(Chronicle of a tsunami foretold. Inspired by the real-world exploits of proud born and bred Northlander Shane Jones.)

By 2032, it was no longer called Auckland.

The official name, buried inside the 'Cultural Rebalancing Act (Emergency Provisions)', was Butter Chicken Bay.

The signs changed first. Then the menus. Then, slowly, the language.

“Yeah nah” became “haan ji.” “Sweet as” was replaced by “all good, boss”.

At the centre of it all stood a statue of Shane Jones, pointing dramatically toward the horizon, forever warning of the thing that had already happened.

The tsunami.

The first wave had been subtle.

Uber drivers in Flat Bush who knew shortcuts no GPS could explain. Dairies in Papatoetoe stocking more spices than cigarettes. Students who stayed back, then brought their cousins, then opened accounting firms in Botany.

No one noticed. Not really.

By the time Parliament commissioned the Butter Chicken Early Warning System, it was already too late.

The system ran on three indicators. The ratio of naan to sliced bread. The frequency of “bro” being replaced with “bhai.” Surge pricing after 9pm.

All three were off the charts. Papatoetoe went first. Sandringham didn’t bother reporting.

The resistance tried, of course.

They held meetings in Howick. They wrote op-eds in Wellington. They argued that fish and chips should remain the national anchor.

But even they began to slip. It started innocently.

“Just trying it once,” they said. Then, “Medium spice is manageable”. Later, “Actually, can we get one more butter naan?”

In the end, the tsunami didn’t destroy anything. It just…layered over it. Fish and chips still existed. They just came with a side of masala.

The dairy still sold milk. It just also sold paneer.

And the Uber driver still said “cheers mate”, just after saying “boss” first.

The plaque under Shane Jones’ statue was updated quietly.

"He warned us.

We didn’t listen.

Turns out, it was delicious."