THE THIRD MANAAKI

A civic comedy-thriller for Kirikiriroa / Hamilton, in the style of Shakespeare with a cheeky wink of Billy T James

Dramatis Personae

PROLOGUE

(Victoria on the River. Night. The river glows. A ukulele plinks a noir-ish riff. The TOWN CRIER strides in.)

TOWN CRIER
Good folk of Ham-town, gather ye your ears!
Election drums do thump in twenty-five;
Four wards, one kaupapa, debts and dreams alike.
The Māori seats stand tall, the West Ward wakes,
And somewhere in the shadows—psst—there’s Rēmana,
who waters down a promise like weak tea.
Tonight we hunt not villains—just choices.
Haere mai! Let’s laugh, then think, then vote with heart.

(He strums.)

When cones do bloom like harakeke in spring,
Who profits? Who will mend the broken thing?

ACT I — “THE INVITATION”

(Garden Place, above an underground car park; stalls pack down after a night market. A poster reads: “MEET THE CANDIDATES—TONIGHT.”)

RODERICK OF WEST
I came, by letter bid, to change these streets—
to tidy drains and balance books with care;
but whispers meet me ere I take the mic:
that Hāri Rēmana—aye, my old mate—
hath perished in a “policy mishap.” Hmm.

CALLAWAY KEPA (appearing with clipboard)
Martins—ah—Roderick. Welcome. Rules are rules:
Two minutes, no singalong, and keep it civil.
Beware the black-market of sweet nothings—
diluted pledges sold for ten-cent fares.
We think your mate was mixing promises.
(lowers voice) Or maybe not so dead.

MARIA O KIRIKIRIROA (entering, cloak of mana motuhake)
Kia ora, e hoa mā. Keep to tika paths.
The Māori Ward’s eyes miss not a trick.
We want rangatiratanga, not sugar water.
If Rēmana lives, truth will surface like eels.

ANNA SCHMIDT-SMITH (popping from behind a stall)
Pardon. I am actress, refugee from paperwork.
His friend Hāri promised me: “I fix your visa.”
Now he is “dead,” yet everyone still pays him.
In this city, ghosts send invoices?

(A distant laugh echoes—the signature chuckle of Billy T.)

TOWN CRIER (aside to audience)
Ay, that’s the vibe. Bit Shakespeare, bit cheek.
Hold onto your sausages—this’ll twist.

ACT II — “THE THIRD MANAAKI”

(Claudelands Bridge at twilight. Lights shimmer. A bus rattles by with a “10c INBOUND / $10 OUTBOUND” display.)

RĀWINA TE AWA (the mayoral frontrunner, composed)
We stand on spans our parents paid to pour;
now interest eats our breakfast, lunch, and tea.
I offer steady oars, transparent books,
and fair rates—not fireworks made of IOUs.

RODERICK OF WEST
I’ll back the basics: lights, berms, safety first;
a public dashboard any nan can read;
a city bank to keep our coin at home;
and buses priced for locals—keep it fair.

MARIA O KIRIKIRIROA
And partnership by deed, not slogan tees:
kaupapa Māori in the engine room,
co-design not as garnish, but the meal.

(A shadow leans on the rail. Enter HĀRI RĒMANA, all grin and coat collar.)

HĀRI RĒMANA
Kia ora, crew. Miss me? Dead? Nah—just resting.
Behold my wares: reduced-to-clear solutions!
Why fix a pipe when you can promise rivers?
Why mend a footpath when you can sell a moon?

RODERICK OF WEST
Hāri! You spun me letters, then you vanished.

HĀRI RĒMANA
I merely watered dreams to make them last.
Citizens are dots from this high view.
When you’re in power, dots become… negotiable.

RĀWINA TE AWA
Dots have names. Whānau live between those lines.
Your watered pledges rot the city’s frame.

HĀRI RĒMANA
Come now—ally with me. I shape the flow.
The third manaaki: smile, nod, move on.
Let Māori seats be ceremonial spice,
the West Ward pacified with cones and memes.
We’ll win. Then… improvise.

MARIA O KIRIKIRIROA
E kī! Manaaki means to care, not con.
Your “third manaaki” is a third-rate trick.

(Thunder hints of rain. A hatch to the underground car park yawns open. From below, a watery echo of ukulele.)

CALLAWAY KEPA (off)
Candidate forum starts in five! And whoever’s using the stormwater culvert as a podcast studio—stop it!

HĀRI RĒMANA (tipping hat)
Showtime. Find me where truth runs off with the rain.

(He slips below. The others follow.)

ACT III — “THE CARPARK CHASE”

(Under Garden Place: concrete pillars, chalk arrows, a lingering duck. Election posters flutter like ghosts.)

TOWN CRIER (whisper-singing a quick waiata)
He kōrero pono, kia ū, kia mau—
Truth ain’t a bargain at the car-boot sale.

HĀRI RĒMANA (dodging between pillars)
Look, I only trimmed the figures—just a tad!
Ten-cent fares?—sure, but I forgot the math.
A billion debt?—ish. We’ll workshop later.
If everyone’s a dot, no one gets hurt.

RODERICK OF WEST
Dots trip on cracks. Dots need a crossing there.
Dots hate surprise rates spiking in July.

RĀWINA TE AWA
Step from the shadow, Hāri. Own your sales.

MARIA O KIRIKIRIROA
Karanga to you: choose tika or be gone.
We’ll build without your watered-down kawhe.

HĀRI RĒMANA (pauses, softer)
I only did what cities seem to want:
the vibe of progress… cheaper than the price.

RODERICK OF WEST
Then hear our plan—full strength, no watery brew:

  • Basics first: lights, paths, drains, safe streets.
  • Open books: a public dashboard, plain as day.
  • Fair fares: locals lifted, visitors pay their share.
  • Hamilton Bank: keep our interest here.
  • Partnership real: Māori seats at the helm, not the hall.
  • No gimmicks: cones for work, not theatre.

Stand with us—or step aside.

(A long beat. Drips. The duck quacks its conscience.)

HĀRI RĒMANA
I… cannot sell that honesty. Too dear.
So stage is yours. I’ll take my bow.
(He lays a stack of glossy flyers down, backs into shadow.)
Remember me when deals grow tempting, aye?

(He fades into darkness. The ukulele stops.)

EPILOGUE — “THE LONG WALK”

(The storm passes. Morning. On Anglesea Street, citizens queue for early voting. The four stand roadside with pamphlets.)

ANNA SCHMIDT-SMITH
So—no ghost. Only choices. I like this play.

CALLAWAY KEPA
Tick one for Mayor, rank councillors as you fancy—
but read the pamphlet first, alright?

MARIA O KIRIKIRIROA (to audience)
Whānau mā, cast not just a ballot—cast a vision.
Ko te pae tawhiti—draw it nearer.

RĀWINA TE AWA
We’ll hold the rudder, not the smoke machine.
If we win, you watch us—then you win too.

RODERICK OF WEST (waiting as voters pass; one figure—ANNA—walks by without a word, then pauses, turns back, and smiles)
No zither now—just boots on honest ground.
The third manaaki’s not a shadowed trick:
it’s neighbour-helping-neighbour, full-strength brew.

TOWN CRIER (ringing bell)
O Hamilton! Your stage is set.
Choose not the watered promise
but the cup that’s true—and strong enough for all.

(He strums a final upbeat flourish. Lights fade.)

KATI.