Ssssh…Pass the cigarette! Kere Kavuru (Fijian)

Walking home from Korovou to RKS after missing the last bus, with no carriers in sight, Sikeli and I decided to take the journey on foot. This was back when the road was still rough gravel, long before the well-lit highway of today. There were shortcuts, dark and tangled paths through dense woods that could shave off a good portion of the trip.

I’d never dare to walk those paths alone, but with Sikeli beside me and our conversation filling the dark, I felt safer. Even then, there were stretches where we fell silent, senses sharp. Every sound, every movement caught our ears; eyes darting, nostrils flaring to catch the scent of anything amiss. The air hung thick with tension, especially on moonless nights when it felt like something unseen might be stalking us from the shadows, waiting, watching as we made our way through those dreaded patches.

A sense of relief would wash over me as soon as my feet touched the rough gravel again—the sharp bite of pebbles underfoot a welcome reminder that we were back on the road home. The darkness remained, thick and oppressive, but somehow, the gravel felt like safer ground.

On these walks, Sikeli would always light a cigarette before we entered the darkest parts of the forest. It was a small comfort—one for the faint glow that told me exactly where he was and another for the tiny beacon of light piercing the void around us. I’d watch the ember flare as he took a drag, the glowing tip pulsing brighter with every inhale.

Sometimes, from the other side of me, a voice—soft and distant—would whisper out of the blackness: "Sssh…Kere Kavuru" (Pass the cigarette).

Without a word, Sikeli would pass me the cigarette, and I would hand it off to an unseen figure just beyond the veil of darkness. I’d watch, heart thudding, as the ember brightened again, as if someone invisible was taking a slow, deliberate drag. The scent of smoke would drift around me, heavier, richer.

The ember would then float back through the darkness toward me, the cigarette returning to my hand, and I’d pass it back to Sikeli. We would continue on, neither of us saying a word about it.

Each time, my mind would race—who was that hidden figure, waiting in the shadows? What kind of spirit or soul lingered in those woods, content with just a taste of a cigarette? I never asked Sikeli. I never dared.

Somehow, I think he knew. And somehow, I think he wanted me to wonder.