SETA

I know its been a while, but I had to get something off my chest. It’s just one of those things, and its not going to be pleasant. It does not have a happy ending or an uplifting message. So if you’re reading this, this is your chance to get out.

The Scene

I took that picture last September when I went to Fiji. Now imagine yourself standing where the picture was taken so I can walk you through it. The obvious things first. You are standing outside the Lautoka Hospital. In front of you is an old tree stump and a broken table. All of this story happens in the mid-90s. So I want you to picture it as I remember it. In front of you is a tree. In front of that tree is an unbroken bench and table. That building to the right of the table had not been extended yet. To the right of this picture, out of view, is the children’s playground at the Lautoka Hospital. That building on the left of the picture is the maternity ward. To the left of this picture, out of view, is the Hospital Compound where my childhood home sits. Where I am standing, taking this picture, is a shortcut down to Simla housing. It is fenced, but there is a medium-human sized hole in the fence. Now that the scene is set, its time to meet the players.

The Players

Meet me. I was born in that maternity ward in front of you. I grew up in the house next to the maternity ward. Once old enough, and my grandparents had enough of me in the village, with my mother fully returning to work and dad away, the main character of this piece makes her entry. Her name is Setaita, Seta for short.

Meet Seta

She is my tavale, obligated by generations of cultural programming to be my biggest headache, fiercest ally, and vice versa. Her father, my Momo (closest English translation is uncle, but its deeper than that), felt my mother needed help and brought Seta to help my mom with me. I was a toddler, and Seta was probably 17 or 18. For a period of 5 or so years, we were inseparable. I followed her everywhere and thought she was the greatest. To this day there are parts of me that exist because of her. My enjoyment of the sappy romcoms we used to watch instead of my taped cartoons and most importantly, my undying love for Celine Dion. Also, a growing Fijian boy(Read: I) would sell the world for food, so most of my requirements were ticked by food, and Seta made the best Babakau (form of Fijian pastry), Panikeke Waicala(another form of Fijian pastry), and could climb the tall guava trees, etc.

When I was 4 or 5, my parents put down a rule that I had to rake the yard every morning before I could have breakfast(being dramatic here, our yard was two Senibua trees, not really hard labor). Seta would wake up with me, sit me down and tell me to talanoa to her about my cartoons while she raked. Having a Tavale is wonderful, but it also means someone forbidding you from doing any work, while also mocking you for not doing any of the work. Once “I” had finished raking,  I would call my dad, who would inspect the yard and once satisfied with cleanliness, go to buy bread for breakfast. Our scam was caught less than a week in, Seta was laughing too much. I got disciplined for having lied about doing the work and I got the belt. Seta didn’t, but she cried…she cried every time I got the belt.

Morning rakes aside, every afternoon would end the same. Seta would take me to the children’s park nearby. She would sit on that now-broken bench, and watch me slide, swing and see-saw to my hearts content. As darkness fell, she would begin the drawn out negotiations of taking me home. With her on the bench, and me on the top of the slide, I would bargain slides and swings for promises of future good behavior. “‘avale, kerekere, dua ale ga na slide, au na reki vavinaka ma’aka (Vale, please, one more slide, I will rake the yard well tomorrow)”.

As loving as she was, she was still my Tavale, and would always do the rubbish things a Tavale does. She once tied a coconut weave to my shorts while I was sleeping, gathered her sisters (all my tavales) to watch the show. She woke me up, yelling that a rat had gotten into my pants and and pointing at its tail(the coconut weave) sticking out. I still hear this story today. The day I ran around the village telling people to get the rat out of my pants. I got my revenge in parts though, I was a grade A tattle tale whenever she snuck out at night.

Seta Moves Out

Seta was the first person who I saw fall in love.  One random afternoon, I walk into her room, Seta is lying down writing in her notebook. She is silent, no jokes, no annoyed utterances. She looks out the window, staring into the distance, not really looking at anything but willing something. “Seta, cava na leqa (Seta, what’s wrong)?”, I asked. “Oilei Pei, Qo na veidomoni (Oilei Pei, This is love)”. I asked what that was, she said I would know when I was older, I’d meet a girl and I would feel what she was feeling that day. How old, I asked her. When you’re 18, she said. I laughed at her, me? love? ew, no, ew, never. She then said she would find me when I turned 18, and we would revisit this conversation. Most of our conversations were always about this future where I would finally know what she felt to be a grown up. I remember the day she brought him home. I sat on the floor behind my parents. Seta sat across from us, behind this man who she had fallen in love with. He looked down at the mat the whole time, before rising to his knees. His hands trembling as he twirled the rope on the tabua. His voice shakily mumbling the names of the traditional foundations of each house present. Him mistakenly pronouncing hers. My dad steadily eyeing him. Seta quiet, looking down at the floor, shyly smiling. She looked happy. He started coming around more. She was happier. Inevitably, we all became friends. They would sit on that bench, I would bargain with them both.

It became sadly clear to me that she would be leaving. When she moved out, I asked if I could visit her if I missed her, and if she’d still make me babakau even though she lived with her husband. She laughed, gave me a hug, told me that her house was mine. Thankfully, she moved to nearby Simla. So whenever I missed her, I would go to the playground, pass the bench, climb through the hole in the fence and run down the shortcut to her house. I’d bother her as she cooked, then when she was done, I would have some of their dinner, then walk home and have dinner again. Growing child things. One day, she excitedly told me she had found a job at the hospital. She might not be home if I came around but there would be a container in a cupboard on her porch filled with babakau. So, of course I did it. Taking a break from swings and slides, I would drop by climb onto the porch, eat the babakau then leave like a mongoose raiding food. Id also be annoying and check her shoes. She had a habit of keeping loose coins in her shoes & Id take what I found and leave a note to thank her for the food and money. This was my “tavale” raid(I received the belt for this, my dad did not find this part funny). A few years pass, we move further away, I start to make new friends, and the visits to Seta become less frequent.

Fathers Day

One night at home our movie session is interrupted by a knock on the door. Its Seta. I happily greet her, oblivious to her red eyes. Behind her are her bags. I embrace her and ask if she’s coming for a holiday with us. She says yes, but asks to speak to my parents. The next day my dad sits me down and tells me that Seta will be living with us. I am overjoyed, for my own selfish reasons. He also tells me, that I am to tell him whenever anyone comes to the house for her, especially if it’s her husband. My dad doesn’t tell me why. I obey. The next few weeks were beautiful. She was home. Just like old times. One Saturday that followed, he came home. I was looking out the window and saw him emerge from our tavioka patch. I waved. We had guests that day, he asked to see Seta. My dad went out  instead. I watched from the window and saw an exchange of words. I couldn’t hear what was said, it got louder and a tussle broke out. I saw my dad push him back and tell him to not come back. My dad returned to the house, straightened his shirt in the kitchen, before returning to our unsuspecting guests.

The next day was Father’s day, Seta woke up early and cleaned the house quickly before she went to work. I woke up to the light sounds of the sasa broom on the mat in the living room. I stayed in bed, lazy to move. She then went to work, in a rush to catch the bus to the hospital. My mother, being on-call followed after. I rolled out of bed, got money from the top of the table and walked to the store to get bread. We lived near Nadovu Park but on this particular morning I felt adventurous and decided to stroll to a bread shop past the Lautoka Police Station. On the way back I saw one of the Lautoka Hospital vehicles. It crawled slowly over the bridge to the Police Station. I stopped to let it pass. Sat in the front seat was the hospital administrator. I grew up in the hospital, everyone was aunt and uncle, so I waved happily and offered her Good morning. She looked pale, and looked straight through me before quickly looking away. Like I wasn’t there. I thought nothing of it, and walked home. At home, I was met by my dad sitting on the door step. I wished him Happy Fathers Day and he hugged me, told me to get ready, we’d be going somewhere. He told me not to open the door to anyone. I had questions, but again, I obey.

My dad and I arrived at the hospital and were ushered to my moms office. Seta’s shoes sat in front of the door, stained and filled with blood. Inside them was a 20c coin, and a 10c coin, stained with blood. Inside the office sat my mother, head down, covered in blood. On that morning, Seta’s husband went to the hospital. He had asked to see her, the security guard not knowing better, allowed him to. He took her outside the hospital. They would pass my mother at the entrance as she was walking in. She tried to intervene but Seta said that they would just talk outside. Immediately after passing them, my mother berated the security guard and asked him to follow the pair. She was still pointing the direction out to the security guard when she saw a crowd forming. She ran to her, but unfortunately, it was too late. They didn’t walk far, just a bit beyond the playground towards a bench outside the maternity ward. At that tree where we had spent so many moments, he pulled out a knife and took her life.

The Fallout

That night I sat outside our home dazed when a truck pulled up and the door opened. The headlights in my eyes meant I couldn’t see who it was, but the voice was clear. It was Seta’s dad. “E dina?”, He asked if it was true. He had not received the call. Earlier that day, he had finished lunch in the village. While lying down and listening to the radio he heard a news item that a maid at the Lautoka hospital had been killed by her husband. The news item left out names, but the second he heard it, he knew in his heart that his daughter was gone. He left the village on foot, and got the first truck he saw on the road.

I couldn’t bear to see her in the coffin. I couldn’t bear to see her buried. Culture dictates males must be strong, but I couldn’t. So I confessed to my dad that I couldn’t do it. My dad listened, then asked me if I would be willing to give up going to the funeral, and staying in Lautoka with him because he would need help to ‘watch the house’. We stayed back in Lautoka while the funeral moved to Ra and she was buried near the village we both grew up in. I heard it rained that day.

I apologize, I would have loved to write maturely about her, and not just focus on jokes, babakau and bargains. I am sure that there are a lot of things about her, that my 9 year old mind could not pick up or understand. Unfortunately, that is as far as I knew her, and my memories and assessments of her are made from the 30 year old memories as experienced by a kid.

Why Write This?

The reason is somehow as sad as the rest of this. The very last time I was at that spot was the day before my 18th birthday. I had faked a toothache to get sent to hospital. The tree was still there, the bench was not broken. I bought a roti parcel and in the shade of that tree I thought of her. I remembered her laugh, and the deals we made. We talked a lot about how I was going to be 18. It was here now, but she wasn’t. I left that half-eaten roti on the bench and walked away(I walked away from food, man. This was serious). Back then it had been some time but I could still remember things about her. Now? My memories, like that scene, have been withered by time. That tree is gone. That broken bench probably replaced the old one that was there when I was 18. The memories too are fading. Sometime 2 years ago, I asked my mom something about Seta, and we both didn’t know. The only thing clearly etched in my mind is the day she left, and it seems cruel that this is so. I’ve intentionally stayed away from him, or his punishment, or the aftermath of what happened. I do not write this to seek revenge or invite ill will on someone. I do not write it to speak to the larger issue of domestic violence or gender based violence. I write here just because I want her to be remembered. Not as a victim, as a person. So I write here, I post it, and every year when this day rolls around, I am reminded of her. So I never forget Seta.

Writers Request

Vei kemuni saka na wekaqu, mai na talanoa lailai oqo ni sa na via kidava o cei e vola toka. Ke mani vakavuna na rarawa se kelia cake mai na cudru na noqu I talanoa, au kerea meu vosoti. E sega ni noqu I naki ya. Tarai au mai dua na vakananumi tavalequ, au nanuma meu talanoataki koya vakalailai.

(for me)Its not just about the Gold

What does it take to make history?

One week ago, the clock ran out on the Gold Medal match between Fiji and Great Britain. The result had been decided earlier in the game, the result of a masterclass of pace, power and guile shoved into a 10 minute opening half. It was a result that every Fijian had counted on, dreamed of and envisioned. However, after all that hoping, praying and anticipating, I still did not know what to do with myself. Trust me, a lot of Fijians in the lead up already thought about it, “Boy, I don’t know what I would do if we won gold”. They thought that even if they didn’t say it out loud, because, you know, jinxes and shit.

Still after years of planning and dreaming, I stood still, beer in hand, trying to sing a song, no lyrics coming to mind, so I’m just standing there, yelling, a horrible roar punctuated with “WOOO!”s sounding like a Sea Lion. Completely lost, I did the same thing when Fiji beat Wales in the 2007 Rugby World Cup, I handed off my beer, picked up the closest person to me and gave them a bear hug, saying over and over “They did it”…which then became, “We did it”. This was a moment of history that I was extremely blessed to witness and experience and in that moment I knew how blessed I was and how I wished my father was around to see it. This was Gold, but to the Fijians in the stands, at home and around the world, it felt like something more.

To try and get a grasp of this, you must realize where Fiji is now and what it has come through. 4 Coups (let’s not go into technicalities with that ‘and a half’ stuff), Floods, Cyclone after Cyclone, Racial Tension, both its existence and it being stirred up by various leaders. Through it all, there has been one thing that has united everyone, Rugby. Rugby has a special power in Fiji. I have seen and heard of many Bledisloe games where the Aussies and New Zealanders watched while Fijian supporters of both teams got into fist fights over who was better. Think about that.  My dad used to wake me up at 3 am so we could go to my uncles house (he had Sky, we didn’t) to watch the Springboks and All Blacks. We are neither South African nor Kiwi, but when Frank Bunce tore up the Boks we cheered like we were. This is the passion we share for other national teams, so you can imagine the pride and passion we feel for ours. Now take that, multiply it by 5o, and you have something close to what we feel about our 7s team. Yes, when there is no ball we play with a bottle or a flip flop. Yes, I personally have been to a village that takes a generator and a TV up the hill in order to get a signal. Yes, we play on grounds that are uneven, for a few months we played side-to-side on with a hill in the middle.

When I was younger, Cyclone Gavin (I think it was Gavin) swept through Fiji. In the aftermath, we moved everything to our laundry. A huge mango tree had fallen right into the front of our house cutting taking out the electric post and all wires. Another part of the house got its roof clean blown off. The laundry was not only the sturdiest structure there, but, it was close enough to our neighbors from the Fiji Sugar Corporation so that an extension cord could be run over. TV, parents, grandparents and cousins all piled in to the little room to watch, the Hong Kong 7s. For a moment we forgot everything and we willed the team to win, Christian Cullen had other ideas. Fiji lost that game….and it was almost like everything…. house, roof, power had been lost in vain. This story of mine is just one in a country of hundred thousand more stories. If you ask you will find everyone has a story about when Rugby brought light into an otherwise dark time.

Fast forward through all the highs and lows to 2013. My dad had just passed away and we were in the process of completing all the traditional rituals in connection with it. Further bombarding a numb soul, Fiji had just been bundled out of the 2013 RWC 7s. Later that week, on another typical late night in such situations, my cousin pulled out his phone and read out loud that Ben Ryan had been named Coach of the Fiji 7s team. The somber group sparked up a discussion, filled with the views and opinions of all the seasoned critics, at the end it was decided, that Ben would probably be good, but….. “Laurai mada na tamata uludamu qo” (Let’s see how this redhead does). Most people don’t believe Ben Ryan when he says “People have told me not to come back if we don’t win gold”. Let me just say, I believe it. I’m not a player nor am I an official. I am a spectator. A drunken one. Upon being dropped off at the airport by a bro, I was told, “They lose, don’t come back”. But, we believe, and we do all we can to try and help. We do “our” bit. (see below)

All of this goodwill and positive thinking would have been for naught if the boys had not bought into the system and if they had not made great personal sacrifice to bring us the Gold. I can’t say enough about the team. How they all had to battle their different obstacles. How Jerry Tuwai’s father had to hitch hike and slept at the bus stand to see his son off at the airport the first time he made the team. How Tuisova made it out of the cane fields to be a human wrecking ball. How Masivesi Dakuwaqa working with near blindness in one eye battled to make the number 1 ranked team in the world. How Vatemo Ravouvou fought and overcame medical issues that could have robbed us of an electrifying talent. How Jasa lost his father and lost a professional contract because he suffered an injury but came back to be the World Player of the year. How Nakarawa, but for a chance meeting at Army could have played volleyball instead, also, how an international ban on Army players could have ended his career. I could go on. By looking at them you can see why we love them. They are Fiji. They are us. They have been beaten, dragged and thrown, yet they have come out, smiling, crying and joyful. To borrow the phrase, they were more than the sum of their parts. The world watched as a pig farmer and the boy from the roundabout became immortal. They watched as giants knelt and clapped their hands in respect. They watched as grown men and women cried and yelled like sea lions…because…sometimes, its not just about the Gold.

Alone

A few days ago a young lady posted what looked to be a suicide note on social media. The beast that is social media mildly exploded, showering her wall with messages of support and love. Loved ones and Strangers shared her post in the hopes of that somebody would recognize her, see her somewhere and lend a helping hand. An outpouring of support that showed even in this disconnected world, people could still care.

Unfortunately the beast has another side, and there were comments asking, among other things, why she had to let the world know, why she couldn’t just suck it up, and why she didn’t just do it. Others, in their attempt to cheer her up, told her that suicide was only for cowards…not for strong people. As of now, I don’t know what has happened to her, I hope that she found the peace of mind to not go through with it. It did show however, that many don’t get  what causes someone to even go near that dark place.

A few years ago, someone whom I knew and cared for went through that same process. He was  joyful boy who loved music, who loved to laugh, who (it seemed) loved life. As life tends to go, we drifted apart as parents moved but met up again in the village many years later.  Without skipping a beat, it was like we were kids again. He had grown into a young man who was the joyful, active person that many aspired to be. There was a loneliness though, that none of us could see.

Unfortunately for him, there would be no intervention and the loneliness would eventually overcome him. I cannot imagine the grief that flooded his immediate family.  In the aftermath of the shock and grief, I sat and listened as my dad and his dad talked about what had just happened. In very few words I heard his father and I saw why this loneliness was so deadly. “Tu vinaka sara tu ga na yagona…..io…sa ramusu ga na yalona”(His body was fine, but his spirit had broken). Sadly, no one knew. It makes it even more painful when you realize that someone everybody loved and cared for, had to go through something so dark, all alone. Compounding the pain was the fact that a slight change could have altered the path forever. The friend who sat with him for the last few hours joking and laughing, oblivious to what was about to happen. The neighbor who saw his light on and was going to pop in to see if he had a few bottles to wash down. The other neighbor who wanted to borrow the stereo but heard it playing so he decided against it. Everyone shared that pain, that anger, and their love for him made it even more painful. No one knew that he felt alone.

I will not pretend that I know what kind of wall this loneliness builds up or that I know exactly how to break it down. I will admit, I had taken quite a dim view of it all(depression,loneliness, anxiety) until it happened to someone I knew. I thought it happened only to someone who did not have an existing support system of loved ones and friends. I now know different.

I now know that someone with so many friends around can still feel alone. I now know that a person can be a joker, be talented and be a fully functioning person and still feel everythings for nothing. I also know that while the wall may be big, one small crack is all it takes(for starters). It can be a neighbor checking in. A friend sitting with you. A stranger writing a blog post about the wall of loneliness. You cannot let the wall close someone out. Reach out and talk to someone. Or go out of your way to call someone just to say “Wassup?” or if you’re not in 2001 anymore, anything. If you’re on the other end of loneliness, talk to someone(I’m not going to pretend its easy, but you owe it to the champion self that you are). Message me(seriously) or if you don’t feel like it and would rather talk to someone who is, you know, trained to deal with these situations, go ahead. I’m hoping that all it takes is just one slight give in the wall before good can come rushing in. Contrary to what T-Pain said in Buy you a drank, you don’t have to do it all by yourself(dry, weak, I’ll go with it anyway).

You can be many things in life. An astronaught, a model, a gamer, in an open relationship, single or married, but please dont let yourself think you’re ever completely alone.

Someone I Don’t Deserve

My Grandmother turns 80 today. I cant be there. This sucks.

My grandma did not attend school for long. She always told me it was because her mom and aunts told her, “Girls should only learn enough to be able to write their name, so they can reply when boys write to them”. I always asked her about it, she said she cried, but….thats just how things were those days. A different time. The islands in the 1930’s might as well have been on Mars.

I spent most of my young days with her and my grandfather in Ra(1990’s Ra, with those arsehole gravel roads) on the western side of Viti Levu. At the beginning of the school year, my grandfather would see my grandmother and I off  as we started our trip to the town. My grandfather was the village doctor, so he had to stay back, just in case. The morning trip would begin at around 6am with a boat ride over to Bureiwai, a nearby village(carriers and buses preferred only reaching here because of crappy roads). Here we would hope to catch the 9 am  carrier(basically, a pickup truck with a tarp cover) to go 3-4 hours to Suva. Then, we would get on the bus for the 3-4 hours trip down to Lautoka. Again, the roads were hell back then. Being the kid I was, this was an adventure for me. A glorious combination of boats, carriers, bean, bongo and buses.  I now realize that my grandma was then in her late 50’s or 60. I cant imagine how tiring and crappy that was for her and I’m so sad that I never once realized it. But hey, I was 6, and awww hell yeah, the world was mine. School enrollment done, she would then begin the journey back to the village while little me ran off to be the jah in the playground(totally fijian thing).

Fast-forward to Uni, 21 year old me knocked out in the living room after a long night of kava/beer/no good. You know those knock out naps, we all do. You stagger till you get somewhere mildly familiar, kick off your shoes, find the nearest flat empty space and just fall face first into it. A miserable no money namu pile of uselessness feeling on top of the world thanks to dulled senses. Then, a blanket gets thrown on you, a hand lifts your head and places a pillow under it and you hear matches striking as a mosquito coil is lit. You hear mumbling and cursing but its all good. You’re home, and your grandma is going to yell at you when wake up but…for now…she’s your grandma. She’s in her 70s now, still looking out for me.

Soon, its graduation night. I’m 24 and after all the “”you are now a man” speeches and well wishes, I steal away stealthily from everyone beside the tanoa and sneak down the driveway to go meet the bro’s in town. Feeling pretty good about myself to be honest. However, as I’m heading down the driveway I hear a strong voice coming from the porch, “Woe Pei, lako qori, qarauna na motoka, KUA NI SAGA MO QITO I GAUNISALA” (Oe, when you go watch out for the cars, and DON’T PLAY ON THE ROAD!!). I fooled everyone except the woman in her late 70s. Still looking out for me.

We all have some certain people in our lives. People who we know, deep in our heart of hearts, that we don’t deserve. I have been blessed with many of these. Among them, she probably is Queen. Sorry, she is queen. I selfishly hope  that before it all is said and done, I will get even more people in my life who I do not deserve. If I don’t, then I know I used up the quota a long time ago. A Happy Birthday to her. Where ever you may be, send her a shoutout too.

My Grandmother turns 80 today. I can’t be there. This sucks.

A First for A First

First post for this blog, and like many other firsts (or so I’ve been told), this one will stutter and stop and be embarrassingly short.

Today, Fiji welcomed the announcement that Major General Jioje Konrote will be sworn in as President after Ratu Epeli Nailatikau steps down. Before that day, a lot of things will be said about the decision. Regardless of what your political views are, there are some things that you cannot deny Major General Konrote. You cannot deny that he has a proud record of serving as a soldier, public servant and diplomat. Nor the fact that he has been the recipient of a number of medals from a number of countries. He also studied and graduated from a number of institutions including the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard University. As a commanding officer and a leader his record is without question. All these things are not debatable. They are facts, and now, they are points in history. Whatever the politics may be, these things cannot be taken away from him.

I’ll admit I was hoping that Ratu Epeli would be President (being an army kid, both names commanded respect within the house). However, despite my preferences, I also accepted that I would support whoever was chosen. Kinda like my stance on the Fiji 7s head coach position[side note: If you think I’m belittling the situation by comparing the President of Fiji to the Coach of the 7s team, then you obviously know nothing of Fiji (side note within side note: Ben Ryan Rocks)].

Barring the end of the world (No, I’m not one of those people, yet) President-Elect Konrote will be the President of Fiji and in being so, he will be the first ever native of Rotuma to hold the office. He will also be the first President not to have come from a chiefly family in the main islands. A proud day for all natives of Rotuma and all citizens of Fiji. Thats the end of it, right?

No, its not that simple, it can never be in the islands.

There are many other issues that accompany this appointment. These issues involve some that may carry some weight and they regard his resignation as minister, his involvement with a certain political party, whether he will be independent and free to perform the duties of the position as best he can and a billion other main and side issues. Some of these need to be addressed, while some of them need a response that is lovingly packaged into a slap.

For the moment, lets celebrate what we do know. A great man has been chosen to be the Head of State of Fiji. We wish him well, for his sake, and ours. That’s the end of my first post. A first, for a first.