"The Matriarch" is not only about a wonderful kuia, head of three Maori generations. Ihimaera also uses language in such a way that it is like an oratory of Maori social history, reminding people that this proud culture is still alive and kicking. The central character is enigmatic, spellbinding and a matriarch.
I wonder if every family has a matriarch. Ours certainly did. My Bubu was an enigmatic, spellbinding persona with every attribute of a true matriarch. Her recent passing not only sent waves of grief through our family, but also the larger Fijian community. She will be missed by so many and it is hard to put into words how different Fiji will be for us now that she has gone.
My grandmother did not have any easy life. The mother of eight children, it was Bubu who helped my Papa save our village Kulukulu, from land-grabbers. My mother recounts memories and tales of the many things Papa and Bubu did to ensure that land, such an important part of any Pacific Island culture, remained with the people who loved it most.
My memories of my Bubu are very different to those of my mother, aunties and uncles. As a 'fiwi', growing up in NZ, my Bubu was the reason why we went to Fiji for holidays. Every visit centred around our time with our grandparents. Although the adults sat to 'talanoa' into the night while we 'cousins' played and screeched and laughed, Bubu was always there. As I got older, there was always a big 'kana' at someone's house where Bubu would be. She always liked you to sit with her for awhile, update her on your life, tell her a few funny stories. I think now that I should have sat longer - unfortunately, the lure of nightclubbing with all the cousins was stronger. Yet somehow, she liked that, seeing us all reconnect and leave together in a string of taxis bound for Trapps.
My last trip to Fiji was in January - the much anticipated celebration of Bubu's 90th birthday. What a fantastic achievement for my Bubu to reach that age, attended by about her children, son and daughter-in-laws, her countless grandchildren, great-grandchildren and extended family. Yet, the best memory I retain from my short five days home took place a few days later.
As always, the fanau gathered for a kana and church service at my cousin's place, overlooking Suva. After the food and more food and more food again, I lay out on the mats with my mother, my aunties, cousins and a smattering of Bubu's. The best part about this is not saying anything -just lie there and listen to them talk. Because, although Fijian has a written history, the best part of my Fijian history comes as an oratory.
Sitting there, laughing and telling tales, sat four generations of our family. My Bubu, her daughters, various grand-daughters and great-grand children. Tales of their childhood were recounted with laughter, accusations and mirth. Recounts of the funniest parts of the birthday celebrations were told, embellished and re-told. A little family gossip here, a little there. It was the best part of my trip home.
On the day I flew out of Suva, I stopped at Bubu's village with my Mum and Dad for last goodbyes. I didn't know then that it would be the very last time I kissed my Bubu, hugged her and told her how much I loved her. I promised her I would be good to my husband, I promised her that we were thinking about adding to her brood of great-grandchildren. I pressed money into her hand and made her promise me that she would keep it for her medicine or hospital visits. I asked her to not pass it on to the rest of the family, knowing that she probably would as that was the way she was. Always putting others ahead of her own needs. If I had known it would be my last time with her, I wonder what I would have done differently. Leaving would have been much harder.
The day my father called to tell me that my Bubu had died, I was standing in the middle of my kitchen . There was a Malay packer, wrapping dinner plates next to me, as I heard news that I was half-expecting, half- not. Outside, some other worker was trying to tell me that the container had arrived ready for packing. It didn't really feel real.
I sat outside on my own and cried and cried. All the packing and chaos continued without me but tactfully, the moving men quietly retreated to other parts of the house. It wasn't the first time I had experienced the death of a grandparent - Bubu was my last surviving grandparent. However, it was different this time. In some ways, most of my pain was that for my mother. Perhaps it was the idea that my mother had just lost hers, possibly because I could never imagine losing my own Mum.
Losing Bubu felt different because she connected everyone together - we all had memories centred around our time with her. Whether it was my brother, Dad, cousin, husband, mother or aunt, something was connected through my Bubu. It was the most wrenching loss I have ever felt. My next visit to Fiji is going to be so different without that one thing, that one person, to hold it all together.
My Bubu was a true matriarch of our family. I feel truly blessed that I had time to know her and understand the significance of her life to those who met her, loved her and mourn her. Loloma yani vei Bubu - yau domona o iko. I don't know if I said that correctly but I do know I have will always have loloma dina for my Bubu, Ra Marama.
1 comment:
Nice work! She sounds like an amazing woman.
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