John Puhiatau Pule
In 1861 when the Rev. W.G. Lawes arrived to take up his
post as new missionary, six churches were up towards
heaven and only eight heathens left on this lonely rock
of the ocean.
I believe in God but not the white man’s God, the
merchant friend told me. God is the world we live on.
God is female always when hunger pains the male’s
Since many of my friends are heathens I invited them to a
session of home brew behind the church in Alofi.
First man: every one of us has a God. God is in my mind
but in my heart he is nowhere to be seen.
Second man: God is the earth. When it rains something is
dead or dying.
Third man: when the sun burns my family and drinks the
water, I know it is God’s way of talking to us.
Fourth man: sixteen years old. I pray only if my life is in
danger, or a dream tells me I must live for myself and
forget about the world. God therefore is a leaf caught
in a storm. People who believe in God are waiting to
Fifth man: stands up. God to me, is life when all other
living things know each other exists.
Sixth man: God is the reason why I am here drinking brew
There was so much laughter the pastor who was out
strolling in the Pacific heat ran in fright to the safety
of the church.
Seventh. Female. A beautiful girl stood up and pushed a
tree over. You guys talk shit. God is white on this rock.
We are black and our thoughts belong to the days and
nights of the past.
Eighth. Female. All you men ever do is boss us around, and
only want us to bear male babies.
Ninth. Which was me. No more brew. And we all laughed
ntil the pastor came out for a closer look.