(A single lantern. The Waikato River murmurs. The CHORUS OF SCRUTINEERS enter with clipboards, wearing hi-vis cloaks.)
CHORUS.
Good folk of Kirikiriroa, hearken near—
The scrolls are sealed, the numbers crisp and clear.
This tale is ink’d from preliminary counts,
Of mayor crown’d, and wards with STV amounts.
(Waggles a parchment)
Here writ the quotas, keeps, surpluses set free;
Our page, the returning officer’s decree.
BILLY T’S SPIRIT (popping in, sideways) Sweet as, team—pre-lim-i-nar-y. If your cousin reckons the final’s different, he’s not wrong—he’s just… early.
CHORUS.
Behold the box where tick and hope do dwell;
From urn to pile to spreadsheet’s patient cell.
One crown there is, and many heads contend;
At last, the count draws near its welcome end.
CLERK OF QUOTAS (ringing a bell)
Iteration Nine! Quota met! Surplus released!
By lawful reckoning and transfer’d feast—
TIMUS MACINDOE ascends the mayoral seat.
BILLY T’S SPIRIT. Oi, Timus, you’ve got more votes than sausages at a Bunnings on payday. Don’t trip on the chain, cuz—heavy is the korowai that hugs the neck.
TIMUS.
If grace be measure, let my measure flow;
The city’s debts we’ll tame, its gardens grow.
Yet mark the ledger—where the city leans,
I’ll walk the line ’twixt prudence and our dreams.
SARAH OF THE WEST (aside, warm)
So falls the chain to him; yet still we strive,
For council’s craft needs many hands alive.
RODERICK THE SCRIBE (entering with a grin)
And some hands wave, some rest—’tis sport to try.
If not the seat, then still the city’s cry.
CHORUS.
Now to the wards we step, where quotas sing,
And keep-values, like wine, from casks we bring!
CLERK OF QUOTAS.
In East the tide ran full: six cups brim o’er—
RACHEL OF THE EAST, ANNA, ANDREW, JAMIE, LEO—and…
(eyebrows) TIMUS? Ho! Can one man sit in twain?
BILLY T’S SPIRIT. Mean as a school tuck shop, eh—buy one mayor, get one councillor free! Nah, jokes: rules will sort it. Transfers, whānau. Paperwork’s coming in hot like a meat pie.
RACHEL OF THE EAST.
If fate should move and Tim to mayor tend,
Then East by count-back finds another friend.
We honour votes; we honour lawful flow—
The river gives, the river says who’ll row.
ANNA CASEY-COX.
The commons call—let shade and stream be guide.
A council serves by keeping rivers wide.
ANDREW BYDDER.
On figures, friends, our village rises straight;
A tidy book keeps tidy city’s fate.
JAMIE STRANGE.
From Beehive floors to Garden Place’s breeze,
I’ll learn anew the local’s subtleties.
LEO LIU.
To traders, tenants, builders—ni hao, kia ora—
The path is smoother where the sums are surer.
CLERK OF QUOTAS (pouring a cup back into others)
Surplus, redistribute! A quiet art—
The spreadsheet is our second beating heart.
CHORUS.
Thus East is framed—six chairs and one spare laugh;
When mayors wear two hats, the law picks half.
CLERK OF QUOTAS.
Make way for West! Six pou to stand in line:
GEOFF OF THE QUILL, SARAH OF THE WEST, GRAEME MEAD, MESH,
ANGELA O’LEARY, EMMA PIKE—these six enmesh.
GEOFF OF THE QUILL.
A city writes itself with every rate;
We’ll spell it well, and spell it not too late.
SARAH OF THE WEST.
Let safety stitch our roads where children go;
And buses keep their promise, not just show.
GRAEME MEAD.
A steady hand on ledger, debt, and plan—
Where wish meets budget, choose what truly can.
MESH (sleeves rolled, grinning)
Right, team: the jobs list’s long—kerbs, footpaths, drains—
We’ll swing the hammer ’til the squeak complains.
ANGELA O’LEARY.
Institution’s memory, a living chart;
If walls could talk, I’d ask them where to start.
EMMA PIKE.
New eyes to see what old eyes sometimes miss;
Fresh air through chambers—kia kaha to this.
(At the wing, MARK FLYGER, LOUISE HUTT, MICHAEL WEST, DAVE TAYLOR hover, offering nods. Then PAUL THE PATHFINDER and RODERICK THE SCRIBE step into a soft pool of light.)
PAUL THE PATHFINDER (to Roderick, kind)
We cast our hats; the wind blew where it chose.
Not yet today—but still, the river flows.
RODERICK THE SCRIBE (with a grin and a shrug)
Aye, cuz. We spoke our piece, we kept it brave;
If not the dais, then the next wee wave.
The city’s bigger than a single chair—
I’ll print more flyers, bro. I’ll still be there.
BILLY T’S SPIRIT (nudging them both) That’s the yarn! Lose the count, keep the kaupapa. You fellas bring a thermos to every hui—mean service.
CHORUS.
So West stands set, the six with shoulders square;
And those set down still shoulder civic care.
CHORUS.
Karawhiua—two seats for Māori voice to hold;
The river hears in reo, clear and bold.
CLERK OF QUOTAS.
First count! MARIA HUATA—first across the tide.
And next, by measured flow, ROBBIE NEHA beside.
MARIA HUATA.
Not crown alone but burden shared we wear,
To bind the city’s promises to care.
The harakeke is strong where centre lies,
Where rito’s safe, the outer leaf replies.
ROBBIE NEHA.
We’ll ask with mana, answer with respect;
And where there’s hurt, we’ll choose to reconnect.
BILLY T’S SPIRIT (softly) Ae mārika. Two seats, two ears—listen first, then talk. Mean.
(Another scroll is lifted—marked “Poll.”)
CLERK OF QUOTAS.
And citizens have voted on the ward itself:
“To keep” the Māori wards—aye, ka mau te wehi—prevails;
“To remove” spoke near, but could not shift the scales.
CHORUS.
Thus spake the city, river-long and wide:
To keep the door, and welcome who abide.
CLERK OF QUOTAS (setting down the final ledger)
What once was many flows to settle’d few;
The maths is done—but now the making’s due.
TIMUS.
If once I stood in two halls counted true,
I’ll seek the one my oath compels me to.
Let East receive by law the next in line;
A mayor’s lot is single, stern, and fine.
RACHEL OF THE EAST.
Let bridges bind the halves across the flood;
One city, not two fiefs of coal and mud.
SARAH OF THE WEST.
We’ll count the children home by safer street;
And measure wins by humble pairs of feet.
GEOFF OF THE QUILL.
The words we pass shall marry purse and plan;
Where numbers sing, there proudly stands a span.
MARIA HUATA.
Te Tiriti’s chord—let council pluck it true;
A harmony of old and brave of new.
ROBBIE NEHA.
Where seats are earned, responsibilities wake;
We’ll show by deeds the promises we make.
MESH.
Righto—enough kōrero to warm a shed.
Let’s pick the spades and sort the drains ahead.
ANGELA O’LEARY.
And mind the bylaws—keep the waka straight;
We’ll make the timetables cooperate.
EMMA PIKE.
Consult, not tick; include, not merely note;
A quieter city is a better vote.
GRAEME MEAD.
Pay what we must, not more, and not too late;
A careful ledger is a civic trait.
(A gentle hush. RODERICK THE SCRIBE steps forward with a folded flag of the river.)
RODERICK THE SCRIBE.
I lost the count but found the fellowship;
I’ll be the citizen who will not slip.
I’ll stand at VOTR on a breezy morn,
Pour tea, hear stories, help new visions born.
For city-making is a longer race
Than single nights of numbers’ hot embrace.
BILLY T’S SPIRIT (beaming) Chur, that’s the mahi. Council in the room, people in the square, kids on the bus, aunties at the shops—everyone’s in the cast. Now, somebody put on a brew.
CHORUS.
The count is ink’d, the names upon the roll;
But ink is naught without a common soul.
From ballots cast to footpaths mended clean,
Let Aotearoa’s craft be plainly seen.
So ends our play—yet truly, it begins:
With you, with us, with honest daily wins.
(They bow. The river murmurs. A tui calls. Someone’s uncle yells, “Who parked on the berm?” Laughter.)
FINIS