Aneke twists around to look up at her husband. “Hey Ruan, didn’t somebody say the doctors might be flying to Harare later?”

 “Ja … ja they did.”

“We need to get on that flight and get these sorted,” she says, hand tapping on the passports. “Might still make Vic Falls …”

“Okay … could be a plan,” Ruan says slowly. He is about to say something else when Rudd cuts in.

“No way. Your problem is not an emergency. These helicopters are for the injured.”

“What do you mean?” snaps Aneke, turning to face him. “The blacks? We’re Australian citizens now. Australia will want to get us out of here. That’s the real world, hey.”

Rudd slams his hands flat on to the table, bouncing the passports. He leans towards Aneke, his jaw clenched tight. “You have NO idea do you? None.”

Her gaze does not flinch. “I’m your guest.”

Ruan steps forward. “Back off, please.” He pulls his wife to her feet. “She’s right. We’re your guests. You’re here to help us.”

Rudd wants to chop his own ears off. He stands back holding his head, and lets Father Norman’s hand on his shoulder, persuade him back to his seat.

“Have you met the doctors yet?” Father Norman asks the couple.

Ruan shakes his head.

“They’re in the reception lounge I think.”

“Okay. We’ll go and look for them. Come on Aneke.” Ruan tries to guide his wife away. She stands but doesn’t leave.

“Thanks for nothing,” she spits. “Our visit puts money into your Lodge, and this whole mess of a country. Don’t forget that.” She picks up the passports. “You should be thanking us Rudd. Not yelling at us. Let’s go Ruan.” Chin haughty, she swings around and leads her husband up the stairs. As she’s about to disappear from view, Father Norman calls out.

 “Aneke.” She slows but doesn’t stop. “They’re black. The doctors are black.”

Aneke waves dismissively. “Agh … they’ll have a white manager, hey.”

Then she’s gone.

“Good luck to them,” says Father Norman. “Rudd I think you need to rest. You nearly lost it back there. Get too tired, and you don’t know what’ll happen.” Rudd nods.

 “Many like her around?”

“No. Occasionally, but hardly ever.” Rudd lets out a deep breath, exhaustion taking over from anger. He knows he should be doing something, but can’t think where, or what. Out of half-closed eyes he watches Father Norman walk over to the tea picker painting, his hands folded behind his back.

“I like this,” he says. “Who’s the man in the yellow hat?”

Rudd struggles to focus. “My father … he loved that hat …” He slumps his head into the crook of his arm and closes his eyes. He is vaguely aware that the priest’s voice is closer now.

“Come … to your bed.”

An arm slips around his back, lifting him to his feet. He tries to shake himself free. “I’ll get there.” But the arm remains, guiding him to the steps.

“Did your father always wear that hat?”

“Ja … show people where he was … that he wasn’t afraid.” Rudd takes the steps slowly and deliberately, careful in the dark. When he reaches the last he thinks he notices a few people in the distance on the sofas. There is a flash of bright pink standing beside them.

“Looks a tall man,” says Father Norman.

 “Ja …”

They reach the medical room, and Rudd pushes the door open. He falls sideways on to the bed. The last thing he remembers is somebody taking off his shoes.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023