Translation by author
Tokorua ngā wāhine e noho ana ki tētahi tēpu. He rite tonu te āhua ki te tīmatanga o te rekoata a Janet Jackson, ehara tērā wharekai, engari he whare Kāinga Ora kē. He makariri te kawhe pango ki ngā kapu, ahakoa, wera ana ngā hikareti kua kā. He whīroki ō rāua tukemata me te whānui o te mingo kata. Kei waenganui i a rāua ki te tēpu Formica, he paepae pungarehu kātahi anō ka horoia.
“I hoki koe ki te moenga o Tīpene inapō?”
“Tē taea te mahi i tētahi mea, nē rā? Me mōhio te tāone nui, e kōtiro?” “Kei a koe, e kōtiro. He patu te ua ki runga, he ngutu wāhine ki raro.”
Ka heke iho tētahi irāmutu a Mere i tōna rūma ka paopao i te pouaka whakaata. E hōhā ana a Mere i te haruru o MTV.
“Hika mā! Kei te pukumahi māua. E puta!” Nā tana riri, ka whakaweto ia te pouaka whakaata.
“Tamariki i ēnei rā,” ka auē a Mere ka hoki whakamuri, ka paopao ki te reo irirangi. Ka hamumu a Ardijah i roto i te whare, ki waho hoki i te matapihi kīhini.
I a Mere e noho ana, ka takataka te toenga hikareti ki te papa. Ka kata anō, ka huri ki a Metiria, ka mea, “Nā, i pēhea ia?”
Ka mokemoke noa te puoro ki ngā taringa o Sonny i a ia. I te wera o te raumati, ka puta ki te huarahi. Ka wheke mai tōna Whaea, heoi, ka kata ia me te mōhio ka whakarongo ki ngā waiata a tēnei pō. E ngunguru ana te puku, ka wiriwiri a Sonny i ōna pūkoro me te tūmanako he tīni. Ka whai hua te pūkoro mauī. Ka kūmea e Sonny te taonga i tōna pūkoro, ka tatau ai i ngā moni. Ka tō mai te whakaaro, “Pai, e nui ana mō tētahi kokopi maramara rīwai me tētahi parāoa, ko au tēnā.”
E maha ngā kurī e noho ana ki te papa i mua i te whare. Ko ētahi e auau ana, e ngau kino ana ki te hunga e hīkoi ana ki te rori. Ko ētahi e ngenge, e pōrangi ana i runga i te wera o te ahiahi. Ko ētahi ka titiro atu ki te tarutaru e hewa mai ana i ngā taiapa mekameka. Ko ētahi ka werohia ki ngā rekereke karekau he taiapa.
Ahakoa kurī, karekau kurī rānei, ko ēnei momo whare e kikī ana i ngā tapuwae, he whare ora mārika. He kainga ki ia whare. He kainga Māori ki konei. Kei konei, ki ēnei kainga, ngā tangi o te ora; he waiata, te tangi o ngā pēpi, he tukinga rīhi, he katakata, he hāmama, te takaro ā ngā tamariki hoki. Mai i waho, he iti te āhua ki ēnei tau-kāinga, engari, ahakoa he iti pounamu.
I tāna haerenga ki te toa ika, ka kite a Sonny i tōna teina, kua ihu hōhonu ki tāna pukapuka. He tangata hīanga a Sonny, ka whakarite i a ia anō ki te whakapōrearea i a Hine. Ka tata mai ki a Hine, ka kapohia e ia te pukapuka mai i ōna ringa. Ka huri ohorere a Hine. Whaimuri ake, ka tō mai te māramatanga ki a Hine, ā, ka panaia te pakihiwi o Sonny.
"Kei tāwauwau kē koe, e kōtiro" ka kata a Sonny, ka whakahokia tāna pukapuka.
"I ētahi wā he pai ake i te piri ki tēnei wāhi," tā Hine.
Ka tiro whakateka a Sonny ki tōna whanaunga, ka hīkoi atu.
Ka whakapau a Hine te rangi ki te pānui, tae noa atu ki te wheronga o te rangi. I a ia e hīkoi ki tōna kāinga, ka kite i ngā Lion Red’s ki te tēpu. Kua haurangi kē tōna Whaea.
“Ko wai kei tāwauwau ināianei?”
Ka hamumu o te waiata a Janet Jackson, e haruru ana te reo irirangi, ka horoi ōna ringa, ka whakarite te kai mā ngā tamariki.
Two women sit across from each other at a table. It almost looks like the start of a Janet Jackson music video. It isn’t. They sit in the familiar dining area of a state-housing home. Black coffee is going cold in mismatched mugs and the cigarettes perched between the ladies' outstretched fingers burn down. Their eyebrows are thin and their grins wide. Between them on the yellow Formica table is a freshly cleaned ashtray.
“Did you go home with Tipene last night?”
“Can’t bloody do anything around here without the whole town knowing, eh girl?”
“True, you know it, girl. He patu te ua ki runga, he ngutu wāhine ki raro.”
One of Mere’s nephews comes down from his room and flicks on the TV. MTV starts blaring and Mere isn’t having it.
“Can’t you see we’re busy here boy?”
She gets up angrily and turns the blaring TV off. Sonny gets up with a huff and walks through the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
“Kids these days,” Mere sighs and walks back, flicking on the radio. Ardijah hums through the house and out the kitchen window.
Mere sits back down, flicking the little bit of ash that hasn’t already fallen to the floor into the ashtray. Grinning again, she turns back to Metiria and says, “So how was he?”
The music just misses Sonny’s ears as he makes his way out into the street in the summer heat. Always pushing his aunty’s buttons, but the anger he felt when he slammed the door disappears. He smirks, knowing she’ll be blaring music herself soon enough tonight. Stomach grumbling, Sonny shakes his pockets hoping for the jingle of change. The left pocket proves fruitful. Sonny pulls the treasure out onto his palm, counting coins in his head. “Pai,” he thinks, “enough for a scoop of chips and bread, that’s me sorted”.
Mangy dogs reside on many front lawns, some lunge and bark viciously at passers-by while others merely look up dazed from their afternoon dreams. Some peer out from patchy grass through low chain-link fences, others nip at ankles where there is no fence at all.
Every house, dog or not, is well lived in. Every house is a home. A Māori home. Each home offers sounds of life: music, babies crying, dishes clashing, laughter, shouting, or children playing. From an outsider the neighbourhood wouldn’t look like much, ahakoa, he iti te pounamu.
On his journey to the fish and chip shop, Sonny sees his younger cousin, nose deep in her book. Not seeing him coming down, she walks on undisturbed. Sonny, always mischief, readies himself as they walk closer together. Just as he’s about to pass, he snatches the book from her hands, pretending to read it too. Startled, Hine turns around wide-eyed. Realising what’s happened she laughs, lightly pushing Sonny’s shoulder in protest.
“You’re always off with the fairies, girl,” Sonny laughs, giving her book back. Hine tenderly pushes her hair back behind her ear and gives him her tentative smile.
“Sometimes it’s better than sticking around this place.”
Smiling wonderingly at his quiet cousin, Sonny walks on to get his dinner.
Hine, having spent her day at the river reading until the sky turned red, makes her way back home. She walks through the kitchen door to see the bottles of Lion Red already out on the table.
“Who’s off with the fairies now?” Hine thinks to herself.
Humming a Janet Jackson song quietly as the radio blares, she washes up, getting ready to put dinner on for the kids.