Huia Short Stories 10 by Tihema Baker

election. I thought something was up.’
    Something is up, Mum. Racism, intolerance and the likelihood of having to work for your benefit. I have black imaginings of having to cut scrub for my sickness benefit before the week is out.
    â€˜Mum, aren’t you worried?’
    Come on, Mum.
    â€˜Well. I still know who the prime minister of the Universe is.’ Her point is that it is the Lord.
    He didn’t get my vote.
    I’ve heard the story before, but to blast off Mum’s apathy I ask a loaded question.
    â€˜Didn’t you meet Helen Clark once?’
    That’s got her attention.
    â€˜Oh yes. She came into work once. She had beautiful skin. Just beautiful. Like a porcelain doll. Like powder.’
    I am satisfied with that.
    I’ll have to be.
    Dedicated to Helen Clark. Friend of queers, beneficiaries, public servants, the Poor and the Odd.
    We salute you, Aunty.

A Good Friday
    Kelly Joseph
    The last rays of the sun wink in the cracked window of a small cabin. The cabin’s corrugated iron roof is pitted with rust, and kawakawa and pikopiko grow to the very edge of its lop-sided porch. Nearby, a stream teems with fat eels and watercress. Three small shadowy figures suddenly burst from the cabin’s door, sending birds scattering from their roosts to fly upward into the darkening sky. The three shadows begin to run down a gravel road that unfurls towards the horizon. This is Rangitoto district – dominion of the Hohepa boys.
    â€˜Ä€pi! WÄ«! Wait for meee!’ says Pāpu, a small boy with a dirt-smudged face. He scampers after his two older brothers as they race down the middle of the road. The sound of their quick breathing fills the air. Their dust-coated bare feet are tough and resilient to the gravel underfoot. Running down the steep hill to Te Kuiti, they skid on the stones, but they don’t slow.
    All three boys have unkempt mops of hair. It has been a long time since their last haircuts; since before their mum left. The eldest boys are both wiry, but Āpi, the oldest, is taller and more solid than WÄ«. He runs slightly ahead, and WÄ« strains to keep up. Mist begins to rise from the cooling paddocks and envelop the surrounding bush-covered hills. The boys’ clothes – long-sleeved denim shirts with worn elbows, and shorts with rips that reveal the brown skin of their bums – barely keep out the chill. They rush onwards.
    â€˜Waaait for me, bros!’ cries Pāpu.
    Ä€pi slows down and then finally stops. He waits beside the road silently. WÄ« runs on. Pāpu is on the verge of crying.
    â€˜Come on Pāpu, you’re too slow, man. We’re gonna miss the 8 o’clock showing,’ says Āpi.
    Pāpu rubs his feet and snivels. ‘My feet are cold and sore,’ he says.
    WÄ« runs back to his brothers. He sighs loudly when he sees Pāpu’s face.
    â€˜E, come on, baby! Be tough … like the Lone Ranger,’ says WÄ«. He waves a pretend cowboy hat and rides an imaginary steed around Pāpu. Pāpu’s lips quiver.
    â€˜E, don’t be a pissy-pants crybaby,’ says WÄ«.
    Ä€pi shakes his head at WÄ« and says, ‘Remember the cowboy code bro, Number four.’
    WÄ« scratches his bum as he thinks, then shrugs. ‘Can’t remember that one.’
    â€˜Cowboys must be gentle with children,’ says Āpi.
    Ä€pi lifts Pāpu onto his back and opens up a gate into a nearby paddock. He lowers Pāpu’s feet into a steaming cow patty. Pāpu smiles and wiggles his toes. He closes his eyes, dreaming.
    â€˜I wish we had a horse like those cowboys,’ says Pāpu. He opens his eyes suddenly and rubs his tummy. ‘My guts hurt.’
    â€˜That fulla’s always hungry. Must have bloody worms,’ says WÄ«.
    Ä€pi frowns at WÄ«. ‘We’ll get something later, eh. Let’s get going,’ he says. The three boys run onwards down the road.
    Halfway down the