My father used to tell me stories of what it was like to live in Levuka as a child. He described it as a cowboy town, except instead of bare lands with tumbleweeds rolling
about, you had a cowboy town by the seafront.
Levuka, my dad’s childhood home. It sounded magical and fun. A place where
everyone knew each other.
Too bad it no longer exists.
A tragedy due to the entire country sinking. Many places that once stood on solid
ground 2 decades ago or more, are now submerged under water. Levuka included.
In the current year of 2080, We and other families have been relocating for a very
long time. A stressful process that has us bundling what little possessions we have
before moving deeper into the interiors of our island.
Fiji was once a large country with natural steep mountains in the majority of its
islands. However, more than 65 years ago, overseas companies dispatched massive
machinery to any island in Fiji that was formed from volcanic activity. Spoiler alert:
that’s basically the entire country.
They said they wanted to research the formations of the mountains and how it came
to be. This was not true, they had their own agendas.
They dug up most of the mountains for their personal gain. Now we are vulnerable to
the rising sea levels from climate change and must constantly relocate, but soon
there will be no more land to relocate to.
This is our ancestral Vanua (land). Where will we be from when our country is down
under?
Today, I sit on the woven mat that is laid in the center of our small living room as my
Nau brushes my hair. Our prefab home provided through government aid isn’t the
most spacious home, especially when you’re made up of a family of six. Despite this,
we do our best to make it work.
Today is the most anticipated day for every family. It’s a day that brings many anxiety
and only a few, joy.
My Nau (grandmother) runs her fingers through my freshly trimmed buiniga, a natural
Itaukei (indigenous of Fiji) afro hairstyle that only very few still have nowadays. Nau’s
hair and mine are slightly identical in shape and size, with the only difference being
hers is beginning to grey.
Her fingers move delicately to pick up her great grandmother’s Seru Kau, an Itaukei
wooden comb that has been passed down from generation to generation. She doesn’t
use it often. Only on the day of the lottery.
Every year, she uses the Seru Kau to comb through the hair of her loved ones. A small
spark of hope that the next person chosen will be someone she loves. Only a
superstition.
Last week I turned eighteen, meaning that I now qualify for the lottery.
I glance at the small holographic television that stands in the corner of the room. It
displays a white man in a cream coloured suit, animatedly talking with his hands
moving in an excited flourish.
“Ascenaca, Turn up the volume,” My mum tells me. I grab the remote that sits beside
me, and aim it towards the TV. The voice on the other side is louder now. Nau’s hand
momentarily pauses, her attention now drawn to the hologram.
“-Big bula welcome to the 63rd Annual uplift pacific lottery!” The host said
cheerfully through reddening cheeks.
Mum stands right by the mat where Nau and I sat, while dad quietly listens from the
kitchen as he pours himself a cup of coffee.
I glanced towards my two sisters, who ran about outside, far too young to understand
nor participate in the lottery. They cackle as they chase each other, stumbling around
without a care in the world, oblivious to the tense atmosphere that has made itself at
home.
“the lottery,” the man explains. “a lifetime opportunity for the recipient! To finally
leave this sinking country, and be welcomed to the big lands!”
My father scoffs. My mother quickly shushes him, too busy focused on the tv rather
than the schematics of things.
60 years ago, the big lands, a mighty foreign country, stepped in with a solution. The
uplift lottery. A system that chooses people annually to be able to leave Fiji.
However, what was initially marketed as a lucky draw, has been lately uncovered by
an investigative journalist. The “lottery” was actually run by artificial intelligence in
order to pick out model citizens through a point system. It penalized against any
crime records, health issues, poor grades, unemployment, age, status and even race.
However, this affected nothing. All claims were denied and the journalist was
laughed out of the Big Lands Media.
The only good thing that came out of it was that people began to realize that if they
wanted a real chance they needed to work harder and steer clear of any criminal
records. Anything else would have to be through luck. Since the discovery, my
parents have made me study harder in order to place first in school. The problem is
that it’s not a competition between this town, it’s a competition against the entire
province of Lomaiviti, a group of multiple islands with an overall population of 5000
people fighting for only one spot available.
“It’s their fault our island is sinking,” my dad mutters. “Polluting our oceans, and
murdering our Vanua. Now nature fights back and the culprits run away while us
locals suffer,”
My Nau, who doesn’t speak a word of English, but knows her son well enough to
know when he’s complaining, shoots him a look that’s followed by a quick “tikolo!”
(shut up!)
We all shift our attention back to the tv. The man is finally moving towards the
screen where the names of the people will be shown. He begins the naming process,
starting with the capital Of Fiji, Suva.
Time passes agitatingly slowly. The hand of the digital clock on the wall silently
beeps at every minute, and we wait patiently. Finally, the name of our province,
Lomaiviti, is displayed along the enlarged screen. I sit up and shake my grandmother
awake quickly for the results.
“Nau!” I excitedly call out to her. Her body awakens with a jolt. She blinks, before
quickly sitting up.
“Drumroll please for the only recipient in Lomaiviti,” the host says. A digitised
sound of a drumroll that sounds almost comical plays out dramatically.
I can hear quick footsteps hurrying from the kitchen. “Is it finally our turn?” My
mother asks.
“The recipient of the uplift pacific lottery, for the entire province of Lomaiviti is…,”
he says dramatically. “Asenaca Tumoi!”
My body freezes. Nau, who I hadn’t realized had her hands on me, squeezes my
shoulders. “Did she just say my name?” I asked. I look back at my family. Nau’s eyes
are squinted as she smiles, mum has her mouth covered in shock, and dad’s eyebrows
are shot up in surprise.
Is this the start of better things to come?
A week goes by in a flash. filled with celebrations and painful goodbyes. But the
small moments that aren’t either, are spent daydreaming about the big lands as my
sisters and I lay by the ocean.
“-and I heard that in the big lands the AI drives for people. You just sit there and say
where you wanna go and it takes you around,” says Elenoa, the older one of the two.
“I wish Fiji had self-driving cars,” Magareta excitedly adds. “Than I’d be able to sit in
the driver’s seat,”
I frown at her words. “Even if we had self-driving cars here, you’d still not be allowed
to sit in front,” I informed her. “You’re five years old. Only people over the age of ten
can-”
“Oh! And I can sit beside her!” Elenoa cuts in, giggling childishly. Aspirated, I look
between the two girls.
“Yeah! and Ascenaca can take the bus while we ride around in our fancy car!”
Margareta says teasingly. My sisters, only aged five and seven, are already bullying
me.
I sit up in the sand before reaching over to the two tiny mongrels and tickle them furiously. The two girls roll around thrashing in the sand, laughing and begging me to stop.
Now, I stand at the wharf.
My two little sisters hug me from below the waist, my Nau with tears in her eyes as I mutter my farewell In fijian to her, my mum, emotional as she sniffles, and finally, my dad, standing there with that same frown he’s had all week long.
“You be good,” he says before giving me a pat on my shoulder. A ball of saliva forms
at the back of my throat. I can feel my eyes prickle as I begin to fight back tears. I simply nod before he gives me a peck on my forehead.
“Asenaca Tumoi?” a Slender white woman interrupts. I pause in front of my family. No words seem to form at all.
“Asenaca Tumoi?” she repeats.
All I can do is nod.
“Vivian Harper,” she introduces herself. “I’ll be escorting you to the big lands,” I nod again, feeling small standing before her, everything about her feels foreign.
Without another word she turns around and walks toward the ferry. I glance back at
my family, a feeling of uncertainty flooding through me.
“go!” my mother urges excitedly.
I nod clumsily before stumbling to quickly follow. Her strides are long and I must
quicken my pace to keep up.
A realization forms. I don’t think I was finished saying goodbye.
I look over my shoulder, right towards my family. My sisters wave from afar and I
quickly wave back at them. My gaze lingers on my father, his face no longer in a
frown, but rather gloomy and sad. This time once I look forward again, All my
attempts at holding my emotions are futile. I can finally feel the warm droplettes of
tears begin to stream down my face.
Staring at the back of the head of Vivian, the woman who is escorting me to the big
lands. Her blonde hair seems unnaturally straight, with not a single strand out of
place in her perfectly tied up bun. It’s a stark contrast to my hair, wooly and soft,
natural and coily, untied and free. A strong gush of wind brushes past us, her hair
doesn’t seem to move one hit while mine Sways with the movement.
I glance back towards my home.
My pause allows for a realization.
From afar, I watch my family and a group of townsfolk cluster together. My father
stands right at the forefront of the gathering. I watch them carefully before a
beautiful melody reaches my ears.
Isa isa vulagi lasa dina
Nomu lako au na rarawa kina
Cava beka ko a mai cakava,
Nomu lako au na sega ni lasa.
Isa, Isa you are my only treasure;
Must you leave me, so lonely and forsaken?
As the roses will miss the sun at dawning,
Every moment my heart for you is yearning.
Isa lei, na noqu rarawa,
Ni ko sana vodo e na mataka
Bau nanuma, na nodatou lasa,
Mai Fiji nanuma tiko ga.
Isa Lei, the purple shadow falling,
Sad the morrow will dawn upon my sorrow;
Oh, forget not, when you’re far away,
Precious moments in dear Fiji.
Vanua rogo na nomuni vanua,
Kena ca ni levu tu na ua,
Lomaqu voli me’u bau butuka
Tovolea ke balavu na bula.
Isa, Isa, my heart was filled with pleasure,
From the moment I heard your tender greeting;
‘mid the sunshine, we spent the hours together,
Now so swiftly those happy hours are fleeting.
Domoni dina na nomu yanuyanu,
Kena kau wale na salusalu,
Mocelolo, bua, na kukuwalu,
Lagakali, maba na rosi damu.
O’er the ocean your island home is calling,
Happy country where roses bloom in splendor;
Oh, if I could but journey there beside you,
Then forever my heart would sing in rapture.
Author’s note: Hey, so… I’m not particularly fond of this short story. It is definitely not my best work but I haven’t posted anything in almost six months so something is better than nothing right? I submitted this for a writing competition last year and unsuprisingly did not win with my entry. I knew when I finished it that it wasn’t my strongest work, but still submitted it because a lot of times when it comes to writing competitions I get very picky and self critical. However, how can I improve if I don’t put out my work? So here it is!
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