30

The ‘umu

A pyramid of hot stones

tumble

into a thick layer.

Dense, stinging smoke

and Viliamu barking orders

at five church mates.

A pig,

eyes closed and mouth bloodied,

stuffed with leaves and hot stones,

sits almost patiently,

wrapped in wire mesh.

The men place thick discs of taro

directly onto the stones

around it,

then palusami wrapped in foil.

‘Sorry, uso! If we were back home,

would’ve used the real thing,

not coconut cream from a can!’

I smile.

Dad used to say that.

Before the end,

he used to reminisce more and more,

about limu,

grape-like seaweed you could pick by the bunch in the reefs,

about pone,

the angel fish that could be eaten raw with seawater,

its flesh bitten off the bone,

stripped there and then when the fisherman came in.

Viliamu has marinated

some chicken and fish

and he smiles at Muhammad’s dad,

nodding to show that he is cooking it

separately from the pig.

Muhammad’s dad

doesn’t seem to care

and is sipping on a beer.

The kids lean in to watch.

I’ve cut my dreds short

with a nice fade up the side.

The square basslines and live instruments

of ‘The ‘Umu’ by Koolism

bouncing from the speakers.

Seems appropriate,

even if Hau is Tongan.

Scarlett sips a beer,

speaking rudimentary Samoan to some of the aunties,

who look well chuffed.

She learnt some at school,

she reckons.

Amazing.

Soon someone has a guitar out

and is shouting, ‘Turn that rap crap off.’

The sky is darkening,

being played into night

with each strum.

Several voices harmonise straightaway.

Mum sways and sings along,

smiling serenely,

wrinkles appearing at the corners of her mouth,

and it occurs to me

that she is entirely heroic –

her whole life an act of balancing, outlasting,

of living out her name.

A hand on my shoulder.

Viliamu.

‘This is a good thing you’re doing, uso.’

‘Ah, it’s just ball. A bit of fun.’

‘No. Tautua. Service. It’s important, it’s who we are. O le ala o le pule, o

le tautua. The way to leadership is in serving.’

‘Yeh. Dad used to say that.’

An auntie is dancing now,

twisting and unfurling her hands,

her big frame controlled and delicate.

‘He’d be proud of you right now. He was a good man. Used to send a

lot back to the village.’

I feel guilty. ‘Do you send any?’

Viliamu nods slowly. ‘Yeh. Yeh, I do. Wonder about it sometimes

though, cuz, ay.’

We are all music

and smoke and night and now.

The world

The world is opening up and stretching out,

being sketched in biro

and coloured in.

My skin, too.

The needle goes in –

I register it,

accept it.

Scarlett is tattooing a kite on the back of my arm.

Each puncture

is beauty and sadness,

is fear of falling back into bad habits,

is furious freedom,

is knowledge I can change,

that I have changed.

Beneath our feet,

tectonic plates are gliding,

shifting.