YOU ARE NOT PETERU. YOU ARE PETER, THE ROCK.

YOU ARE NOT PETERU. YOU ARE PETER, THE ROCK.

Roy Mathews

“Mr. Simona, I have to deliver some bad news,” Mr. Robertson said apologetically.
“The school board and the senior management team of our school have decided to exclude your son, Peteru, from this institution. This is our final verdict, Mr. Simona.”

Mr. Robertson, the Principal of Rosendale College, read out the school board’s decision without looking at Simona’s face.
“Do you have anything to say or ask the board at this stage?” Mr. Phillips, the Assistant Principal, inquired.

Simona glanced at his son Peteru, who was sitting next to him, then looked at all the members of the school board and said, “Is it possible, sirs, for you to give my son one more chance to complete this year? He is only fifteen years old, and I have no means to place him in any other school at this time of year.”

“Sorry, Mr. Simona, we have already given him two chances. This is our school policy, and we have no other option. In the first instance, he was suspended for three days for bullying a student from another ethnic background and instigating a fight. That good student—an academically brilliant one—left this school because of your son’s actions. You and your son appeared before the board at that time, apologized, and promised us that such behavior would not happen again. Then, what happened, Mr. Simona?” Mr. Robertson said.

Simona glanced at his son’s face. Peteru sat there like a rock, expressionless, drawing imaginary pictures on the carpeted floor with his worn-out Nike shoe.

“Sorry, sir, I tried, but my son…” Simona couldn’t complete the sentence. There was no explanation for Peteru’s behavior.

Mr. Phillips cut in. “The second incident was even more serious. Peteru brought alcohol and drugs to school, supplied them to his mates, and took money from them—just like a professional drug dealer. These are serious offenses, Mr. Simona. Again, you and your aiga appeared before the school board and begged for pardon. We accepted your apology and allowed him to stay in school. But he didn’t change a bit, did he? He can’t change. Why, Mr. Simona?”

Simona couldn’t come up with a credible excuse for his son’s actions. He glanced at Peteru again, and his son’s impassiveness made him furious.

Before Simona could articulate a plausible answer, Mr. Robertson spoke again.
“Look, Mr. Simona, the situation is now even more serious. He threatened one of our staff members with a knife. As I said before, our school policy is to give only two chances to encourage students to reflect on their actions and make a positive turnaround. In your son’s case, Mr. Simona, there is nothing positive. In fact, his behavior is spiraling out of control.”

“Mr. Simona, we are not going to make any U-turn in our decision to expel Peteru from Rosendale College.”

That was the end of Peteru’s secondary schooling. Simona and his son left the conference room without making any further apologies, knowing that nothing they said would change the decision.

Peteru didn’t go home that day. The burning embers in his dad’s eyes drove him to flee from their Tamaki home to his uncle’s house in Flatbush, on the south side of Auckland city.

South Auckland is a cultural hotspot, a melting pot of nationalities who migrate to New Zealand and live in harmony on most streets. However, Pacific Island families dominate in many areas. Peteru embraced South Auckland as his new home. The smoke from the umu and hangi, the aroma of barbecuing meat, and the rhythmic beats of Cook Island drums filled the air on most Sundays. These smells, sights, and sounds intoxicated him with pride in being a Southsider.

Frederick, Peteru’s uncle, is a mechanic who operates a small (and allegedly illegal, according to his neighbors) business out of his garage. Young people from the area visit his garage to get their cars and bikes fixed, and they affectionately call him "Dick." For them, Frederick is a long, foreign-sounding name, ill-suited for a Samoan man, and their tongues struggle to pronounce it correctly. Frederick doesn’t mind; in fact, he introduces himself as Dick.

Dick has extended his garage without obtaining any council permissions and converted part of it into a small room that serves as a cozy bedroom for Peteru. Dick’s two boys—Peteru’s cousins, Sione and Aiono—attend the local school in the Flatbush suburb. While Dick doesn’t allow his boys to use his tools in the garage, they’ve learned many tricks from watching him. They own several pedal bikes that Dick repaired—bikes once abandoned by people in Flatbush and the surrounding suburbs.

Dick was an expert mechanic who specialized in installing "big bore" exhausts on old cars and lowering their bodies for better performance—services highly sought after by speed-loving youth. Cars and bikes fascinated Peteru. He often watched young people performing acrobatics on homemade bikes in public, with cops chasing them down.

Peteru made up his mind. I want to do what my uncle is doing—fixing cars and bikes, racing them on the streets. No more schoolbags, books, or assessments. His resolve was firm.

That’s how Peteru met Tevita. Tevita came to Dick’s garage to get his racing bike fixed and quickly befriended Peteru. 

One day, Tevita gave Peteru a free ride to the city, where they stopped at a KFC in Newmarket for lunch. Tevita ordered two "Wicked Feasts" and extra drinks. When he paid for their meal, Peteru noticed stacks of currency notes of various denominations in Tevita’s wallet.

Peteru was curious. Can someone make that much money just by racing bikes on the street? His thoughts raced. I’ll ask him next time he comes to the garage, he decided.

He didn’t have to wait long. The next day, Tevita arrived on his modified bike. Dick wasn’t home when Tevita came.

“Hey, dude, want to make big bucks like me and my mates?” Tevita began.
“Yes, of course, yes!” Peteru’s excitement peaked.
“Then you should be a cobra,” Tevita declared.
“What? A cobra? Like the snake?” Peteru asked, puzzled.
“Mate, mate, mate, you don’t know anything about South Auckland,” Tevita said. “I’m a cobra—a king cobra.”

Peteru stared at Tevita, still confused.
“Boy, boy, boy. You need to grow up and be a man. Haven’t you heard of the Hells Angels, Black Power, Mongrel Mob, or even the Killer Beez?” Tevita pressed.
“Oh, you mean gangs. Yeah, I’ve heard about the Killer Beez. Lots of boys at my old school wanted to join them.”
“F--- the Killer Beez! You hear only King Cobras, you smell only King Cobras, you feel only King Cobras. Got it?”

“Here in South Auckland, King Cobras are the bomb. They’ve opened a new chapter here, targeting Polynesian youth like us,” Tevita explained.

Without thinking further, Peteru said, “I’m in. I want to be a cobra. Cobra only.”
“It’s not that easy,” Tevita replied. “This isn’t like joining a club or getting a party membership. You’ve got to prove you can be a cobra. We’ll give you an assignment. If you complete it successfully, you can become a patched member.”
“I can do the assignment as long as it doesn’t involve reading or writing,” Peteru said.
“Don’t worry, mate. You don’t need to read or write. King Cobras don’t read or write. Look at me—I’m a school dropout. I left school before completing Year Ten. What matters is your physical strength and willpower. Just like a king cobra, you must have no fefe—no fear.” Tevita explained the prerequisites for becoming a King Cobra.

“How do you think your Dick will take this?” Tevita asked.
“My dick? What does my dick have to do with this?” Peteru asked, confused.
“Your uncle Dick, mate—not your silly dick,” Tevita laughed.
“Oh. Well, he’ll be fine as long as I’m doing some work and not just sitting around at home,” Peteru replied.

As they spoke, Dick returned after scavenging for old bikes and machine parts, parking his battered Mitsubishi ute in the driveway.

“Alright, mate,” Tevita said. “I’ll come back tomorrow with your assignment and all the tools you’ll need to complete it.”

Peteru couldn’t sleep that night. Thoughts of becoming rich, having a wallet stuffed with cash, riding sleek new bikes, and eating KFC—his favorite food—every day, consumed him. Eventually, he drifted off and only woke up to the sound of Dick hammering away in the garage.

Tevita arrived around 11 o’clock, dressed in a black hoodie and black jeans. Peteru, already waiting, quickly hopped onto his bike after bidding a casual goodbye to Dick.

Tevita stopped on a quiet side street and began explaining Peteru’s assignment.
“There’s a dairy on Chapel Road owned by an Indian guy. Your task is to get all the cigarettes from the shop—we’re running low on smokes,” Tevita said.
“That’s easy. I can fit them all in my bag. Just give me the money,” Peteru replied confidently.
“Mate, we’re King Cobras. We don’t buy things. We take what we want. If anything or anyone gets in our way, we spit poison and strike. That’s how we roll,” Tevita said, his voice now firm and commanding.

Tevita pointed towards the shop, just ten meters ahead. 

“Usually, there’s only one Indian guy at the counter. I’ve got the tools: a balaclava, a knife, and a big cotton bag. When you become a proper Cobra, you’ll get better tools—like a sawn-off shotgun, a car (stolen, of course), and a couple of accomplices. But remember, you’ll have to steal that car yourself. We’ll teach you all the tricks later. For now, just follow my instructions.”

Tevita laid out the plan:
“Put on the balaclava and keep the knife in your pocket. Walk into the shop like a regular customer, pretend to browse, and scope out the situation. Locate the cigarette cartons. Once the shop is empty, pull down the balaclava, take out the knife, and head to the counter. Spit your poison—use all the racial slurs and swear words you know—and demand the cigarettes and the cash in the till. If he refuses, do what a Cobra does—strike. Grab the goods and run. I’ll be waiting here on my bike, ready to take off.”

Peteru stood frozen beside the bike, his breath shallow and his heart racing. He hadn’t expected the assignment to be this intense. Doubts began to creep in.
Should I go through with this? What happens if I get caught? How will I explain this to Dick?

But the thought of crisp banknotes in his hand and the taste of KFC overpowering his senses silenced his hesitation—at least for the moment.

Peteru walked into the store, his heart pounding. The woman at the counter greeted him with a warm smile. He gave a curt nod, knowing that friendliness was not the norm for gang members. Trying to appear casual, he headed to the back of the store and quickly scanned the area. Seeing no one else inside, he pulled the balaclava over his face and gripped the knife tightly in his hand. With adrenaline surging, he approached the counter.

“Hey, lady, give me all the money!” he demanded, his voice trembling despite his effort to sound menacing.

The woman’s eyes widened in fear, and she bent down as though reaching into a drawer. Peteru watched her closely, unaware that she was activating the store’s smoke screen and pressing the panic button. Suddenly, a loud, piercing alarm shattered the air, leaving his ears ringing. Thick, white smoke filled the room, blinding him.

Before Peteru could react, two young Indian men emerged from behind the counter, wielding baseball bats. The first blow landed on his shoulder, sending waves of pain through his body. Disoriented and unable to see through the smoke, he stumbled, only to be struck again—this time on his legs, then his torso. Blow after blow rained down on him, leaving him helpless and writhing in agony.

The pain was unbearable, and Peteru’s fear turned to despair. For the first time, he realized the truth: even cobras can be killed.

Through the haze of smoke and pain, he spotted a faint light coming from the exit. Summoning what little strength he had left, he crawled toward it, gasping for air. Finally, he made it outside, collapsing on the pavement and gulping in the fresh air.

Frantically, he looked around for Tevita and his bike. But the street was empty. Tevita had vanished, leaving Peteru to face the consequences alone.

Peteru spent weeks at Middlemore Hospital, his body broken. Fractured ribs, arms, and legs took two months to heal. During his hospital stay, his father, Simona, sat by his bedside, caring for him like the father in the story of the prodigal son.

When Peteru was finally discharged, Simona took him home. The pain, the betrayal, and the harsh reality of his choices marked the end of Peteru’s South Auckland dreams.

Peteru decided to turn his life around and become a good, law-abiding, and God-fearing young man. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had stepped foot inside a church. His parents were overjoyed when he told them about his decision to attend church services regularly. However, Peteru soon realized that he knew very little about the Bible, Jesus, or the concept of salvation.

That Sunday, Pastor Tamati was preaching when Peteru attended the service. The Bible passage for the day was from Matthew 16:18-19, which read:

“Now I say to you that you are Peter, and upon this rock, I will build my church, and all the powers of hell will not conquer it. And I will give you the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven.”

Peteru was stunned. That’s me, he thought. This passage is meant for me. He felt as if the words were speaking directly to him. I’m not Peteru anymore. I am Peter, the rock, he decided.

After the service, Peteru approached Pastor Tamati and shared his newfound desire to study the Bible and become a pastor like him someday. Pastor Tamati was overjoyed, feeling that he had saved at least one soul that day.

The pastor gave Peteru a structured schedule to read and study the Bible daily. Peteru, now embracing his new identity as Peter, threw himself into his spiritual journey with fervor. He began watching televangelists, amazed by their ability to pray in tongues and heal the sick.

Pastor Tamati was astounded by the speed of Peter’s spiritual growth. Within months, Peter had developed a deep understanding of scripture and a compelling way of sharing it. Pastor Tamati began giving him opportunities to preach during services.

Peter’s sermons captivated the congregation, drawing in more people each week. His popularity grew rapidly, and he became a rising star in the church community, inspiring everyone with his powerful testimony and newfound faith.

It wasn’t long before Peter decided to branch out from his parent church and start his own ministry. He rented a vacant warehouse in Mount Wellington to serve as his first independent worship center. He named it Living Jesus’ Church (LJC). Peter’s innovative approach attracted large crowds, especially women and youth. He introduced a band that played modern music and organized skits based on Bible stories every Sunday to engage children.

Peter strongly encouraged families to give tithes to the church, emphasizing the blessings they would receive in return. Additionally, he solicited donations to fund the purchase of a permanent church building.

Within two years, Peter achieved his goal, he purchased a building for his church. With this success, he began traveling to different locations across Auckland to conduct healing services. For these events, he assembled a team of twenty loyal supporters who traveled with him and were paid handsomely for their participation. Some of them posed as blind individuals, others used wheelchairs, and some claimed to suffer from back pain or paralyzed limbs.

During the services, Peter would stage dramatic healing sessions. For example, he would call out, “Is there a man named John here in the congregation who wants me to pray for his paralyzed limb?” On cue, one of his paid participants would appear in a wheelchair and approach him. Peter would place his hand on the man’s head and pray fervently for deliverance. Then, with a commanding tone, he’d declare, “In the name of Jesus, I command the spirit of sickness to leave this man! Let him walk again.”

The man would slowly rise from his wheelchair, following Peter’s instructions, and take hesitant, wavering steps. Peter would proclaim, “Can you feel the power of the Holy Spirit working through your leg? Now start walking.” The man would then walk steadily, convincing the audience of a miraculous healing.

Peter also devised other techniques to enhance the illusion of divine intervention. He imported expensive perfumes from the Middle East and distributed them to trusted family members stationed among the congregation. During prayers, at Peter’s signal, they would spray the perfumes while everyone had their eyes closed. Peter would then say, “Can you feel the sweet fragrance floating among you? That is the Holy Spirit. If you have any sickness, place your hand on that part of your body and pray. You will be healed instantly.” Many attendees claimed to experience miraculous recoveries.

During personal prayer sessions, Peter employed a unique gimmick. He wore a thick jacket with large pockets that concealed a battery connected to wires running through his right sleeve. When he placed his hand on someone’s head, the device delivered a mild electric shock. People believed it was the power of the Holy Spirit and often collapsed to the ground, overwhelmed by what they thought was divine energy.

Peter expanded his church empire across Auckland and into other cities, including Hamilton, Wellington, Christchurch, and Dunedin. He appointed pastors to oversee each branch, assuming the role of a visiting pastor. His wealth grew exponentially, allowing him to purchase a mansion in Mission Bay and a luxurious holiday home in Queenstown.

In Wellington, Peter met Isabella, a palagi woman from his congregation, and they married in a grand ceremony attended by his aiga from Tamaki, South Auckland, and extended families from Samoa. Isabella took charge of the church’s finances, while Peter traveled the country in his latest-model BMW, preaching the good news. Together, they invested in businesses and real estate and even opened a school for troubled youth, funded by government grants.

One morning, Peter made a dramatic announcement: “I am not a pastor anymore. I am the Bishop of LJC, the Living Jesus’ Church.” From then on, he insisted on being addressed as Bishop Peter. The church flourished, with new branches opening in Sydney and other Australian cities. He made monthly trips to Australia, further solidifying his influence.

Every year after Christmas, Bishop Peter took a break from church activities, delegating responsibilities to Isabella and his pastors. His retreats to Thailand and Bali were presented as opportunities for spiritual growth, and his congregation enthusiastically sponsored these trips. Curiously, he never brought his wife or associates, preferring solitude for what he claimed were deeply personal, spiritual experiences.

That boxing day, on the twentieth anniversary day of that devastating Indian Ocean tsunami, the members of LJC were stunned by the breaking news on their TV screens: “Bishop Peter arrested in Bali for possessing Class A drugs.” The Indonesian police had discovered Bishop Peter in a five-star hotel with two young women of Thai origin, reportedly speaking in tongues under the influence of illegal substances.

The rock upon which Peter had built his church dislodged from its lofty peak, tumbling down the hill at breakneck speed and cracking everything in its path.