Matiu put his foot down. 

‘What about the people?’ pleaded Kana. She was talking about their people, playing on her father’s weakness. 

Matiu cooled himself with his wife’s good church fan, the stringy pandanus leaves bordering the edges like straw. They tickled his face, and he coughed, faintly at first and then impatiently. 

‘Stop moving’, said Rima. ‘You’ll ruin the dress.’ 

Kana struggled to hold still. Every time she looked down, the fenestrations in the monstera leaves printed on her swing dress mocked her, like laughing clown mouths. Rima’s hands were warm against Kana’s skin, cinching the fabric at her waist with pinched fingers which allowed enough extra fabric to create the billows. The dress used up twice the amount of cloth as Matiu’s shirt and her mother Rima’s muumuu combined. 

‘Trust me’, said Rima. ‘All the girls are wearing these. You wear it flat for now. But later, when you get to Wellington, you find a petticoat. Fill the dress out.’ 

The floor fell away as Kana climbed a stool, towering over Rima who was inspecting the hem. Rima measured the length of the dress against Kana’s knees, taking her time, checking and rechecking, Kana flinching at the sporadic touches. From above, Kana admired the flare at the bottom of the frock, the tight bodice that showed off the dip in her waist. Despite the melodramatic motif, the dress was beautiful. 

*

On the morning of the party, Kana threaded another frangipani onto her ‘ei katu. The scent from the head garland was overpowering, which almost distracted from the flowers’ beauty. Her mother tried to convince her to try her hand at an ‘ei kaki instead, but a neck garland would take her twice as long, perhaps three times, and at least the ‘ei katu would shield part of her face, concealing her boredom during the proceedings.  

Kana pitied her sad ring of flowers. In the hands of another woman, this ‘ei katu might be consistently plush, bright, fragrant petals interspersed with proud leaves from the maire plant, a tiny floral garden to decorate her crown. But in her bungling hands it was ugly: dense in some places where the flowers were compressed and almost naked in others. She persevered. 

‘Mānea! Beautiful!’  

Kana looked up and watched her mother gush over her father’s new shirt. ‘What you think?’ Rima turned to her. 

Kana inspected the garment. The fabric was the same as her dress, bought in Avarua, the island’s township, which had been spared most of the cyclone’s wrath. The colour-blocked monstera leaves were inherently cartoonish, but Rima’s hands had breathed life into them, the edges of each leaf matching up at the seams. Kana couldn’t see from where she was sitting, but she knew the stitching would be immaculate, evenly spaced and marching along the fabric like a colony of ants, invisible when they needed to be which was most of the time.  

The treadle sewing machine, with its heavy swinging pedal and wooden drawers, was Rima’s bliss, bought second-hand by Matiu for her thirtieth birthday, shipped to the island from Auckland, New Zealand. It was the sturdiest piece of machinery Kana had ever seen, and, like Avarua, it too had been spared by the cyclone.  

Kana shrugged. 

Two months had passed since the cyclone hit Rarotonga, though some visible reminders of that day remained. The flooded waters had drained from the house, but parts of the foundation were still cracked. Waterlogged floorboards and woven mats had been repaired or replaced with other mats and flooring gifted by relatives. 

The roof still needed fixing. Matiu and Giuseppe — Kana’s Uncle Joe — had retrieved it from the road, bent it back into its usual roof shape and resecured it as best they could. ‘We need a new roof’, Matiu insisted. ‘And the island needs your help, too. Money for repairs.’ He was trying to justify his decision to send her away, partly to convince her but mainly to put his own mind at rest. Kana had noticed the way his eyes never quite met hers when he talked about it, and she knew her father was biting his tongue. Build a new life, he wanted to say; you can go to New Zealand and build a new life. The first time he’d mentioned it, not long after the cyclone struck, Kana stormed out of the house, dragging her father’s vaka into the lagoon. She anchored it in the water, halfway between the island and the motu, and let her skin feed off the sun. 

For obvious reasons, there weren’t many houses on Rarotonga built this close to the water’s edge. Although their allotment of land, like other landowners’ on the island, stretched from the beach to their proportioned section of Raemaru — the island’s lone mountain, which towered over its inhabitants like their atua, their god — Matiu insisted they build close to the sea. ‘Your father is mad’, Rima had joked. ‘Stubborn, like a wild puaka.’ Kana was born in the family’s original homestead, further inland, where the soil for growing taro plants and kumara was rich. She’d been told the story of her birth, how her mother’s blood had dripped between the floorboards of the now abandoned homestead on the day she was born, disappearing into the dirt beneath. 

 ‘Nourishing the land’, her father explained, nurturing the crops that grew there. 

But the crops, though lush, couldn’t save the roof on their home by the sea. The reef at the outer edge of the lagoon, too, had failed to protect it. And Kana couldn’t bear the thought of leaving. 

Everything Kana knew was in Ngatangiia — her ‘ōire, her village. 

While the sun was still high, people spilled out of the house and onto the beach, ready for the umukai. A wooden trestle had been set up for the cooked food that came from the umu: steamed puaka and chicken; taro leaves cooked with fresh cream made from the coconut meat, scraped from the shell and pressed through cloth; chunks of taro and kumara. Sitting alongside were plates of mainese and poke, the banana dish baked in somebody’s outside kiln. The men lifted the smoking basket from the earth oven and carried it to the table, where the women doled out the meat and vegetables onto serving dishes while a small string band of uncles and cousins had set up in another corner, out of the way. Their harmonies rang out through the village.  

Kana emerged from the house, wearing her woeful ‘ei katu and the monstera dress, she and her parents dressed like a three-piece set. She pushed her way between the guests — relatives and neighbours from across the island — the extra fabric bouncing off her knees. She headed for the kai table and grabbed a serving plate, moulding some of the beetroot and potato salad onto it. 

‘Eh!’ One of the aunties waved her hand at Kana. ‘Stop that. It’s not your job to make the mainese.’  

‘Let her do it’, said another. ‘Before she gets too lah-de-dah for the rest of us.’ 

Kana wished there were lettuce leaves to dress the plate and make the mainese pretty. 

‘Don’t forget to write. Tell us everything. Don’t try to hold out on your aunties.’ 

On boat days, the people from the villages gathered at the harbour in Avarua and collected letters from their loved ones abroad. When Giuseppe lived in Italy during the war, Rima insisted he write every week. ‘At least one letter a week, my brother. Even if they get here late. Write them anyway. So I know you’re not dead.’ Everybody knew the letters were like currency, proof to everybody else on the island that someone they loved who now lived overseas still loved them back. Their success overseas was the family’s success. The family’s success was the island’s success. 

‘Better watch yourself over there’, warned another aunty. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ 

The women cackled. 

The mainese in front of Kana was taking shape, perfectly domed and presentable, despite the absent lettuce leaves. Another aunty arrived with Rima’s cake. 

Kana took a minute to soak in the chatter. She knew she would miss this, the probing aunties especially, with their teasing questions about her love life, doing everything to trick her into spilling her secrets. She wished she could take them with her and not just on the inside like dead relatives but gently wrapped in the softest cloth she could find, packed away alongside other taonga, other treasures, or tucked inside her pockets ready to pull out whenever she craved home — if only her dress had pockets. 

Somebody behind Kana whistled. She turned, willing her mouth not to turn up at the edges. Even before she saw him, she knew. ‘That’s a beautiful ‘ei’, teased Georgie. ‘I wish I had a beautiful ‘ei like that.’  

Kana ran a critical eye over him, overtly so he could see — the white shirt his mother made him wear to church, not ironed; a patch of green cloth by the left empty pocket of his black shorts; no shoes, just bare feet, toes caked in wet sand. Kana peeled the garland from her head and threw it at him. His response was quick: with nimble fingers he caught it. Two frangipani came loose and fell at his feet. He picked them up and presented one to her. 

‘Keep it’, he said. ‘To remember me by.’ 

Kana took the flower, with its pretty petals and inviting perfume. 

And then, ‘Move!’ One of the mamas came bustling towards them, shooing them out of the way, urging them to be quick about it. ‘Taviviki!’ Two lines of boys and girls, from one of the neighbouring villages, waited for the drumbeat. At the front of the house, the trestle was stacked with dishes of kai, and in front of that, a row of folding chairs was filled with VIPs. Matiu and Rima occupied the two middle chairs, perched like island royalty on temporary thrones. Georgie pulled Kana out of the way, further down the beach, and by the time they heard the drumbeat, they were hidden from view.  

But Kana could see the children. She watched them shimmy onto the sand, eyes facing the crowd, their line formation intact. She recognised the action song before the lyrics sprang from their mouths.  Humming the words under her breath, she followed the actions of the children by memory, delicate arm movements pulling ancient vaka through wild seas.  

‘Get in.’ 

Behind her, Georgie had launched a small rowboat into the lagoon, standing knee deep in the water beside it. Wearing her ‘ei katu. 

Kana clicked her tongue. ‘Whose is that?’ She searched the beach for the rowboat’s owner, noticed the loose rope next to the stump of a giant miro tree. 

‘I hired it’, joked Georgie. ‘From one of the rich Papa’a.’  

Kana checked again, hesitating for a second. 

‘Hurry’, urged Georgie, ‘get in.’ 

She tucked the sides of her dress into her underwear, waded into the water and climbed into the boat. She felt emboldened by the drumbeats coming from the party, but she looked out for witnesses one last time. 

‘Don’t worry’, said Georgie. ‘Nobody can see us.’ 

The water in the lagoon was still, the coral undisturbed, parrotfish flitting through the undersea. Ahead of the vaka, the waves broke against the reef. To others the crashing sounds were frenzied, but to Kana they sounded mellifluous — soothing and meditative. She closed her eyes, trying to hold onto residual warmth from the lowering sun as Georgie rowed confidently towards the motu. She hadn’t been to the islet since the day of the cyclone. She remembered her promise. 

Calling on her tūpuna — surreptitiously, in her head — Kana sought permission to visit the motu. By the time they landed at the border of the islet, just minutes later, the sun was low. 

*

‘And if it comes back, then you know she’ll return.’ 

The warm sand had pressed against the underside of Kana’s legs, a light sea breeze brushing her face. She watched her mother’s ‘ei kaki float aimlessly in the waters, the breaking waves near the reef echoing in the distance. Kana turned to her father beside her. ‘That’s just the old stories, Papa’, she had said, too confidently for an eight-year-old. ‘Those stories aren’t real.’ 

She’d noticed the light in Matiu’s face start to dim and wished she hadn’t said anything. The flower neck garland drifted gently with the tide, and, before too long, it washed back up on shore. The water retreated into the sea, leaving behind it the bedraggled ‘ei and seafoam. 

From the house, Rima had called them inside. Matiu stood up and brushed off the sand with his hands, waited for Kana to do the same. Kana just sat there, hoping her father would help her up. Her father’s hands were enormous and strong; it wouldn’t take much for him to reach down for her. But she’d let him believe she’d outgrown his support, the same way she’d grown out of the stories he told. She knew the best he would do was be patient. 

Kana jumped up and ran towards the water, picked up the ‘ei kaki and let it hang from her bent elbow. The flowers had seen better days, now dog-eared and sand-encrusted, but she tried to infuse some life back into them. Her father watched her stretch the petals into shape, careful not to tug them too hard or rip them clean off their artificial vine. She’d turned to him, raising the garland so he could see. 

‘It returned, Papa’, she’d said. Nobody’s going anywhere.’

*

After everyone had left the party to return to their homes before it got too dark, Kana helped Rima finish clearing up, picking at Rima’s leftover birthday cake. A small moko poised in the corner of the ceiling cried out, ‘Geck-o. Geck-o.’ 

‘You missed your father’s speech.’ Rima was folding up a tīvaevae, one of the special patchwork quilts she’d laid out for the celebration. She owned several, had given many away, but the red and yellow tīvaevae tuiauri, special because it was sewn on her machine, was her most precious. She ran her hands over the stitching. ‘Why do you keep running away?’ 

Kana grabbed the broom and swept away the sand and grit that had crept into the house. The kīkau broom, with its sharp spikes made from the coconut palm fronds, scratched away at the wooden floor. Tiny clouds of dust rose from the ground. Matiu stirred in the other room. ‘I always come back’, she said, finally. 

‘He worries about losing you. Like when we couldn’t find you, after the cyclone.’ Rima waited for a response. ‘He just wants you to have the best. Letting you move to New Zealand …’ Her voice trailed off. 

Kana would forget how young her mother was. Rima, at 34, was only 16 years her senior, 14 years her father’s junior. ‘Making me move to New Zealand’, Kana corrected her. Kana shook the broom out the main door, letting the wind carry the dirt onto the beach and into the sea. ‘Isn’t he losing me if I move to New Zealand?’ 

Rima gave up. She wrapped the tīvaevae inside two spare pareu, the sarongs protecting it from dust and moths, and stowed it away inside the old steamer trunk that belonged to her grandfather. She opened the door that separated the two main rooms and stood in the doorway for a second, watched her husband, restless in his sleep. ‘He’s not losing you; he’s letting you go.’ Kana caught the softening expression on Rima’s face, embarrassed to catch the tender moment. She turned away, busied herself with nothing in particular, then heard the door click shut.  

Alone, Kana pulled the crushed frangipani out from her bra. It had lost a petal, making it lopsided. She gently flattened it between her palms and grabbed the heaviest book they owned. The Bible opened up to a random verse, and an old photograph from her christening day slid to the floor. She picked it up, felt along the crease that separated her from her mother and returned the photo between the pages, sliding the frangipani beneath it.   

*

Kana woke to the whispers, a burst of creaking bed springs and bare feet shuffling on the wooden floor. She listened in the dark as Rima tiptoed through the house, past her in the main room and out the front door. Outside, beyond the beach, the moonlight reflected on the surface of the water, the draught from the sea cooling the house. Kana dragged the sheet up under her eyes, using it as a pest deterrent and a thin disguise to shield her in the dark. A rush of cold water surged from the outside tap as loose stones crunched beneath Rima’s feet. Matiu in the other room tried to stifle his cough, his breathing heavy and jagged. When Rima returned, Kana peered at her with hooded eyes — noticed the wet cloth in her hand, the small red bucket — and listened to the floorboards groan as Rima crossed the room again. Kana waited until her eyes grew weary again, catching too little sleep before the morning.  

‘Bella!’  

The following evening, Giuseppe returned to the house. Kana’s uncle had lived in Italy for two years during the second world war, returning self-baptised and brandishing a new name, proclaiming himself now a part-time Italian. He helped himself to yesterday’s leftovers, then pulled Kana to him and kissed each cheek. His actions were convoluted and excessively loud because some things about his old self had remained. Kana held her breath, dreading the unsolicited melody that usually followed, the belted-out anthems about moons hitting eyes or Italian folk songs learned from the locals, the foreign language rolling off his tongue. When the singing didn’t come, Kana relaxed. She collapsed onto her bed. 

‘There’s too much to remember, Uncle.’ Kana gestured towards the paperwork for her passage to New Zealand, the stack of papers sliding to the floor when the side of the mattress caved beneath her.  

Giuseppe dropped his empty suitcase. It was covered in names of places he’d known, added retrospectively, after he’d returned home: Cassino, Rimini, Florence, Rome. He made Kana promise to add her own names to it. ‘All the towns and cities, no matter how small.’  

Giuseppe inspected the paperwork. He took care not to tread onto it, his monster feet en pointe. ‘You know what this reminds me of?’ Giuseppe squeezed in besides Kana and wrapped an arm across the back of her shoulders. Instinctively, Kana braced herself for story time. ‘That time I was on leave. Back in the day. You know, when I served in the battalion.’ He narrated with his one free hand. ‘My mate Rawiri. Hard case Māori fulla. New Zealand Māori. Not like us.’ He was careful to point that out. ‘We took a trip to the Sistine Chapel. You know what that is, my niece?’ Kana had dropped to the floor, bent over the scattered paperwork, pretended to read the details, knowing her uncle wouldn’t wait for an answer. ‘That’s where the pope lives. The pope!’ 

Kana was five when Giuseppe came back after the war, too young to remember the rumours about him. Living like a hermit, refusing to talk, angry and sad — a smaller, flatter version of the animated uncle she knew today. Until he—switched. That’s how they described it. Changed his name and refused to respond to anything else. Once his voice returned, the tales came, elaborate stories about glamorous women wearing heels like prongs and lipstick as loud as exclamation marks.  

And the pope. 

‘And the paintings!’ Giuseppe described the famous frescos, the Renaissance masters, how the artworks had survived for hundreds of years, admired by millions all over the world. 

Kana furrowed her brow. ‘That’s what I’ll see in New Zealand, Uncle? Famous paintings and the pope?’  

Giuseppe paused to catch his breath, gather his thoughts. ‘Well, no. Not exactly.’ He patted the empty space beside him. Kana scooped the rest of the paperwork into her arms and planted herself back onto the bed. ‘Adventure’, said her uncle. The word whistled through his teeth. ‘Like our tūpuna.’ Kana knew the stories of their ancestors, whose lives were recorded and retold in the old way, passed down in families from one generation to another, the names of their tūpuna etched on their tongues, brought back to life through breath and voice, stamped into the ether for the ‘uānga to follow, the future descendants, until the time would come when the stories could be written down, sculpted into action songs, narrated with dance moves.  

‘Let the world open up to you too, my niece. Be like your tūpuna.’  

The room filled up with an Italian folk song — went quiet again when Kana interrupted him. 

‘I’d rather be like you, Uncle.’ 

‘What you mean?’ 

Kana shuffled beside him. ‘You came back.’ 

*

The air around Kana closed in as a shadow fell over the motu. She draped her father’s old shirt across her shoulders and felt the winds whipping through her hair, skimming her face, a nick on her left knee from a catapulted stone starting to bleed. She kept her head down, forced her body to search for a nook, a cranny in the earth to ball herself into. But her search was in vain. Kana could navigate this islet blindfolded, hands tied and never get lost, never feel afraid. Until now. Her father’s old shirt flapped uselessly in the rising storm, beating her arms and chest with wet fabric. It was hard to tell which way the wet was coming; the water — rain, sea — came at her from all sides. 

Palm leaves, loose grass, drowned skinks and sandflies were strewn across the dirt floor, mixed in with the sand and ripped hibiscus, torn coconut husks. Loose gardenia petals and pandanus leaves now lifeless and limp. 

Kana huddled within the fallen debris, the sharp edges of tree bark and native bush pressing into her. Each time she inhaled, her whole body shivered, but she tried to ignore how cold she was. Broken branches a few metres from the water’s edge had formed a disarrayed fort, and she crawled between them, making herself fit, barely sheltered from the cyclone now raging towards the mainland. She looked towards Rarotonga, desperate to catch a glimpse of her father. If he was safe, her mother would be safe too. Through a blurred pane of hurricane, she watched the sheet of corrugated iron peel away from the roof of their home, like a freshly serrated lid on a can of mackerel. At least she had salvaged her father’s vaka, the outrigger canoe stolen by her but safe on the motu, dragged onto the wild grass. Her father’s old shirt she found buried in the bow now clung to her body, soaked and translucent. 

Back on the main island: sheets of iron, shattered glass, shifting sands, broken concrete. Trees ripped from their roots in the soil. Stranded animals — homeless dogs, chickens and pigs — floating in the floods. Kana couldn’t see it all, but she knew what to expect. Electricity would be cut; homes would be flooded, furniture wrecked. Sodden clothes and blankets. Spoiled food. Children crying, distressing their mothers more. Likely, the people had heeded the warning signs beforehand: whistling leaves from the banana plants, chickens refusing to return to their roosts. Kana knew the majority of people would have scurried to higher ground for safety. She hoped her parents had. 

On a clear day, from the motu, Kana could barely hear the children playing in the lagoon or recognise the men fishing on the water. So, today, all she heard was the cyclone ripping through her village, fixed on tearing her world apart. She’d be more mindful of what she wished for in the future. Be kinder. Softer. Treat the islet with more respect. Observe the tapu warning that kept most people away. If only the lives of those on the island were spared.  

Kana gave in, had no choice but to wait it out, when the storm reneged on its destructive path, picking up more power as it crossed back over the lagoon. She crouched as low as she could, bracing herself, her face smeared with sludge. She stopped praying, and, for some reason, she started to count.  

Her counting was steady, deliberate, the timing of it synced with her breathing.  

Breathe.  

Two.  

Three.  

Four— 

* 

Five minutes until boarding. 

‘You got everything?’ 

Kana was wearing the monstera dress. She patted down her sides, pulled fictitious items out of imaginary pockets. ‘Yes.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ Rima asked, her voice starting to quiver. 

Matiu frowned at his daughter. ‘Stop teasing.’  

Kana fiddled with the ‘ei kaki her mother had made for her, the petals smooth against her neck. 

The harbour was humming — drums and ukuleles, a chorus of celebration and melancholy. The Maui Pomare was already docked, letters and goods ordered from New Zealand stored behind the cargo hatches, awaiting unloading, a crude swap for the people who boarded the ship in return. People had travelled to the township from the outer districts, gathering in hordes to collect goods and letters and bid farewell to loved ones, the scent of flower garlands intermingling with that of the sea.  

‘For you.’ Even before Kana saw him, she knew. She turned to look at Georgie, who presented her with a posy of frangipani. The flower had become their little secret, a symbol of the time they spent on the motu. She took the posy from Georgie, too shy in front of her parents to do anything else, and thought about her aunties. She would tell them everything. It would make them very happy. 

Kana kept an eye out for Giuseppe. She needed a laugh, to hear a funny story. Just one last time, she wanted to hear about the glamorous women, their fancy clothes, the paintings on the ceilings. Her uncle’s suitcase lay at her feet, marked up with the place names her uncle once visited. She was tempted to cheat, write down the names of the places she already knew — every village name and home address of all the people in her life that she loved, the motu, the beaches, the solitary mountain at the heart of the island — before she forgot, before they forgot her. 

‘You’ll find other people’, Matiu reassured her, as if reading her mind. He was shifting uneasily, Rima’s arm hooked through his, seemingly trying to keep him steady. If Kana knew she’d never see her father again, she would have said something, anything, to let him know she’d try to make the most of it, build a new life, send money home to fix the roof. Instead, she let him escort her onto the gangplank. Felt his weight sit too heavily on her arm. 

Behind her, back on the island, Kana recognised the voice. It overpowered the others, not with an Italian folk song but a popular war song. Kana wasn’t sure she believed it, but she turned back and listened: 

‘We’ll meet again 

Don’t know where 

Don’t know when …’ 

On the ship, Kana lifted the ‘ei kaki off her shoulders. She caught a whiff of the flowers as she dragged it over her head, ripe and sweet like mango. She let the garland hang from her fingers, over the edge of the ship’s rail, like a gift to Tangaroa, god of the sea and fertility. Pockets of seafoam bubbled below where the boat broke the water as, eyes closed, she said a silent prayer to her tūpuna and released the ‘ei. It landed with a soft splash, bobbing in the churning waters, following the boat into deeper waters. She picked up her posy of frangipani, and, with Rarotonga in the distance, she went inside.

2025 Commonwealth Short Story Prize Shortlist