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.