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John Puhiatau Puleonline works |
24 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 soul. 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 be saved. 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 with you. 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.
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