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PROLOGUE Mamia sat at the kitchen table with her ukulele. I sat opposite her with my laptop. It was around ten in the evening on a cool night during the Rarotongan winter. Mamia was trying to compose a song; her eldest sister Rose’s fiftieth birthday was coming up in a few months, and Mamia wanted to write a song for the occasion. I was trying to record field notes. Neither of us was particularly absorbed in our activities—we talked more than worked. Our conversation was interspersed with Mamia’s strumming occasional chords and singing fragments of melodies. At one point, Mamia suddenly stopped her casual playing and talking. She sat up straight, gazed into the distance, and began to sing. I remember thinking how beautiful she looked—she was wearing a long maroon velveteen dressing gown, her dark hair offset by a single white flower behind her ear. She sang confidently, in a voice that stretched from deep and rich to sweetly high. The song’s melody was melancholy and the lyrics sorrowful: xiv EGDAD

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