Saute Aukilani sings me to sleep with the sound of siren jams.
Cos who needs fairytales when we have starriez
as old and coarse as my father...
Saute Aukilani sings me to sleep with the sound of siren jams.
Cos who needs fairytales when we have starriez
as old and coarse as my father's hands.
They say we're dirty.
But pick up a history lesson
and you'll find our blood on their hands.
We're an afterthought.
The aftermath of gentrification of the inner city
and yet still, I'd never trade the big hearts and warm smiles
for houses that look pretty.
Even lockdown can't shake what we have on lock.
So I bet them keyboard warriors are mad they can't recolonise our community
Mad that our spirits don't break under the scrutiny
They thrive on our downfall
But would collapse without us.
When my 65-year old aunty wakes up at 4
to be an essential worker.
But you won't see that on the news.
Cos NZ Herald comment sections
don't know what we know to be true.
Cos what's money compared to mana,
when no silver spoon could reflect the waves of our Moana?
So if you wanna know?
Come take a look for yourself.
Hear blessings slapped across fresh fades.
See the glowing melanin on smiling girls.
Cos no matter what anyone says,
it will always be
South Auckland to the world.