Beyonce finds me and together we go to the nearby freshwater pool with some cousins. The water is sparkling clear and the refreshing coolness is glorious. It’s the pool looked after by the Village Women’s Komiti and only for the women so we can swim in just a lavalava and luxuriate in the privacy.
“Aaah this is the life,” says Beyonce as she floats on her back. “Let’s never go back to Apia!”
“Let’s never go back to the family gathering from hell either,” I laugh. “Just leave Naomi and Troy to face the wolves on their own.”
“Yes, we’re not missing anything important,” agrees Beyonce.
We swim until the sun sets and then make our way back to the house where we are dutiful daughters and help with the dinner preparations.
Later that evening though, it seems we did miss something of vital importance. We are playing cards inside our mosquito net when Uncle Savelio’s voice thunders in Samoan over a portable loudspeaker, loud enough for the whole village to hear.
“Get up everyone. Come here. We must have a serious meeting, eh! Everyone. All the kids, all the adults, everyone.”
Everyone shuffles into the faletalimalo, some murmuring in complaint, some excitedly faikala’ring – until they catch sight of Uncle’s glare and quickly shush into false downcast obedience.
He doesn’t keep us in suspense for long, launching into a masterful tirade. It seems that our visit has coincided with an ongoing conflict between our aiga and another family in the next village. The origins are unclear. From what I can gather, it had something to do with roaming pigs and someone’s boundary for their taro plantation. And earlier tonight, someone – or several someone’s – from our aiga had stoned the other family’s cookhouse roof.
“Who was throwing stones at Mikakolio’s house ah?” Uncle demands. “Who was there? Who did it?”
He strides up and down the front of the fale, stopping every so often to point into the crowd, air-stabbing his finger with vehement emphasis. “Don’t lie. Don’t keep silent! God sees everything. He sees YOU! Somebody was throwing stones at Mikakolio’s house and I know all those somebody’s are right here in this fale. Stand up now. Confess. Who was throwing stones at the house?”
He is a righteous leader in this moment and I am stabbed with guilt about how I had written him off as a nuisance Trump-loving windbag. Good work Uncle Savelio. I don’t know everything about this family feud with Mikakolio’s aiga but you will put a stop to the foolishness before it escalates. I smile at Uncle and send him vibes of support. He’s just what this family needs. A strong leader with a sensible head on his shoulders.
But will the culprit own up? The taut silence stretches tighter and then snaps – as a little girl in a fluffy pink dress stands. She can’t be more than eight years old.
“O a’u,” she whispers as she stares at her dusty bare feet. “Me.”
WTF?
Beside me, Beyonce chokes on a smothered laugh. Uncle glares at her impudence and then roars at all of us. “Who else?”
And then the floodgates open. A teenage boy stands, tying and retying his lavalava in nervousness. An elderly woman struggles to her feet, assisted by her daughter. Followed by a cluster of men at the far side of the fale. One by one, two by two until it seems half the entire crowd are standing, heads downcast.
My mind is blown. Aunty Mina? Cousin Evelina? You too? This is unreal.
Yes it seems the majority of my extended family were stoning Mikakolio’s house. I almost feel left out. Like everybody got invited to the party of the year and didn’t ask me. Beyonce is laughing openly now, not even bothering to hide her mirth from Uncle’s glare. Another dig in my side. “Oh they’re gonna get it now!”
And then we wait with bated breath to see what Uncle will do next. For the sword of justice to fall.
Uncle Savelio surveys the guilty crowd with satisfaction. “Lelei. Good you confess.”
Then he says, “I want to tell each and every one of you, how proud I am of you!”
Now Beyonce and I are really What-The-Fuck-ing? Excuse me?
Uncle Savelio continues. “You stood up for the name and the pride of our aiga. You are defending our honour.” He beams, casting his approval far and wide. (But not to those of us who are non-stone-throwers of course. Because we did nothing to defend the family’s honour. Useless family members who clearly have no loyalty or pride.)
“When anyone tries to offend someone in our family, then yes, you must show them the wrongness of their ways. You must stand up for us all.”
The crowd of vigilantes are now holding their heads high, nudging each other, hi-fiving their own awesomeness.
Uncle Savelio isn’t finished. “BUT!” he thunders. And everyone shushes again.
“There is a problem. When you go to get revenge on those people who be cheeky to us. You don’t go in the open like that. No! That’s how you end up in the jail. Sitting in Tafaigata, crying for your aiga to bring you some food. That’s not how you do it. Don’t stone their roof where everybody can see you and hear you.”
Then his voice drops an octave and he hunches over, miming a sort of exaggerated Pink Panther-creep stance. “You must go quietly. In the dark. And KILL them. Strike like a ninja. You must creep up to them and stone them SECRETLY.”
The last word is a shout into the mike and resonates into the shadows, startling chickens roosting in the breadfruit tree next to the fale. Where assorted villagers are sitting…faikala’ring, listening to every word being shouted in this Top Secret Family Meeting of assassins.
“Don’t stone them loudly. Don’t attack them publicly. That’s stupid. I’m telling you the way to do it. Attack them secretly. And then the police won’t catch you. And you won’t go to Tafaigata.”
This can’t be real. I must be in a messed up messy Samoan novel about a fat woman who goes to Savaii for a family reunion and finds herself surrounded by an army of stealth warriors.
Beyonce mutters beside me, “Oh Lord it’s a good thing your sister already got Troy to put a ring on it. Because if he’d seen just how crazy our family is, he would have run a mile in the opposite direction.”
We both sneak a glance over at the newlyweds. They’re oblivious and have eyes only for each other. Beyonce was right. True love makes us blind to all levels of crazy. Maybe not blind, but rather, it makes you focus on what really matters. Not the crazy. Not your family dramas. Just the person you love.
In that moment I’m so thankful that Jackson didn’t come on this Savaii trip. Because my Savaii family of assassins would for sure have had him running miles away.
The next day I am summoned to the main fale for a weaving session with the women of the aiga. Presided over by Great-Aunty Pativaine who sits at the front of the fale in a wooden slat chair that’s covered in colourful rag mats. Beside her several aunties take it in turns to fan her while she dozes.
I know everyone wants to see the plastic Samoan fail at weaving so I make sure to weave my section of mat with extra grace and precision. Thank you Aunty Filomena for teaching us so well! There’s no breeze and sweat soaks my shirt as I weave industriously. But it’s difficult to zone out the chatter around me, especially when so much of it is about us the visitors. Mother fields questions about her husband, her household back in Apia, her charity work, and all the wedding drama of the preceding month. Then it’s Naomi’s turn to be interrogated. Teased about her meauli husband. (Tama uli dammit. Not meauli!) Asked about their upcoming trip to America where Naomi will meet all Troy’s aiga. And why is Naomi not resigning from her job at the Attorney General’s office?
“You have a rich husband now,” says one young cousin eagerly. “You don’t have to work any more.”
“Don’t be stupid,” remonstrates an older aunty. “Of course she should keep working.”
Yay feminist aunty! I mentally cheer.
“Her husband isn’t rich. It’s his parents money and you know American parents don’t look after their children like Samoans do. He’s ju
st a Pisikoa. That’s not a real job. They got no money,” contends the random Aunty. “Naomi has to wait until her husband gets a proper job.”
Everyone says Ahhhh and nods in agreement, murmuring to each other about the shortcomings of families in America. I am glad this is a woman-only gathering and Troy is off with the cousins somewhere. Probably being subjected to the male version of this ordeal.
Then it’s my turn to be the subject of the weaving conversation. They ask me about my life in America. How are my aunties there? That question is asked only to be polite because this is Mother’s family and they don’t like Father’s family. (It’s okay because the Aunties in America don’t like Mother’s family so it all balances out.) They ask about my work and I find myself telling them that while I work in a bakery, I also have been writing. Although I deliberately keep it vague what exactly I’ve been writing.
I sense rather than see Mother’s surprise from across the fale. But I ignore it. I’m not sure why I’m telling my Savaii aiga that I’m a writer but it just seems right. Like it’s time.
“You are a writer like your Father,” says a random old Aunty. “Do you get money from it?”
I say yes. Everyone nods in acknowledgement of my success. Because there’s no point writing books if you don’t get money for it. Not like those people (my Father) who write books about the Bible because they’re fiapoto and think the rest of us need the Bible explained to us. “Good girl,” says random Aunty whose name I don’t know. “You make our aiga proud.”
My buzz at getting some praise is almost immediately killed though as another nameless Aunty asks, “What about a husband?”
I shake my head. “No husband. Just me.”
A younger woman who I remember from my childhood – Dora I think? – speaks up. “Kalofae Scarlet, still no husband? It’s because you’re so fat. Kipi le ai. Stop eating so much. How is a man supposed to find your mea when you’re so lapo’a?!” Yes she really did just ask, how is a man supposed to find my pussy when I’m so fat. Thank you cousin Dora, bitch from hell.
She has a nasal trilling voice, the kind that carries on the salt breeze and sends millipedes wriggling into the bushes in a frenzied rush to spread the news. She laughs and it seems like everyone in the fale laughs with her. Except for me and Beyonce. And Mother (because she doesn’t laugh at crude, sexual humour. She has a religious reputation to uphold.)
Dora’s taunt is no more hurtful than many others that have been thrown my way during this trip and before. We Samoans know how to wound with words, like no other. We are a culture of orators after all. I should shrug it off, like I have shrugged off words before. But for some reason, I don’t. I can’t. Not today.
I ignore Beyonce’s fingernails that are digging into the tender flesh of my arm, take a deep breath and pitch my voice so it resonates. Loud. I want the flying foxes snoozing in the mango tree to hear it.
“Yes I’m fat. But at least men don’t find their way to my mea because of how bad it smells. When’s the last time you washed that stinky thing of yours? I should bring you some industrial soap from America next time I come.”
Dora is so shocked that her mouth opens and shut several times. Like a fish. The whole house has gone quiet. A stunned kind of oppressive quiet like waiting for a cyclone. Everyone is staring with their faikala wires on high alert. We Samoans have highly refined memorisation skills, honed through many years of White Sunday tauloto practises. We don’t need to push the audio record button on our phones. Every word and muffled AWOLLA! is being brain recorded and stored, ready to be replayed several times over for a future audience.
I’m not done. I figure, hey I’m dead already so may as well go out with a bang and give my relatives something to talk about during many Bingo nights to come.
I raise my voice another notch. “E lelei a’u ouke lapo’a e mafia ga lusi ae o oe ga e fagau mai auleaga e ke oki a o e auleaga. A least I can lose weight but you, you were born ugly and you’ll die ugly. What’s wrong with being fat? If I wanted to eat leaves and get skinny, I can. But you? With your ugly face and ugly heart? You’re stuck with those forever.”
My attack complete, the audience swings their hungry gaze to Dora. The ball is in her court now. What you going to do Dora? The woman splutters and fans herself with furious intensity, like she needs to cool down her shock and rage before she combusts. I suddenly remember that this is not my home ground. I have effectively waltzed into this woman’s enclave and insulted her. She could jump up and beat my ass (with the willing assistance of any number of loyal friends) and she would be entirely justified in her violence. I can count on Beyonce to fight for me, but even her ferocity wouldn’t be enough. We’re outnumbered. The crowd would probably cheer and take bets on how much hair I will have left on my head by the time Dora’s done.
My anger flees as quickly as it comes. Uh oh. Is it too late to apologise? Make a run for it? I could lock myself in the truck?
But before anyone can launch their campaign of vengeance, a wheezy cackly laugh breaks the strained quiet. Everyone turns. It’s Great-Aunty Pativaine. I have never seen the old bat smile and here she is laughing so hard that tears stream down her face.
She points at me with a trembling hand. In Samoan she says, “You have courage. And what a mouth.” She does an imitation of me. “When’s the last time you washed that stinky thing of yours?” Another wheezy laugh. “Come sit here,” she orders.
When Aunty Pativaine commands, you obey. I suppress the instinctive urge to run (and get on a plane and never come back), and walk over to where she sits. Another aunty I don’t know is sitting in the chair beside her and Pativaine tells the woman impatiently, to go sit somewhere else. The woman gives me her seat, and the fan so I can take over fanning her Majesty.
I sit where I’m told. And wait. And fan. What does this ferocious creature want of me?
Across the fale I catch sight of Mother. She looks worried.
Auntie Pativaine takes a loud slurp of her tea and swishes it around her mouth before leaning forward to me. “E sa’o lou kala.” You speak true.
She throws Dora a look so scathing that I’m surprised she isn’t riddled with holes or burnt to a crisp already. Then she says, “Her grandmother was a daughter of pigs. Never liked her. What can you expect when you come from such a line? Stupid girl.”
Aunty doesn’t bother to whisper. Why would you? When you’re a hundred years old, you can say and do whatever you want. It almost makes me want to live that long so I can wield that kind of #NoFucksGiven superiority.
Aunty launches into a tale about Dora’s long-dead grandmother (may she rest in peace). Something about how she married into the family, was perpetually lazy, never did any feau’s, her weaving was shit, and she was always cheating at Bingo.
According to Aunty, she had been the worst kind of nofotane. The kind who didn’t know her place and ate from the sapasui pot before important guests were served. Oh – and she had tried and failed to disagree with Great Aunty at a Women’s Komiti meeting, so Aunty had thrown a pot of hot tea at her.
“Amio puaa,” says Aunty Pativaine.
Okay then.
In my world, being the thrower of hot teapots makes you more of the amio puaa, rather than the person who was the target of said hot teapot? But then again, what world do I live in? One where the ancient are trundled off to rest-homes to rot. Not a world where they hold regal court and everyone quakes at the brittle snap of their voice and leaps to their command.
Another elderly woman tries to murmur soothing words of a peacemaker. Something about forgiveness and the perfect love of Jesus. But that only further infuriates Great Aunty. She hacks an awful raggedy sound and spits, aiming for outside the fale but instead only making it on the cement floor.
“Don’t talk to me about forgiveness! My grandmother lived to be older than I am now, and she didn’t know this Jesus. She was a fighter. For our aiga. For our land. None of this palagi peacefulness. That’s why all of you are too soft. Yo
u forget Jesus wasn’t Samoan. The palagi brought him here and now you recite his words like they are ours. Words that make our women weak.”
I’m in stunned awe but there’s a weary air of resignation in the fale. It’s clear that for everyone else, this is not a new tirade.
Aunty continues, her voice gaining momentum. How is it possible that this wizened little old lady has this much power in her?
“Like YOU girl!” She points at Dora. “Every week your shit-eater husband beats you, and every Sunday the faifeau tells you to forgive. Every time you cry to these women and what do they tell you? They tell you onosa’i, be patient. Loto maualalo, be humble. They read you the Bible to be a good wife because Jesus said so. Then every week he beats you again and everyone hears it and does nothing.”
“But you know what my mother did when my father tried to beat her? She waited until he was asleep and she cut off his poki. Then her mother and her sisters chased him out of the village. He never dared to show his face around here again. Everybody told the story everywhere as a reminder of what happens when you disrespect a woman of our family. Ha. He was no use to any woman after that. No poki!”
Aunty cackles uproariously and I am sorely tempted to laugh too. But then I catch sight of Mother’s scandalised glare. Good girls don’t use the word poki. And they certainly don’t laugh at the thought of a woman cutting a man’s penis off.
“Your mother should pray less and do more to fight for you Dora. But what do you expect? Daughter of pigs. All of you. If I had a sapelu I could do it.” Aunty mimes a vicious cutting motion and there is grim glee on her face. “If you were true warriors and bring him to me, I could do it!”
Nobody raises an eyebrow and again I see that Great-Aunty’s threats of violence are nothing new. They probably keep all the knives within a 100m radius locked up securely.
Then Dora lets out a loud aggrieved wail of protest, as she tries to say something in outraged defence of her maternal ancestry. Or perhaps in defence of her husband’s privates?
Scarlet Redemption Page 6
