TURBINE | KAPOHAU

I

My name is Sina.

          Yes, like Sina ma le Tuna. Sina and her Eel, ill-fated lovers of Samoan legend. How crazy, right, to fuck an eel. Except no one really says: “And then, Sina fucked the eel. He turned into a palm tree, and that palm tree provides for all our needs.” I used to think when I was younger, “What a nice eel. How kind. What a self-sacrificial male, providing for generations to come.” But the euphemistic telling misses the story. Sina was a baddie for sure.

          I see her, renowned beauty of her islands, doing her thing, minding her own. Maybe this night, she is skiving off from chores, leaving her sisters or cousins to do them. Or meeting her lover down at the village river. Or hanging back washing her clothes down at that same river. At any rate, Sina has ended up chilling alone. Then along comes an eel—clearly, an eel with game, who can talk. Bear in mind, this is the time our kind were living amongst gods. The rocks, the trees, the fish, the birds spoke to us, with us. Some gods chose these forms to live in this realm. I wonder why sometimes. Greek gods did it too for fun, no?

          So this eel is not actually an eel. He is god as eel. A voice like an outrigger canoe on a calm sea—clean lines and smooth sailing. I imagine Eel is watching Sina. The moon is full; otherwise, the sea, the road to it, and her fale would be draped in black ink for the night. On this night, the moon’s light is on Sina, and the sea her stage. It stretches far to the unknown reaches where her offspring will be scattered. She is singing a low song, perhaps to the mountains; she can see to the east where her lover lived in exile after being chased away by her brothers. Or further inland, to the west, where her family buried her mother on her family land. She sings. Her descendants will be banned from doing this: all over Samoa, it will be taboo for a girl to wear her hair down, taboo to bathe in rivers and sea at night, to whistle after dark lest its melody invokes aitu, gods, and their children. But in Sina’s time, there is no such thing as superstition or one Christian god. There are aitu, and lagi, multi-tiered heavens. Chanting is praying. Sacred sites are places of reverence not fear. There is a place and time for everything. But also, everything is everything. She is not less than the men; she simply is.

          Tonight she steals a moment alone, combing her hair with her tortoiseshell comb. Sina moves the comb slowly from roots to the tips of her hair which fall across her lap. She is fully clothed, meaning she wears soft raw tapa cloth as a sarong around her waist—a woman relaxing in a rare moment alone.

          The legend implies the Eel seduced Sina. But if Sina is the original code of the Samoan female D.N.A., a true archetype, she is a woman in charge of her domain, demure, and when she wants, wanton. She sees Eel’s intent, and she decides to play. Samoan women know how to seduce a man, as equally as Samoan men know how to charm. So, they play. Sina beats the Eel at his own game, flips the seduction and owns it. He dies for her but not before instructing her to plant his most sacred body part—the head—in the land. She does, and the palm tree was born. Her conquest gives life forevermore.

 

II

          my name is Sina

          no surname—just Sina

          my parents tried to have a child for nine years then I came along

          they named me Measina—meaning treasure

          Sina became my nickname, and then, like Madonna, I chose to go by only this name

          I tried Sina X in a misinformed act of solidarity with African Americans, but it started sounding like a pop reincarnation of a pop reincarnation—Christina Aguilera 3.0: tacky

          Sina as singular fit me well

          New Yorkers got it

          New Zealanders didn’t

          don’t get me started on Samoans or Samoan New Zealanders

          when I turned thirty-five, I decided I didn’t have time for a surname, but I did have time to celebrate my birthday with my business partner Emory, take stock of how far we’d come

          we had started a little company that was the internet equivalent of doing the laundry, you take some information, clean it up, add something else to it, sell it on

          nothing sexy, or, really, anything that you could even explain in regular conversation without descending into metaphor

          our company helped other little companies optimise things they did that were also like doing the laundry

          at first we took a little money, and then, a whole lot of money, and then we hit scale, and then we were acquired in the pandemic melee, sometime during that period I made some arrangements and quietly bought the building I lived in

          Emory and I chilled out on my spacious Fort Greene rooftop, watched the New York city lights wink at us through the dreary twilight haze

          J Dilla beats in the air, 90s hiphop our favourite music to let loose to

          I swirled and twirled, paused for a fresh line of cocaine, then spun again so my long black hair fanned out over my fluttering silk robe

          this building was a favourite charm on my bracelet of things I owned which make money without me doing actual work

          Emory held up his wine glass and made a toast—we made it this far sis—we staying on the grind cos who knows what’s coming tomorrow

          I spun around again—the coke was starting to take effect; my mind oozed into a luscious state, like glaze over a warm cake

          I felt joy bubble up and everything felt hilarious and wonderful and soft as I spun towards Emory’s swaying body, tall, wiry yet strong, immaculately put together, long straight black hair in a man bun, his figure all angles and folds like an origami figure in a crisp white tee, black pants, pure white converse, his wide grin making his almond eyes squint

          I playfully shoved him and he faked lopping sideways, his drink almost spilt—

          we laughed and felt ourselves float, Emory snorted a line up his left nostril deftly, Manuia lou aso fanau sis! he cried as he leapt onto a seat and burst into happy birthday to you with a pitchy operatic voice

          I adored him: my brother from another mother

          ride or die, ride or fly

          there we were, E and me

          people said it’s great to stay friends with your ex if you can pull it off—but I’d do one better—respect your ex who is a lowkey genius and ‘not just a gamer’, break up when you realise you need someone who enjoys the sunlight, keep it sweet, fork over your first ever savings to support his start-up dreams, teach yourself investor relations when it starts to go off

          we needed to fit in and I adapted quickly: my accent changed to enunciate vowels, I took up running to become less CrossFit buff and more svelte slim, Emory was the brains behind the tech, I sussed out finance—met the names behind the big names, watched how they lived and learnt my lines, did a few lines in the bathrooms with some of the wives, fucked a few of their sons, daughters too, I was fucking for fun, and lots of it, the lifestyle demanded I was always on—every interaction mattered one way or another

          my family back home told me I was getting whiter, but they had no idea what I was dealing with here, those frames didn’t fit our world—

          visits to Aotearoa petered off so I could focus, I wasn’t worried about what they thought—I had given that up years ago

          Emory and I stopped telling family stories for entertainment and listened to theirs for comfort, at times it felt like we were in cultural exile, but beautiful things surrounded us, beautiful people, beautiful places, beautiful futures—it would be insane to complain or question our lives

          but lately I had felt an undertow—more than homesickness—

          when was the last time you spoke to a Samoan in the flesh E, we had collapsed on long deck chairs, my head on his shoulder, something feels weird about this birthday—I can’t figure it out

          Emory shrugged have another hit sis—why are we even sitting here—let’s go

          answer my question!

          his answer suddenly meant a lot to me, I glared at him, he relented—last fob I saw was… Kosuke—pre-COVID, remember he was passing through on his way home to Tokyo

          Tanaka Kosuke the sumo god, known as Kosuke, Hawaii raised Samoan, revered by his Japanese fans even still now in his retirement—and our de facto big brother

          the night I met Kosuke in 2009, there was an instant connection, as if our mothers were related and we had last seen each other at some family funeral or wedding, I don’t feel that way with every islander I meet, maybe I had been missing home subconsciously and Samoan faces and in jokes—or something in between

          friends and I were at an underground hip hop nightclub deep in Shinjuku, Kosuke had a mezzanine V.I.P. area overlooking the dancefloor—pulsating with Japanese hip hop musicians, uber trendy Japanese hip hop heads, black expats from African countries and American states—he spotted me and sent one of his guys to ask if I wanted to join him for a drink

          about to refuse what looked like a groupie pick up situation, I noticed the messenger’s Samoan tattoo on his arm—a taulima around his bicep, are you Samoan, I asked into his ear, pointing to his arm, he nodded I know this is weird, but you’re safe, I’m Pati he shook my hand firmly, reassuring me in my ear, I relaxed at his New Zealand accent—come meet Kosuke, we knew you had to be an islander—come we’ll look after you sis I figured nothing could happen on the open mezzanine, I followed Pati off the dancefloor

          Kosuke held court with a dozen subjects in his V.I.P. lounge, his legs elegantly folded under his massive bulk, bearing the traditional sumo hair knot, two stylish Japanese women flanked him, faced his entourage of Japanese men who looked like a catalogue of black American culture—dark suits with purple or red silk shirts, Fubu and Starter streetwear and caps, white suits and fedora hats—each man accompanied by a tiny woman with big blonde hair and caramel highlights, fake tan and glittery mini dresses

          Kosuke’s face opened into an undeniable island grin as I carefully approached him Malo Suga—I was dizzy trying to register meeting two Samoans in Shinjuku, let alone a Sumo champion, they seemed equally surprised, my defences melted away as the club atmosphere morphed into something familiar, safe and homely, Malo soifua Kosuke-sama, I’m Sina, reached over to kiss him on the cheek, what brings you to Tokyo Sina? he waved the women away, motioned for me to take a seat next to him

          Pati brought me a drink, moved to the couch across from Kosuke and I as I tried to find a way to sum up my crazy life; everything brings me to Tokyo, Kosuke-sama, everything—but right now, I’m celebrating the end of week-long talks with new investors, Kosuke’s heft shook as he laughed

          Ok so you’re a businesswoman sis? Malo, time to kick back—is this your first time to Tokyo? I took in the view of the club below listening to my new friend, Pati simply gave a short nod and friendly grin, Me and Pati we never meet enough islanders, it’s good to meet a sister—hang out with us, we’ll look after you, tomorrow you can visit my place and we’ll have the biggest to’ona’i, a real Samoan feast

          he made good on his promise—we partied that night, three Samoans in Shinjuku drinking sake, Pati entertained us with stories of his journey from Auckland, cruise ships, being recruited by a passenger to be security for a JPop singer, Kosuke had me delivered to my hotel, then picked up the next afternoon for a supreme feast of lobster, oysters, tiny urchins, roast pork, baked taro lathered in coconut cream, his three-storied house was alive with chatting guests digesting the meal and the grand views over Tokyo, their children chasing each other through ornate rooms, tiptoeing past the sumo king then erupting into giggles again as soon as they were out of sight, I sat with Kosuke indulging my hangover appetite as he told me his profound story about being accepted into Japan’s sacred sumo culture, his respect for his adopted culture

          he talked like it was inevitable like he was born for this kind of unusual fame in a new world

          you see Sina, he explained, the Japanese believe sumo began from two warring gods—Takemichazuki god of thunder, swordsmanship and conquest, and Takeminakata god of wind, water & agriculture—and the tradition of sumo carries this deep history, we as islanders we are the same, we are children of gods, history carriers, hopping from horizon to horizon never forget that—

          SINA—Emory was shaking me out of my Tokyo to’ona’i daydream—I said your phone is ringing—waving my blinking phone in my face—I’m out, party downtown at Jack’s—you coming—he kissed me on the forehead, I snatched my phone from him

          my phone had stopped ringing

          we took another hit of coke, he poured me a drink

          you go E—he was already headed downstairs, knew I’d find him

          I looked around the rooftop of empty seats

          I had a sudden urge to run through the streets across the bridge to Manhattan to my lover Lincoln’s apartment

          I scrambled to text my driver to pick me up before I floated back down

 

III

          dreamwalking/I am standing at the heights of the earth/ lights from above and below/ Stars and city constellations/ I want to possess it all/ I have a hunger/ For the head of an eel to bury in the ground/ we are children of gods/ history carriers/ hopping from horizon to horizon/ Sumo King signs a proclamation/ Here sits a Queen of Wall Street/ Bronze Venus emerging from the/ cave behind the waterfall/ I have a hunger for the head of the Eel/ who enchants/ brown bodies / land to be mined/ resource to be owned/ Takemichazuki/ Takeminakata/ wrestling in the heavens/ shaking the earth with every stomp and roll/ sumo gods topple foes by force of wind god and war spirit/ I want to hop to a new horizon/ I am Sina with luxuriant hair/I am Sina lover of the gods/ horizon to horizon/ I fall

          between horizons/ I find Nafanua sitting on a cloud platform/ Sina you silly girl/ with your brewing hunger/ and existential jetlag/ you don’t see your own power/wall street man wants to plunder your mines/ he is just like you/ but he is not afraid or confused/ you can make money but you can’t make up your mind/ remember Sheba seeking Solomon/ crossing continents for wisdom/goddess passing through/ seeking passage to the other side/ see me warrior goddess/ taking dominion and titles/ over lovers and lands/ you fear your insatiate appetite for more/ you fear not knowing what you want/ follow your hunger/ does the volcano ask for permission to consume with her fire/ does the shark ask permission to devour its prey

          Nafanua presses her lips onto mine/ her tongue reaches in deep/ goddess passing through/ to carry me crossing continents/I am on a flight to Berlin/ to meet a potential lover there/ I don’t have the answers/but Nafanua’s breath/ demands I feed the hunger for them

 

IV

we

arrive at his apartment

he

leads me to his dining room

sparsely furnished

stiletto heel clicks on wood the only sound as I

circle the room

sizing him and the space

a large table at its centre

the room feels unlived in but tasteful

I join him standing at the head of the table

he offers me a jewellery gift box

I move closer so we are almost touching

he opens it to reveal

strings of pearls

laid out on

white silk

a dozen lines it seems,

pearls—

another predictable step in his

attempts to seduce me

I

pull a string out

long enough for

three long loose layers

around my neck, and then some

I

explain the

test for genuine pearls,

to demonstrate, pull a string between

my two hands

run them between my red lips

slightly gritty against my teeth, pleasurable,

they pass the test I laugh,

he does not laugh but smiles

transfixed

I

lay the pearls on the table

I

slowly undress

he moves to face me, his eyes on mine

my dress falls to the floor—

my mind unravels as each item peels away

I

climb onto the table with

stilettos on

and face him

on all fours

I

bend down

pick up the pearls

with my mouth

I

watch him

dare him to move

his feet fixed to the ground

I

sit up on my knees

let the beads hang from my lips

clatter of pearl strings freed

along bare curves

he moans

strange sense of power

releases in me

duality;

performance as/in

control

my mind starts to float as

I

watch his face taking in

the sight of me

I

push my breasts to catch

swaying beads

slowly lay down on my back

my feet, at his front

I

take the string from my mouth,

loop it through my arm

under my shoulder

glide the double strands

down over my breasts,

pulling them over each one

cause my body to twitch and moan

I

run the pearls down my body

between my legs as I part them

drop the dual pearl strings

along my stomach

down between my legs

I

hold white lines

at each end

shoulder to vertex

I

pull

gently

time slows as

strings glide across my sex

I

twist,

keep my legs apart

steadily

play the pearls

slowly

over and over

my cries, his moans

increase with my pace

faster and faster

playing my body

faster and faster

breath, moan, body taut

pearl string snaps

beads scatter

he hunches

between my legs

buries his head

breathless

I

lay the remaining pearls

on my pulsing body

I

finally

rise,

glistening Venus

lift his face by his chin

he presses his mouth on

my smeared red lips

his tongue reaching into deep

I

am passing through him

pearls upon pearls

horizon after horizon