Crushers

Ever since the conversation a few days ago, Pam had avoided Nīkau. “You know some people claim to be indigenous just to get the benefits,” Pam had said, just out of Glow’s earshot.

- EMMA HISLOP

Nīkau was used to people failing to recognise she was Māori. Pam was from WA. It was the night of the writers festival meet and greet and the culmination of the monthlong residency.

When Nīkau said, “You don’t really know that, do you?” Pam fixed Nīkau with a narrow stare and said, “Oh, I know, all right.”

Nīkau and Glow took their bourbons back outside the hotel and watched a few cockatoos screech overhead, their yellow tails catching the last of the sun, their white wings stretched wide.

Shelley texted from Ōtepoti. R U near the fires e hoa?

“Are we?” Nīkau said. The silk shirt Nīkau had borrowed off Glow was already sticking to her back with sweat. Nīkau wasn’t planning on coming tonight but when Glow came out of her bathroom looking bougie and glamorous in a shimmery red pantsuit, Nīkau had closed the bank statement on her phone. Hopefully, the meal was part of the gratuities. Her landlord had recently put the rent up again.

Glow shrugged. “Nah, Uncle said the weather’s cooling down.” There was always wildfire raging somewhere, Glow said. Nīkau could sleep on her sofa if need be. Glow knew how to dance through fire. But Glow was a Bundjalung woman.

There were people standing in the foyer. Everyone was dressed up, but looked settled in themselves. The air was heavy with perfume. Glow was pulled away; she was needed. Why couldn’t they leave her alone? Glow sometimes joked she was the right kind of diversity. Nīkau recognised the mayor from the event posters that were around town. Her salary had paid for Nīkau’s trip to Australia. The woman’s eyes flicked across Nīkau’s face, then away. She started scribbling notes on a piece of paper with a sparkly pen. Now didn’t seem like the time to thank her.