Te Waka Whetū The First Chapter

Ppp fire whispers, sparks drifting like tiny whetū into the night.

You lean close, eager, eyes bright as Rākaunui.

“E moko mā,” I begin, “our story does not start on this whenua.

It begins in the endless dark — where only the whetū dared to shine.”

The night holds its breath as if waiting for the tale to rise.

✨ The Fire Whispers ✨

Beneath the cloak of night, the kaumātua speaks — his words rising with the sparks, drifting like whetū into the dark sky. The tamaiti listens, eyes wide as Rākaunui, holding every breath of the story. This is where our journey begins, not on the whenua, but in the endless dark, where only the stars dared to shine.

Seven great waka rose from the void.

Not carved of rākau alone,

but bound by karakia, mauri, and the dreams of our tūpuna.

Each waka carried whānau, iwi, and whakapapa —

each seeking a new home called to them by the stars.

Tainui, steady as the mountain.

Te Arawa, clever, reading the faintest tohu.

Tākitimu, swift, chasing the long wake of the sun.

Mataatua, light-footed, gentle in landing.

Tokomaru, fearless, drawn to distant fires.

Kurahaupō, rainbow-bearer, omen-watcher.

Aotea, keeper of memory, navigator of seasons.

The stars above were more than lights — they were maps, they were ancestors watching.

He waka eke noa — we were all in this waka together.

The Journey Begins

They did not drift lost across oceans.

They followed the ara o ngā whetū — highways of light laid down by Matariki and the ancestors before them.

Whiro nights taught them patience,

Ōkoro gave them strength,

Tamatea tested their courage,

Rākaunui filled their sails with unity.

Some say they crossed the seas.

I say the seas crossed them.

Mauri wove through paddle and wave, heartbeat and horizon.

Mauri tū, mauri ora — as the mauri stands, so the people live.

They followed the ara o ngā whetū

One night, under a blazing Rākaunui,

the kuia at the prow pointed to the dark and smiled.

“There,” she whispered, “our kāinga.”

At first, only a shimmer — blue-green, cloaked in cloud.

But as nights turned, the shimmer grew:

oceans like pounamu, maunga like giants,

forests whispering in voices not yet known.

The land was not silent — it called, soft but certain, like a kuia beckoning her mokopuna home.

Haumi ē! Hui ē! Tāiki ē!

The waka angled downward,

a flock of glowing manu returning to their nest.

And when the first feet pressed the soil,

they did not shout, they did not claim.

They knelt. They pressed palms to Papatūānuku,

breathing until lungs matched her rhythm.

They did not see a stranger. They saw whanaunga.

The earth answered with warmth, recognising her children’s touch.

Touch of the whenua

The fires lit, one by one, along the new shores.

Each waka’s people found their rohe,

valleys that held their names, rivers that carried their songs.

There was laughter. The first gardens.

Songs that rose like mist from the hot springs.

Joy echoed, but the land was listening still.

Ko te pae tawhiti whāia kia tata, ko te pae tata whakamaua kia tīna — pursue the distant horizons, hold fast to what is near.

But listen, tamariki mā.

Where many waka land, mana grows tall.

And when mana grows tall, shadows of pride stretch long.

The land had welcomed us.

But already, the land was preparing to test us.

Every gift of Papatūānuku comes with a challenge — to walk gentle, or stumble heavy.