Bad Omens
The dead man on the road was a “bad omen,” said my mother’s sister.
Mum called her “the boss,” and “the boss” was already reaching for the plate of snapper wings my father had just placed in the centre of the table.
He’d charred them out back, on the hot plate by the shed, under the willow. The meat was too hot to touch.
Still, she licked her fingers, took several pieces, and called the young man “a waste,” neatly separating meat from bone.
My father sat down, smacking his lips, pleased.
“See this?” he said, holding up a piece of white flesh. “Still swimming this morning.”
He grabbed the cloth in front of him, wiped his hands, then dabbed at the corners of his
mouth, shiny with grease.
“The boss” rolled her eyes, darting a look at my mother.
And still, they ate.
I thought about the boy. The dead boy.
His body, bloody and still, lay on the road all night under a tan checkered blanket.
They didn’t take him until first light.
* * *
It was fate, said “the boss”.
It was destiny said my mother.
It was a sign, my father said.
God’s will reckoned “the boss”.
A saint, my mother joined in.
An idiot, my father hit back.
“The boss” called him an animal—my father, not the dead man on the road.
* * *
My family had nothing to do with the crash.
We were tucked up in our beds, fast asleep on Taniwha Street. Lady in the wash house fussing about, before the air was punctuated with breaking glass, steel on steel. Her barking roused us all. Voices became urgent, gates opened, footsteps drummed on the road, finally sirens wailed.
“The boss” started up again. “What a way to go.” My mother trying to change the subject, spooned more rice and fish onto her plate.
Two figures emerged from the car. They disappeared into the night. One sprinted across the road, down through the alleyway into the shadows. The other raced in the opposite direction, never once looking back, his feet kicking high behind him.
That’s what we told the officer, and no, we never saw their faces. Unlike our neighbours standing around in their night clothes, we had dressed before leaving the house. We missed the part where they had forced their way out of the mangled car, and stepped over their friend lying on the road.
* * *
“He had it coming.“
“That boy,” dad offered between mouthfuls of greens.
He was baiting his hook, looking in every direction, before landing on me.
My mother shook her head slowly, a warning to keep a safe distance.
“The boss” had stopped listening.
“That’s what you get. That’s what you get,” my father said.
He reached for the plate of fish heads, smiled when he saw the eyes were still intact.
* * *
They had come around the corner so fast, we were told. Braking too late before crashing into the back of dad’s truck, a flatbed parked up on the street.
The bonnet caved like a can of sardines, glass sprayed like confetti.
There was yelling. Then quiet.
My father protested when the police said his truck had to be visible from at least a hundred metres during the night. A lantern fixed to the rear of his truck would do the trick.
“That idiot dies, and it’s my fault?” He worked himself up every evening, traipsing out to the shed, fetching the small green lantern.
We all took turns, my brothers and me; heading up to the street, the lantern smelling of kerosene. We checked there was enough fuel before lighting the wick. I’d wake during the night, look through my window and see the warm red glow, before turning back in.
* * *
Months later, the boy’s family showed up, howling as they walked up and down the stretch of road where the accident happened.
My parents watched from the lounge window before they headed out. My father shook hands with the men, hugged the woman who couldn’t stop crying. She clutched a photo of her son to her chest.
My father tsked, his head shaking side to side. “Yeah, well,” he stammered. “He’s in a good place now.”
That made the woman cry even harder.
The family stared down at the road one last time, thanked my parents, then got back into their car and drove away.
My parents slipped their hands into one another’s and headed toward the bed of marigolds by the front path. I heard my mother talking about a rose bush—they would plant that next.
Kim Meredith is a Tāmaki Makaurau–based writer, gallerist, and Pacific media specialist of Sāmoan and Tokelauan heritage. Her work spans journalism, poetry, and multimedia art.
She is the co-owner and curator of Kim Meredith Gallery, where exhibitions, artist talks, and community events foster intergenerational connection, cultural exchange, and creative equity.
Meredith has written extensively on culture and creativity for major outlets and co-directed Floating Islands featuring Witi Ihimaera — a landmark project amplifying Indigenous voices. As an editor, she contributed to shaping the acclaimed poetry collection Burst Kisses on the Actual Wind by Courtney Sina Meredith.
Through her advocacy, curatorial leadership, and creative vision, Meredith is dedicated to holding and making space within the cultural landscape of Aotearoa.
