Manaakitanga

For My Nana

This is a post about manaakitanga and the woman who showed it to me not by talking about it, but by living it.

My Nana had a way of making sure you never left her house hungry.
It didn’t matter who you were, where you came from, or whether you were expected.
She always had food on the stove, in the cupboards, and in the fridge. Me, my sissy, my cousins, and aunties, all loved being there. Not just because of the food, but being met with love.

She gave to everyone.
She could see each of us, our big extended whānau, in our own light.
I don’t know how she managed it, but somehow, she made each of us feel special. Known. Loved in a way that was specific and true.

That was her kind of manaakitanga.
Fiercely generous.
Warm, strong, practical.
Always there, always giving.

But don’t mistake her kindness for softness. She was strong. Tough when she needed to be.
She took pride in herself: how she looked, how she moved through the world.
She was beautiful. The kind of beauty that comes from knowing who you are.

At 50, she got her teaching degree.
She became a high school Māori language teacher, and in her own unique way, she helped to revive te reo Māori.
That was another kind of generosity: the kind that reaches forward, into future generations.

She’s gone now. And gosh, I love and miss her.

But her mana is still here.
In the way I host.
In the way I love.
In the way I care for others and myself.

For her manaakitanga, her fierce love, her soft presence, her big-hearted kitchen.
For the kind of leadership that doesn’t need a title.
Just a table, a stove, and open arms.

Ka aroha au ki a koe, Nana.
Always.