He kairākau kē

Nā Rangimārie Elvin

Rangimārie Elvin (Kāti Huirapa ki Puketeraki, Ngāi Te Rangi, Ngāti Ranginui, Ngāti Pūkenga), born and raised in Tauranga Moana, prompted by a call from her tāua, is the first since five or so generations of her whānau to reside in the takiwā of her tūpuna. Delving into the “Tahu Mindset” she has been told about, she now works at Tokona te Raki, with a passion for serving her people and dreaming of thriving futures for Māori.

Whetewhete mai ōu reo

Kia ketekete mai anō, tīoriori mai anō

Kua tomo te rua kōrero

Tūpapahū ki te whenua

tau ana, tau ana.

Although following a great trauma that reverberated throughout the motu, the power of kōrero completely reshaped what law looked like in Aotearoa. Before, during and after the coming of Te Ao Mārama, the many forms of te reo Māori begat a whakapapa, like tides in motion, where our tūpuna reconceptualised celestial knowledge into ancestral knowledge, ki uta ki tai, for us to navigate the challenges we would face in the coming of other worlds.

Riding an undertow of colonisation, there is a waka tauā uninvited, breaching the shores of our Māori-ness and eroding away pre-ordained rights of He Whakaputanga and Te Tiriti o Waitangi. We are having the same conversations of lore vs law, where lore is not recognised as tuakana, and law pushes the boundaries and tapu of the Māori body – a body made of whenua and wai.

A tūpuna singing from their puku, firmly and eloquently, like the familiar taki of the pīkarikari – he arero taiaha. An uri with pen to paper – hei tuhi kōrae mōku.

While they used their kupu as mere pounamu to decapitate the ūpoko of a ngārara, while they used their tā as their whakapono, imbedding moko into print forever, I can’t help but notice my choice of weapon today. I heard it once in a series of tautohetohe – ‘whakahokia te reo mai ite mata o te pene ki te mata o te arero’ nā Tākuta Te Wharehuia Milroy – where the veil of angiangi was lifted from my eyes and the wero laid at our feet, ‘kua mau koe I te taiaha o te Pākehā.’

I wonder how I can utilise this nimble taiaha to battle my way through hundreds of years to make an impact on some of the same issues that led my tūpuna to land loss, language loss, he mate Pākehā. Would the pressure of my ancestors’ grip snap pencil lead? Would the ink run dry as I scramble to take down the ramblings they whisper in my ear? Why would they listen to me if they didn’t listen to a taiaha-wielding, kākahu-wearing seven-foot ancient Māori rangatira?

So, I decide to reimagine this taiaha into a patui, a toki, an uhi that I can use to weave and carve my story, our story, on paper. Unfurling that kahu huruhuru worn by my koroua, carefully threading in each rau. Each collected fragment from the carved pahoreroa laid at the kuaha of the pā tōtara so that my kupu can feed my uri should they be called to action.

I AM NOT A KAIRĀKAU BUT THE TAKAHĪ IN THE MANA OF EACH KUPU, I HOPE, WILL LEAVE TAPUWAE FOR THEM TO NAVIGATE THE DROPLETS OF KŌKŌWAI ARRANGED INTO KĀHUI WHETŪ AND SMUDGES OF TE IKAROA STRETCHING ACROSS THIS TĀTAI WHAKAPAPA. ARMED WITH PATUI AND SHROUDED WITH THE KOROWAI OF MY WHĀNAU, KA TŪ AU.

Sitting in a moment in between these tides again, remembering the moment I saw my koko’s signature for the first time in Waitangi Tribunal claims, acknowledging my tūpuna who fought for their whakapapa in the Native Land Court, in a turbulent rip of the changing tides of left to right, right to left, in writing, I promise my Māori body and Māori soul to that celestial, ancestral, terrestrial whakapapa.

In the power of kotahitanga, the many forms of te reo Māori resound as they did when our ātua sung life into being, when they wove the constellations, and when they begat light with karakia and māramatanga.

I realise I am well prepared for every te ao Hurihuri. Toitū Te Tiriti!