‘But you don’t want to hear me all night,’ the compere said. ‘So let’s begin our competition with Hukareka first, followed by L.D.S. Mahia, Hauiti and Whangara. We’ll have a break for a smoke —’ The compere saw Grandfather sitting in the front row downstairs. ‘Oops, sorry, Bulibasha.’
Grandfather waved the joke aside. Beside him, Grandmother Ramona was beautiful in that serene way of hers. She wore her long dress of white Spanish lace. She was like a dove among eagles.
‘Then after the break Mangatu, Waihirere, Manutuke and Mahana. Break a leg, folks! And first on — Hukareka!’
The opera house erupted into cheers. We kept our hands under our bums. Clap for Hukareka? No fear.
The curtains opened. The stage was empty. On came Hukareka, proud and vigorous, executing that amazing scissors pattern. ‘Karangatia ra, karangatia ra —’ They moved in double time, hands outstretched and quivering, claiming the stage with assurance and authority.
‘They are good,’ Aunt Sarah nodded. ‘They’re going to be hard to beat.’
As the competition continued, Aunt Sarah revised her opinion. Everybody was going to be hard to beat.
‘Ko Ruaumoko e ngunguru nei —’ The L.D.S. Mahia men chanted. They were on one knee, gesticulating and slapping their chests red from every slap.
‘Au, au, aue ha, hiii.’
The crowd was going wild. Old men were leaping into the aisle to face the men on the stage, confronting them and encouraging them to greater heights of vigour.
After Manutuke and L.D.S. Mahia came Hauiti and Whangara, and Aunt Sarah had been right; spurred on by the excellence of Hukareka, all the finalists had targeted them and were really pulling out the stops. Not only that, but every time the curtains parted the stage was empty. Everyone was copying Hukareka.
‘Not fair, judge!’ Agnes Poata called. ‘They’re all pinching our act.’
Hauiti had even gone one better, incorporating the entire marae ceremonial of welcome into their entrance — a karanga by the women, followed by a haka pulling everyone on to the marae, then the action song itself.
‘E te hokowhitu atu kia kaha ra —’
The judges sat up in delight.
‘Hauiti is really good,’ said Nani Mini Tupara, who was sitting with us. She saw that Hauiti had changed their poi as well — a poi describing the coming of the canoes to Aotearoa. She burst into long applause.
‘E ki! E ki!’
This was a moment that the Maori heart lived for — when music, words and action blended in perfection and brought the past surging like a sea into the present. My heart caught in my throat in recognition and thankfulness that I owed my life to those intrepid vikings of the South Pacific. The women in Hauiti’s front row sat, using their short poi to mimic the motion of a canoe’s prow plunging through the water. In the second row the women also sat and used the medium-long poi to depict the spray from the prow. Behind the women, the men were standing with peruperu sticks making paddling motions through stormy waves.
‘Ka pai tena!’ everyone yelled.
Whangara had their work cut out to claim the stage for themselves –
‘Uia mai koia whakahuatia ake, ko wai te whare nei e? Ko Te Kani!’
By the time interval came, Aunt Sarah was looking sick. The foyer was buzzing. By common consent tonight was better than last year.
‘We can only do our best,’ Aunt Sarah said bravely as she exchanged mournful glances with the two tutors for Mangatu and Waihirere, who were also looking green at the gills.
Then the bells rang for the second half.
‘Ah well, ka ka kakakaka —’ Suddenly Aunt Sarah clutched her throat in horror. Halfway through saying goodbye to her friends, she had lost her voice.
Panic struck. The haka team relied on Aunt Sarah to set the note and volume for our items.
‘Karangatia ra, powhiritia ra,’ Mangatu sang –
Upstairs, Aunt Sarah was doing a dumb show. ‘Where’s a doctor?’ she mouthed. ‘Somebody get a doctor.’
‘Pa mai to reo aroha,’ Waihirere sang –
And there was Aunt Sarah, eyes bulging. ‘Take me to hospital. Maybe they can operate in half an hour, stitch me up and bring me back in time for our performance.’
‘Kapanapana,’ Manutuke sang –
‘I’m dying,’ Aunt Sarah whispered.
Then it was time for us to go downstairs. Aunt Sarah heaved herself from one row to the next, as if on her way to bear testimony. It was clear to the entire audience that something was wrong in the state of Mahana. With heavy hearts the haka team went backstage. Aunt Ruth distributed the capes. We tied them on. Aunt Ruth sighed and turned to Haromi. Was that a wink?
‘You better do the karanga for your mother,’ Aunt Ruth said.
Did I forget to tell you that, as far as Aunt Sarah was concerned, there was only one star — herself?
‘Oh no she won’t!’ she said, finding her voice. Have somebody else shine? Her own daughter? Get off the grass. She was her bossy self again.
‘Okay everybody, on stage.’
But what about our new entrance song! The one we had been practising so hard?
‘Everybody before us has done their entrance that way. Let’s be different.’
So it was that when the curtains swished regally aside, there we were, in our long cloaks, in a V position. I couldn’t see beyond the footlights, but the roar of approval was deafening.
Good old Mahana. Let the others be flashy. You could always count on Mahana to be solid!
We began our traditional chant. Not a muscle moved. Let other groups move if they wanted to — we were Mahana! Again there was a roar.
Then Aunt Sarah moved to the centre of the stage and let it rip. Everybody held on to their hats. The voice that could cut a ton of butter was made for the karanga. When revved up and covering all the notes from A to G, that same voice could circle the world.
Aunt Sarah was standing in the middle of the stage. To both sides of her, the wings of the V formation moved backward and forward, simulating the flying motion of a giant bird. Our long cloaks had been cleverly designed to look like black and white feathers. The women began to stamp their feet. No sound at all except for Aunt Sarah’s voice, climbing to the stars. The men began to slap their chests. Aunt Ruth joined Aunt Sarah, her voice trying to catch up to Aunt Sarah’s and finally intertwining with it to go higher into the heavens. Both men and women began to swing at the hips, our piupiu crackling like static electricity.
Haromi’s sweet soprano came out of nowhere, speeding like a sparrowhawk after Aunt Sarah and Aunt Ruth, carolling up and beyond the universe. The three voices took the lid off the Opera House.
We began to sing: ‘E Ngata e, titiro koe ki a matou —’
We lifted our arms heavenward, following after the three voices as they soared through the night sky. We searched for our ancestor among the stars and moons and, when we found him, we reached for him — Look at us, Apirana, your great work lives on.
This was our trump card. Our action song — a tribute to Ngata himself.
For a moment there was stunned silence. Then whistles of approval and foot tapping was heard throughout the hall.
The women sang — ‘Titiro atu koe e Ngata!’ The men sang — ‘E Ngata e!’
The women sang — ‘Titiro ki nga mahi ora!’
The men sang — ‘E Ngata e!’
We brought the house down.
It would be nice to report that we won. We didn’t. Neither did Hukareka. Hauiti got the palm.