Life in Death

Lofa Totua

During those last months in my village, I sat with Papa on our deck, looking out at the heavy rain. We were an inbetween, no one’s main destination. Not anymore. Every morning, I brought Papa his lemon drink, but his hands shook uncontrollably so I often had to feed it to him, sip by sip. On his good days, we could weave.

We watched the men trudging home after toiling in the plantations and the children lugging water from the markets in town, while I did most of the cutting and plaiting and folding and smoothing. Papa helped when he could. When his tremors eased he was more skilled and precise than I was, but I was still faster.

Papa would say, “Why are you rushing Tina? Do you have somewhere to be? Do it properly.” Our woven mat would sit on the deck, waiting for attention, and we would continue weaving every evening. Outside the deck, plants that lined our entrance were overgrown and the grass was unkempt. My mother tried her best, but she had a small stature and the land we lived on was wild.

Every now and then, a weak breeze would try to ease the heat that hung around after the rains, but rivers would still run down our backs and faces. Even now I can still hear Papa’s laboured breathing, searching for air. Raspy coughs would drown out the few birds that still hung around and it hurt to hear him talk. Most of the time we would sit quietly, his old eyes observing the new motor vehicles that rolled past and my fresh eyes on our home that he had built from nothing before I was born. My home.

Papa loved to weave because my Nana had loved to weave. When she was alive, people from all the neighbouring villages came for her especially, with their commissions. The deck he had built for her many years before had started to rot underneath us. He’d built it with the trees that grew in the corner of our front yard. At night it would creak when the ghosts came to visit Papa, calling for him to come home. He was stubborn. The calm ones would talk to me when I couldn’t sleep, sharing stories from the old times. Looking back, I know now they were my ancestors, men and women of my bloodline who walked and talked on earth as we do now. They warned me of angry black eyes and sad spirits, the result of suicides who were stuck in between Pulotu—the world of darkness and heaven, the white man’s paradise.

One afternoon, a day after the rains had stopped, Papa held my hand. You could see his veins, like green lightning tattoos on his pale skin. They stuck out on his hands, hands that had accepted the rough thwack of palm leaves in our plantation. Hands that had learnt to move the stubborn earth to give birth to new life. Hands that could be tender with our gardenias—white petals that are stained brown after a time. The garden was a renewed green. The worms and bugs beneath us were awake. Papa’s gardenias were abundant and pearl white.

“Your birthday gift,” Papa said. His hands didn’t tremble as I hung on for dear life. We sat and watched the road together. Our mat was finished. That was the night the cats cried. A warning that signifies death is near.

***

I was married and living with Joseph by the time I was 20. We welcomed my 20th birthday along with the wet season in December. Joseph insisted that I invite everyone. He said time was precious, as was my youth. He was right as always. Everyone came. The younger women, family friends and daughters of other village chiefs who smiled too brightly at me. It didn’t match the green fury in their eyes. I could hear it in their murmurs, the not so discreet conversations that only raised in volume as soon as I left the room. My name on their lips was a new sound for my ears, twisted and spat out like the fish bones from a feast. Valentina. Of course, they wanted to be me. Well at least, the me that was with Joseph. I was set up for life. Before me, Joseph had crowds of women pursuing him. It was a slap in the face to many when he had chosen me.

My stomach had swelled fully and the aunties were eager to celebrate my pregnant glow. The other women said nothing.

“You’ve always been so beautiful Valentina but your skin! So clear, so perfect!”

“This baby is going to be the most handsome boy our family has seen. A smile like Joseph and light skin like his mother!” His family would make bets on whether the boy would have my copper hair, or Joseph’s bat coloured nest. “He will look like his Mother but have his Father’s strength,” one said. “No! He will look like his Father and have his Mother’s gentle nature!”

One of the daughters of a High Chief from another village interrupted, “Better the Father’s looks. We have enough boys wanting to be girls.”

“Oh darling, you are just jealous you have your father’s nose!” Nicky fired back. He was Joseph’s cousin, a fa'afafine. We didn’t have any in Papa’s village. I would find myself staring at his perfect eyebrows and ever-changing hairstyles often, wondering how long he took to get ready in the morning. “And anyways, no one asked for your ten cents! The boy will have Tina’s beauty and his Father’s dick!” Nicky shrieked with laughter and the room joined her. Nicky winked at me and threw me a dazzling grin, the family’s secret weapon and my weakness

My 20th celebrations were more than any birthday in my household. More food, more people, more noise. I remember the warmth that stirred within me as I breathed it in. The harmonies during prayer caressed my skin. Every morning and evening they would unite in the same song. His aunties would cradle their babies closely, soothed as they would fall asleep to beautiful hymns that glorified life. Prayer was amongst my favourite times with Joseph’s family.

When Joseph said his speech to me that night, laughter could be heard from the neighbouring villages. Both the comedian and dramatist that he was, Joseph knew how to command and hold attention. He adored me and it felt like his family did too. I remember glancing around the room as his oldest sister Silia balanced my cake, taking her time as she began my birthday song. I had never had my own cake before. It was simple, as all things were, but it was enough.

Halfway through the song, I locked eyes with Joseph’s younger sister Ema. Her glare matched the burning of the single candle on my cake. The flame flickered and I looked back at her unbothered. It was not the first time she had openly shown her dislike. Her features were nice enough, but she was not what one would call beautiful. Her hair was bat black like her brother’s but less coarse. She wore it in tight braids, the kind that I was forced to wear as a child. Everyone in the family loved Joseph, except I think, Ema. She was a couple years younger than me and a whole 10 years younger than Joseph. I smiled, but her face stayed hard. Ema had barely said a word to me throughout my early days with Joseph and in our first months of marriage. She kept to herself and followed her Mother to and from Church. Joseph said she was precious and wasn’t welcome to change.

She approached me later, when I was alone outside, listening to the joy inside Joseph’s family house. I sat on the stairs while she stood above me, arms crossed and chin high.

“Why are you here?”

“I like sitting outside,” I replied.

“At night? You shouldn’t be doing that. Especially in the state you’re in.”

“I think I’ll be okay.”

“How do you know that? Who are you to challenge them?” She pointed her chin out into the night. I laughed.

“I like to think I’m well protected.”

She sniffed and was silent. It was at this moment that I realised how much of a loner she was. Ema was always at the edge of family celebrations—always the last to eat, to clean up. She was an afterthought to her family but to me, there was something unsettling about her presence. She liked to keep to herself. Unusual for our people who thrived off community. I observed her while she looked out onto the dark road. Ema was skinny now, unlike when I first met her. She was stronger when she was a girl, often muddy and bruised from working outside on her Father’s land. Now she looked sick, her frame ready to break at any moment. I shifted my eyes to the road too and saw a light from a motorcar in the distance. Joseph’s family was amongst the first to have them, I remember seeing their black Ford cruise past Papa’s home when I was Ema’s age. I looked back up at Ema and saw her scratching at her wrist, a habit that won her the nickname “dirty” from her aunties. I sighed. Be kind, Tina. Perhaps this was her way of reaching out.

“I was talking to my Papa..”

“What?” Her black eyes widened. They did not look like her own.

“Isn’t he dead?”

“Yes.”

I breathed in and saw the motorcar pass outside Joseph’s fence. It was long and silver, one of the newer imports.

“He passed away on this day two years ago.”

“He passed away on this day two years ago.”

“Wait. What? Your mean your Papa was – “

“Old Man Wilfried? Yes.”

Ema’s eyes widened again. They looked like owl eyes.

I heard Papa’s warning tone brush my ear only to be interrupted by Ema.

“I… I…. I’m so sorry Tina. I didn’t mean to-”

“What? Didn’t mean to what? What did you do now Ema?” Joseph came from behind us, straight for his sister. Drunk. The door to his house was wide open behind him, his family one by one joined us outside. Joseph’s Aunty was at his back, her hands on his shoulders trying to settle him.

***

Ema disappeared the night I turned 20. I gave birth to my son Wilfried at dawn the next morning.