As soon as I heard Airana Ngawera was releasing another novel, I knew I had to get my hands on it. After several busy months of PhD work and an unfortunate bout of reader burnout, which resulted in me returning my library copy of The Last Living Cannibal unread, I managed to get my hands on it in time to read it on Waitangi Day this year. As a title on the longlist for the 2026 Ockhams Jann Medlicott Acorn Prize for Fiction, I had high hopes going into this read. I was not let down.

Muru is not revenge. Muru is about balance. You put your hands on one of theirs and they had every right to take from you and yours whatever they meant to take, short of a life. Aotearoa in the 1940s, and the Māori men of Taranaki have refused to join the Māori battalion because of the severity of their land confiscations. Koko is the oldest man in the village, a legend within his community – he’s lived through the land wars, Parihaka, imprisonment in Dunedin, and they whisper of him as the Last Living Cannibal. Koko dotes on his grandson Blackie, who has lived with him ever since Blackie’s mum left in troubling circumstances years earlier. But the ghosts of the past are bound to come calling, and when they do, they come with muru in mind. Richly set in Taranaki during the 1940s, The Last Living Cannibal is the epitome of a classic Aotearoa novel, from one of this generation’s most promising writers.

First and foremost, I must give credit where it is due: Airana Ngawera has a profound ability to write people. Not only did I find myself relating to these characters, but I felt that every one of them was a living, breathing entity on the page. From their energy and influence to the way they held themselves in times of strife, or slipped up in the face of tense dramatics, these characters had their blood pumping behind every word they spoke. I am astounded by how acutely I could feel these characters, their collective spirits, and the significance of their standing shoulder to shoulder.

The Last Living Cannibal is a monumental novel of strength, character, and heart. It is full of moments that will make you laugh one second and cry the next. I don’t know what it is, but te ao Māori makes my chest tighten with such strong emotions. From tangi to karanga, I feel immersed in the culture and customs, even if I don’t understand all the words. It occurs when reading fiction, too, and I felt it keenly in The Last Living Cannibal. Airana Ngawera makes the integration of te ao Māori in Kiwi fiction so effortless, making for such enjoyable reads that showcase the everyday experiences of Māori, as seen in Pātea Boys/Ngāti Pātea.

I am so happy I read The Last Living Cannibal on Waitangi Day, not only as a means of connecting to te ao Māori on such a significant day, but as a reminder of the losses faced by many Māori in the years following the signing of Te Tiriti o Waitangi. It is vital that we remember our history and the present consequences of actions from the past so that we can reach a better place together, one that honours and respects everyone. There is a long way to go here in Aotearoa, but hope is not lost. In the meantime, I plan to read and promote many more incredible stories to bring more voices to my fellow readers. The Last Living Cannibal is a must-read and one to get your hands on quickly. I will be very surprised if it doesn’t make the Jann Medlicott Acorn Prize for Fiction shortlist.