is that my mother’s last name was Hetana.

The people here seemed alright. There were a few of us on security. I was working the day shifts by the big stage set up for the kapahaka performances. Once the first group was on, I realised that my job was going to be a piece of piss.

When it was time for smoko, I went back into the security tent. The old koro supervisor said to me,

‘Nō hea koe, boy?’

‘I don’t speak Māori,’ I said, annoyed. Koro didn’t take the hint.

‘Where you from, boy?’

‘Fuck knows.’ I didn’t mean to swear, but it was true. I had no fuckin’ idea. Born and bred in Rotorua by two fuckwits who wouldn’t tell me where I was from. Didn’t wanna share that with this old has-been over rēwena and jam on our lunch break.

‘Apparently my Mum is from here, but I dunno.’

‘What’s her last name, boy? You never know – we could be related,’ Koro said with a cheeky grin. Old man was trying to make me feel welcome. He could probably tell I was a stranger round these ways.

‘Hetana.’

Silence. Old man was speechless for a second, then with a mouth stuffed full of rēwena bread he asked me, ‘Do you know your mother’s first name? How old are you, boy?’

Why all the fucking questions old man. Didn’t wanna be rude, but I really wanted to tell him to mind his own fuckin business. I also wanted to say that my mother must have been a loser to have never bothered to try and find me. But I thought I better be respectful to this old shit, finish my lunch and get back to the stage.

‘Dunno. But I’m thirty-five, and my name is Manawanui.’

Three days into the festival, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about that old man’s fucking reaction. Almost choked on his bread from shock. Aye? I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. And the old cunt was not even here today. Story of my life.

As I spent the day standing in my highlighter yellow jacket looking like I gave a fuck, I couldn’t help but feel jealous watching families walk around together, teams on the field and groups on the stage. There was a sense of unity in the air. And pride. Two things that were foreign to me. Although all the different clubs were battling each other out on the field and stage, you couldn’t help but see the passion that everyone had for the festival. The love they had for each other. Everyone was going hard out for the same reason. I snuck off a cuply times just to watch the rugby. All the punching, head highs and low blows I thought to myself now this is what I call rugby! Even the netball was pretty mean. Man I was jealous as fuck. My life woulda been so different if I came from a place like this. These people had it pretty good, I reckon. If you know your roots, you don’t spend your life searching for them, like the rest of us. Almost everyone here could speak Māori. Everyone here definitely knew where they were from, and all the families looked tight as. I was fuckin jealous alright. My childhood couldn’t have been any more opposite. Oh well, fuck it. Don’t need anyone. Gimme my money and I’ll see you next lifetime.

‘Manawanui?’

Got the biggest fright. I was daydreaming when I was rudely interrupted. A random lady in her fifties standing in front of me, with a nervous look on her face. Standing behind her was Koro Supervisor who didn’t bother to show up to work. The old man came closer and put his hand on my shoulder.

‘Boy.’

Awkward. What’s this fulla up to?

‘My name is Bob Hetana and this is my daughter Wendy Hetana. She had a son thirty-five years ago, when she was twenty. At that time, she brought shame to my name and my whānau, so I made her adopt her son out. Eventually realising that I had given away my first-born mokopuna, I have spent my life looking for him. I want him to know that he is from a loving whānau here in Rūātoki. He comes from a line of chiefs. A descendant of rangatira! I want him to know that his marae here is his backbone, and his tribe is his spine. Boy, we told the whāngai parents to name you Manawanui, because if you spent your life without your whānau, marae and tribe then you would have to be brave. Boy, I am so sorry. So, so sorry.’

I can’t believe they were looking for me. Me? ME?

I had whakapapa. I was found. I was home.

Kei Wareware Tātou

Tihema Baker

Kei te hinga ōna ringa raupā ki runga i te kūaha, ā, ka whakatā a James Herewini. I a ia e tutū ana ki tana pārongo, ka rangona e ia te haunene, te kōhimuhimu, te katakata ...

... Ka haruru te waiwaipū, ka tioro ngā tāne ...

‘Kei te pai e koro?’

Ka kite a James i tētehi taitama; e titiro ana te taitama ki a ia, ā, kei ōna whatu tana āwangawanga.

‘Āe,’ ko te whakautu o James. Ka ūkui ia i tōna rae mākū ki tōna ringa wiriwiri. ‘Āe, kei te ... kei te pai au.’

‘Māku e āwhina,’ ka kī te taitama, ā ka whātoro tōna ringa ki te whakatuwhera i te kūaha. Ahakoa e mauāhara ana a James i te āwhina mai o tētehi tangata atu, ka mihi ia ki te taitama, ā ka kokikoki ia ki roto i te wharekai.

Ka tomo ia i te rūma, ka pupuke te haunene. He rūma tino nui tēnei; ka paoro mai te heihei ki ngā taringa o James. Tokomaha ngā tangata e rauna ana i a ia, engari kāore ia e paku mōhio ana i a rātou. Kōrerorero ana tētehi rōpū i konei, katakata ana tētehi atu i korā, tākaro ana ētehi tamariki i waenganui; ka āpurua ia e te kaha o te tangi. Ka āta titiro a James ki tōna paenga ...

... I a ia e tū ana ki te pokapū o ngā pākarukaru o Cassino, Itari, ka kite ia i ngā tūpāpaku o ōna hoa whawhai; kua ngaro ō rātou ringa, ō rātou waewae, ā, kua pūrikoriko te kōhatu ki ō rātou toto. Ko tērā te kara anake i te ao pouri nei. Te taumaha hoki o te haunga mate.

Ka puta tētehi hōia Tiamana, pakū ana tana pū. Ka whakakipakipatia ia e ōna parapara, kātahi ka poka tana matā ki te manawa tonu o te Tiamana. Ka hinga ia ki te whenua.

Kātahi, ka tōtahi ia. E raunatia ana ia e ngā tūpāpaku, ngā tūpāpaku o ōna hoa whawhai me ērā o te hoariri, engari ka tōtahi kē ia. Ka āta titiro ōna whatu ki ngā whare pākarukaru; ko tēhea te piringa o ngā Tiamana? Ko tēnei, ko tērā rānei? E māturu mai ana te werawera i tōna kanohi nā te kaha o tōna āwangawanga. Te tere hoki o tōna manawa kapakapa – kei whea rā ngā Tiamana?

Ko te waiwaipū te whakautu; ka rere ngā matā ki a ia, tata rawa ki tōna mata, nō reira ka oho tōna hinengaro. Me wehe atu ia; kei te haere mai rātou ...

‘James?’

Ka tae mai tētehi tāne ki tōna taha. He tāne purotu ia; he tau tōna hūtu, kua wania pai ōna makawe, ā, he āhua rata tōna āhua.

‘Āe?’ ko te whakautu o James.

‘Tēnā koe, e koro,’ ka kī te tāne, ā ka toro atu tōna ringa. Ka mau a James i tōna ringa; he kaha rawa tōna pupuri. He rata tērā hoki. Ka hongi rāua. ‘Ko Hōhepa taku ingoa. Haramai.’

Ka āta takina a James e Hōhepa ki raro i te ‘90’ ki runga i te kara nui, ki te tēpu roa ki te pito o te rūma. He ātaahua te tēpū; kua whakanikotia te uhitēpu mā, ā, ka takoto tētehi mere pounamu ki runga. Ko te āhua nei, ko tēnei te patu o tētehi rangatira. I a James e titiro ana ki te mere kauanuanu rā, ka kotete a Hōhepa ki a ia, ‘Ka whakatūpato au ki a koe: kua hē kē atu te Dementia. Kāore ... kāore ia e mōhio i a koe.’

Ka wahangū a James; kei te mōhio kē ia.

‘Kaua e pāpouri, James. Inā kei te ora ake tōna hinengaro, ko tōna tūmanako tonu ka haere mai ai koe.’

Ka tungou a James ki a Hōhepa, kātahi ka hīkoi tonu rāua ...

... Kei te mura tōna wairua, akiaki ana i tōna tinana ki te pae o te pakanga. Ka peke ia i runga i ngā tūpāpaku, piki ana i te kōhatu o ngā whare rengarenga, engari ka hinga, ā ka rakurakua ōna ringa me ōna waewae e te kōhatu ratarata. Kāore i ārikarika ngā matā; kāore e kore ki te noho ia ki konei ka mate. Nō reira ka tū, ka rere atu ia.

Engari ki whea? Kei whea tētehi punanga mōna? Arā – he puare i roto i tērā taiapa! Ka oma ia ki te taiapa, tūpou ana i roto i te puare –

Ka pakū te whenua, ā ka whiua ia ki te pōnānātanga. Kua kore e taea te kite, te rongo rānei i te aha; kua pango te ao ināianei ki a ia. Porokawa rawa te toto i roto i tana waha, engari kāore ia e ūkui i ana ngutu nā te mamae o tana ringa – kāore, nā te mamae o te katoa o tōna tinana!

Ka timata ia ki te ngoi atu, ahakoa te ngoikoretanga o tōna tinana. Tōna pōturi rawa, engari ka āta tū ia, tapepe ana ki roto i te kauruki.

Engari, ka tioro ia, ‘Aueeeee!’

Kua werotia tana waewae e tētehi matā i pūhia ai e ngā Tiamana.

‘Auēeeee!’

Ka hinga ia ki te whenua, e papī ana te toto ki roto i tana tarau. Ka whakamātau ia ki te auporo i te heke o te toto, engari auare ake. Tē taea hoki te pewhea – ko tōna whakaaro; ka mate ia ki konei, i roto i ngā tiriti o Cassino, Itari ...

‘Dad, anei tōu hoa tata.’

Ka tū a James ki muri i te tēpu upoko. E ruarua noa iho ngā tangata e rauna ana i te rangatira o te tēpu kei te pokapū e noho ana. He pai rawa ōna kākahu, kua wania ōna makawe mā ki tētehi taha o tōna ūpoko. Kei te titiro ia ki te mere pounamu i runga i te tēpu, otirā ka māroa tōna mata.

Ka āta whakatata a Hōhepa ki tōna pāpā, ka tūturi ki mua i a ia, kātahi ka āta kī, ‘Ko James Herewini tēnei, Dad. I whawhai ia ki tō taha i roto i Te Hokowhitu-a-Tū. Mihi atu.’

Te āmaimai hoki o James i a Hōhepa e tū ana. Ka huri pōturi atu ia, kātahi ka titiro ia ki a James ...

‘Herewini!’

Ka puta a Meiha Ānaru Tūpara ki runga i a ia. Paruparu ana tōna mata, heke mai ana te toto i tētehi haratua kiri i runga i tōna upoko. Ko ia te tino toa o tō rāua taua; tokomaha ngā Tiamana e patua e ia, anō nei ko Tūmatauenga anō ia!

‘Kāore i wareware i a koe e hoa, kāore i wareware,’ ka kī a Ānaru, whakahīoi ana ki a ia. ‘Oho mai, boy, kei te wehe atu tāua ināianei.’

Heoi anō, kua ngenge ia. Pai noa tōna waewae ināianei, ā kei te hiahia ia ki te noho kia moe. He pai ake tērā whakaaro ki a ia. Engari kāore i te pai ki a Ānaru, kāore a Ānaru i whakarere ki a ia. Kāore e taea te moe i tēnei rangi.

Ka waihotia e Ānaru tētehi pītara i roto i tana ringa, ā ka kumutia ōna matikara mōna.

‘Kua whawhai ngātahi tāua mō ngā tau e whā; e kore koe e mate ināianei,’ ko te kī a Ānaru. Ka rongo i ngā ringa o Ānaru e hiki ana i a ia. ‘Kāore e tino tawhiti kia tae ki te taraka ... pūhia ngā mea katoa e kitea e koe – he pai tērā ki a koe, nē?’

Kāore ia e rongo ana i ngā kōhatu ratarata i a Ānaru e kukume haere ana ki a ia. E tere haere ana tōna hinengaro ki te pō, engari kei te haere mai tonu ngā Tiamana, muramura ana ā rātou pū. Ka hāpaina te pītara e ia, engari te taumaha hoki! Ka tuhi ia i te pītara ki te Tiamana e tino tata ana – PAKŪ! Ka hinga te Tiamana. Ka puhi anō te pītara. Ka hinga tētehi anō. E pupuhi ana te pītara kia pau te hāmanu katoa. Engari hei aha tērā; kei te rongo ia i te taraka me te reo Māori o ōna hoa whawhai. Kua mutu te whawhai ināianei.

‘E ora tonu ana tāua,’ ko te kī a Ānaru, katakata ana i a ia e tere haere ana ki te moe. ‘Pae kare, e ora tonu ana boy …’

Ka titiro a James ki tōna hoa tata, tōna kaiwhakaora. I tētehi wā, he toa ia; ko ia te tino toa o te taua o James, kāore he painga i a ia. Engari ināianei, he tangata rerekē ia. Kei ōna whatu te tino rerekētanga; kāore rāua e mōhio, kāore rāua e maumahara.

Ka whakatuwhera a James i te pēke iti i kawea ai e ia, kātahi ka whakaari ia i tētehi pītara. He tino paru te pītara, he tino tawhito hoki. Ka mau i a ia te pītara i ōna ringa wiriwiri, kātahi ka tuku atu ia i te pītara ki ngā ringa o Ānaru.

Ka piki ōna whatu kia titiro ki a James, engari kāore he mōhiotanga, kāore he maumaharatanga.

‘Kāore i wareware i a koe, e hoa,’ ka kī a James, i ngā roimata e heke ana. ‘Kāore i wareware.’

Hemi’s Gift

TJ Corrigan

The bus pulls into Auckland station and I grip my bag a little tighter in my hands. There’s a line of us waiting to get on, and for the thousandth time I wonder how bad it’s going to be when I arrive at the other end.

Two nights ago my dad died, and I am going home to Whāngārei for his tangi.

The driver gets off and tells everyone the bus will be leaving in five minutes. Unfolding his list, he begins ticking off names as people shuffle aboard. I get on and go down to an empty seat near the back. I hope to find solace in being alone.

A Māori man gets on board carrying a battered brown bag and an ancient guitar. He’s dressed in old, sloppy clothes. His hair has an overgrown, wild look, like unmown grass, and although he has a big smile on his face, he still looks like the kind of person to disturb the peace.

He strides down the aisle towards the back, towards me, and I shrink into my seat and look away, hoping he’ll sit somewhere else. No such luck. He throws himself down on the seat just in front of me and, muttering loudly, begins to pluck at the strings of his guitar.

I shrink lower into my seat, trying to make myself small, and I put a pissed-off look on my face to show everybody on the bus that I am not related to – or associated in any way with – this man.

Up front, a Pākehā couple turn around and look back at the noise he’s making, at me sitting behind him, then at each other in a ‘typical Māoris’ sort of way. That look was exactly why I didn’t want him sitting near me. My shoulders slump, and I let my head drop back against the head rest. Now I’m associated with this crazy man just because we both have brown skin – naturally.

The plucking and muttering continues. The bus is permeated by a tense silence that doesn’t seem to register with crazy man.

‘Me he manu rere …,’ he begins to sing. I am annoyed that I have to put up with this noise till Whāngārei, so I rustle around in my bag and pull out my iPod. I make as much noise as possible plugging in the earphones, making a deliberate show of humming and harring my way through playlists. My intent is to shame him into silence. The singing in front of me stops, and suddenly I feel ashamed. But crazy man is looking out the window, at the green hills flying by, seemingly entranced. ‘Going home,’ he whispers to nobody in particular – least of all me – but I feel the same way.

I remember my laptop, and I pull it out of its bag and stare at it as if I’m waiting for it to answer a question. If I were to fire it up and open Outlook I would see one unread email. It arrived two nights ago, just after I finished watching TV. I saw the blue notification box pop up in the lower right of the screen, and I could tell it was a personal message from Dad because it didn’t have one of those stupid ‘FWD:’ labels on it, and the subject was ‘Hi’. I remember thinking that I couldn’t be bothered reading some lame message from him at that hour, so I had turned off my laptop and gone to bed – only to be woken three hours later by my tearful mother.

My fingers tap on the edge of the laptop. So do I read the email? Or leave it? What will it say – or what is it that I want it to say? Did he somehow know he was going to have a massive stroke, and wanted to reach out to me, the only child, and tell me one last time that he loved me? That I was the best thing that happened to him and Mum, and all that bullshit every kid secretly longs to hear but cringes when they actually do? Or was it just a quick ‘Hello, how’s uni? Hope you’re looking after yourself’?

I snap my laptop shut and put it away. I notice the trembling in my fingers, and I lean back and close my eyes, squeezing them tight; squeezing the thoughts away and momentarily succeeding. But it doesn’t stop the tears.

The bus shudders to a halt. I wake up and look outside. Kaiwaka. Thirty-minute food and toilet break, then off on the last leg home. I get off the bus and search in my bag for my cigarettes.

Shit, I’ve left them on the fridge in my dorm … right on top of … ahh, my wallet! This day just gets better and better. I walk around stretching my legs, and happily I find a stray ciggie at the bottom of my bag. Fag in mouth, I look around for someone with a light. Bugger, crazy man’s the only one smoking – typical. I amble over to where he’s sitting on the plastic chairs outside the diner.

‘Can I borrow a light?’

‘Hmm?’ He peers up at me through a cloud of smoke, one eye screwed shut and the other bloodshot – figures.

‘A light?’ I mime the flicking action that people all over the damn world can understand. He smiles at me and laughs, chucking me his lighter, and in an easy tone tells me he thought I said I’d recognised him.

‘Me recognise you?’ This oughta be good. ‘From where?’

Crazy man takes on another persona: ‘Jake, hey, Jake! What’chu drinking, bro?’ And suddenly I do recognise him from somewhere. It takes a second, then it clicks; crazy man was in Once Were Warriors.

‘Me name’s Hemi,’ says Hemi.

My shoulders relax. I feel relief, like I can trust him now, but I’m not really sure why. I smile. It is the first real smile I’ve had on my face for days. We sit outside the roadside diner in the small town of Kaiwaka, smoking our cigarettes and looking at the green hills. Cars go by on the main road and the people inside probably just see a couple of horis sucking down tar to make our lungs dark like our skins, but I feel peace in that moment.

‘Hey, do you want some food?’ Hemi asks me.

‘Nah, I don’t have any money.’

‘You hungry? Come on, I’ll buy you food.’

I follow him into the diner and he loads up a tray with sandwiches and cakes.

‘You look like you could use a good feed, girl,’ he says.

We go outside with the food and eat it in the sun. Afterwards, Hemi reaches into his battered brown bag and hands me a full packet of cigarettes.

‘Here, take it. I got a coupla cartons,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve just come back from Oz; I been shooting a movie.’

‘Really?’ I grin.

‘Yup; I been shooting with some of those peeps from Ngāti Home and Away.’

‘Eh? What are they like?’

‘They’re all shit.’ He laughs like Billy T, and I can’t help but join in.

We spark up another ciggie, and I hear Dad’s voice asking me if I still smoke. I remember Dad snapping me and my friend smoking cigarettes in the woodshed when we were fifteen and giving me that look that makes you wither with shame. I remember watching a programme