For Change

By Vili Vete

SIONE sat on a tree trunk surrounded by his newly-harvested yams and vegetables. He kept slapping his thigh and shaking his head as if he could not believe that so much good fortune lay around him.

“There will be enough to pay somebody to help me replant the field with kumala and bananas,” he said, “and to keep what we want.

“I shall need to buy a new uniform for our son Tevita, a pair of trousers for you, and some cooking utensils, Ana, his wire, said.

Yes, Sione said. ere V® enough money for all this, you will see. God in His mercy has given us another chance.

“Fi rs t th f marketing, Ana said, ‘ then the plans. pien and there, m a fever of impatience, they wove baskets for the yams and set to calculating quantities and prices.

As born farmers there was nothing to equal the deep satisfaction ot a rich harvest Later that night they went and offered their prayers at the church.

After the evening meal, Sione went straight to bed. Ana tidied up. The food scraps and banana leaves were put in a basket for the pigs. She then went to bed. She found Sione still awake. She knew he was calculating the profits and how they were to spend it. Ana stretched herself out beside him in the dim light of the kerosene lamp placed on the big chest in which they kept their valuables.

Sione turned abruptly towards her.

Their hearts were full of joy. The silence was broken by the sound of a lali from the village. Sione reached out from under the tattered tapa and put out the light. In the straining darkness she felt his body moving

towards her, his hands on her were trembling, and she felt her senses opening like flowers to his urgency, She waited for him to come to her.

Next morning, Sione went to market. The horse-driven cart was laden with baskets of yams, talo, cab bages and bunches of bananas. The earth had yielded richly.

TT was ear iy afternoon when Sione 1 d back h He had so i d al , his crops , He was whistling, and ignored the hot sun. When he was passing the ’Eiki of his village’s home, SO mebody called out. “Sione, Sione, st a minute i”

Sione stopped the horse. “What is The man came c j oser said: “I have good news for you. The ’Eiki heard that you had a rich harvest, He sent me „ “$0 he sent y OU to congratulate me? j s t h a t the good news?” « No « said the man. “His son arr i V ed yesterday from the city to spen d his school holidays here.”

“That is good news for everybody.”

Sion said warily. He was thinking of his own son, hoping to see him at home that day.

“Yes, of course!” the man said, “The ’Eiki wants every farmer on his j an d to produce a basket of yams, You are to bring a puaka toho (big gest pig) for the celebration.” Sione didn’t know what to say.

“What’s wrong, Sione? Aren’t you pr oud to be honoured with such a task? Every person here longs for that honour.”

“Nothing wrong,” said Sione.

He wanted to strike the man; he wanted to ram the words down into his throat. But he managed with great effort to control himself, The man left. Sione drove on.

Vhen he reached home it was late tfternoon. Ana came out of the ooking shed. Smoke had forced ears out of her eyes. She hurried to lim as he jumped down from the art.

“You are early, Sione! What hap pened? Did you manage to sell every tiing?” she asked. Sione didn’t say

nything.

“Sione, are you all right? Are you 1 9”

Sione didn’t answer her questions.

“Damn it!” he said loudly. “I am etting sick of it.”

Ana was very surprised. She stared t him. For the 15 years of their larriage she had never heard him ly such words. She thought that he ad been drinking.

jHONE quietly unharnessed the

' horse. He repeated the words, iter tying the horse to a coconut ee he hurried into the house. Ana as worried. Sione called out that he as hungry.

Ana went to the nearest banana ee and cut out a leaf. She took to the cooking shed and placed it i the middle of the earthen floor, tie then took the baka from the fire, Dured the water out into a kumete id distributed the food on the anana leaf.

From a box at the corner, she took it a big basin which contained lu lat had been cooked in coconut milk, ic put some in a coconut bowl and aced it on the opposite side. Sione ime in, sat down on a dried coco jt leaf, and faced her.

“You say the grace, Ana. I am it in the mood,” he said.

“Bless the food which we are about receive, make it for our good use, t Christ’s sake.”

“Amen.”

Sione started to eat. Ana watched m. He said nothing. There was a ushed look about him which spoke the deep hurt he had suffered, e had always wanted to own his vn land. Through the years there id been the hope, growing fainter ich year, that one day he would : able to call a small portion of nd his own. Now, even his son lew it would never be. Like his ther before him. Ana broke the lence by asking what had happened, ic was sure now that he was not unk.

“On my way back I was stopped ' Ohule, the ’Eiki’s matapule. He Id me that the ’Eiki wanted our laka toho for the feast to celebrate e arrival of ’Amanaki Lelei, his son; ter his first term at secondary hool.”

“So,” Ana said, “we are finally inoured.”

“We are being robbed again.”

“What do you mean?” Ana said as she started eating.

“Ana, don’t you understand? We, the eaters of the soil, toil from sun rise to sunset to get enough to feed ourselves, pay our son’s school fees, and to have some for other purposes.

But that ’Eiki he does nothing, but just eat, shit and sleep.” Ana listened patiently. “Last week we sent him the best of our harvest and your new tapa. This week he wants the puaka toho which we were going to sell and pay for Tevita’s school fees. That old . . .”

“He is not human,” Ana declared.

“He has no love in him. He has always demanded our best, ignoring the needs of us poor creatures.”

THE memory of their son, who was going to arrive at any moment, came to her mind. She thought about his future. This brought tears to her eyes, hot and bitter, flowing and flowing as if the very springs of sorrow had been touched in her body.

Sione listened to her but it was a sham, poor, shabby pretence to mask

his feelings.

“Well, what . . ?” Their dog barked and ran outside.

“Somebody is coming,” Sione said.

The sound of the cart became louder and finally stopped outside the fale mohe. Sione stood up and, with out a word, walked out with long, quick strides. Ana followed him.

Outside were two men on a cart.

Both were dressed traditionally to show their status. They both leaped down. The one who was tall and burly did all the talking and the other one, who was thin and insignifi

cant, stood silently and agreed with what his companion said.

“Malo lelei, Ana mo Sione.”

Sione didn’t speak, his face was overlaid with misery and anger.

But Ana managed to speak up.

She seemed to have completely for gotten her earlier comments. She now showed the typical island custom —eager to show any wealth and dis guising hurt with an easy-going manner.

“Malo lelei, ongo matapule,” Ana said. “How are you?”

“Sai pe,” the two men replied, one after the other. And before they spoke of their visit. Ana spoke up again.

“Come in, come into the house and make yourselves comfortable.” She turned to lead the way, but the tall man stopped her.

“It’s very kind of you Ana, but because we are in a hurry I will ex plain the purpose of our visit.”

“Do not speak of your visit. We expected you. My husband had told me. We are proud. Bring the cart to the other side of the cooking shed.”

SHE turned to Sione and com manded him to get the ripe bunch of hopa which was being kept for Tevita, their son. Sione slowly turned to do what he was told.

“Is that the pig?” asked the thin man.

“Yes, that big one,” Ana said, still watching her husband go.

“MAUMAU mo’oni!” he said.

“It’s all right,” Ana said as she went close to the pig. “We fed him up for two years now. We had in tended to sell it to help finance our son’s studies.”

“So, we better leave it, and take another one,” the fat man said.

“No, you take it, you know, our duty comes first, even though we are poor,” Ana said.

The two men looked at each other, and then acted immediately. They tied the pig’s feet together and loaded it onto the cart. They both leaped up to go.

“Wait,” Ana stopped them. “Sione!

Sione! Hurry up!” Sione came with the kau hopa and lifted it up to the fat man.

“Malo ’aupito,” the fat man said.

“Mo nofo a.” The horse moved and the wheels turned.

“Mo o a.” Ana replied.

As the cart disappeared, Sione went and fed the pigs and chickens. Ana went into the cooking shed to tidy it. She found that all the food scraps had been eaten by the pigs. She put the basin into the pot and hung them on a nail on a corner post. It was late evening. She felt hot and de cided to bathe. She went to the fale

kaukau and got the empty kerosene tin which they used to fetch water and went to the well.

When she went into the fale mohe, Sione was already in bed. She took the comb and a bottle of coco nut oil from the pola of the wall, sat beside him, oiled her hair and then combed, plaited it. Sione turned to her.

“Ana.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“You know, I was afraid.”

“You mean, you are afraid of me?”

“'VTO, Ana, I am not afraid of you ■k' —I love you.”

“But what do you mean?”

“I mean, I was scared to say any thing when the two matapule were here.”

“Why?” Ana asked as she stretched herself on the other side of the lamp which was between them.

“I don’t understand—probably I was very tired—but no, —I hate them all.”

“Sione, I always found you a man of courage and love, but since this occasion, I noticed the change in you,” Ana wearily said.

“Yes, Ana, you are right—but not enough courage, as those young educated people have—you know.

it was in my mind since the birth of our son . . .”

“What was in your mind?” Ana asked.

“That one day, I would speak to the ’Eiki of the village about it—but I couldn’t—l couldn’t because there is so much of our ancestors in me— so much tradition.”

“I don’t understand what you are talking about, Sione.”

“I am talking about that fat man in the village and his authority. He uses it wrongly. I might call him a senseless, selfish person.”

“But, Sione, you forget that he owns the land.”

“And God owned us and the land,”

Sione said. “If we believe that there is God—God of Love—who demands nothing for us but to love our neigh bours as ourselves, then we should act likewise.”

“Then you are wrong, Sione, for you hate your neighbour, the ’Eiki of our village.”

“That is different, for he was not

asking but confiscating.”

“I can see what you mean now,” she said.

“Hard labour has taught me to think and understand you know, I always think, that, more than half of the problems in our community are

caused by misunderstanding. People ■ sometimes say, that white collar jobs are discouraging young people from farming, but I disagree. There were< lots of talented farmers who gave up farming because of that misunder-j standing. They looked for other jobs! or migrated to other places.” The memory of their son came into his] mind. He kept silent but Ana asked:] “Do you think that Tevita would like to be a farmer?”

“I hope not,” Sione said. “Unless God helps those men change from| brutality to love and understanding our needs.”

“No!” Ana said. “Not those old men. They are hard as iron. We hope their successors are better.”

“Yes! yes,” Sione said. “I hope that our son be changed too.”

“And be successful in his studies, so he can get a job in town,” Ana said.

The lamp ran out of fuel and Sione put it on the chest. Sounds of sing ing and laughter from the ’Eiki’s cele brations were heard.

Ana drifted into uneasy sleep. In her dreams, she saw her son sitting behind a desk, with a line of pens in his pocket. He was talking to two black men in a language she couldn’t understand.