“Is that it?” asks Dr Jabu Ndlovu.

“Is that what?” Aneke replies.

“Nothing else? No injury? Not trying to save anyone? Arrange a lift for them perhaps? You just want to get to Harare by helicopter to sort out your passport problems?”

“Ja,” says Aneke, folding her pink-jacketed arms. “Of course. We’re visitors … foreign nationals. Australians. We didn’t ask to be caught up in this cyclone. Our embassy will want to make sure we’re okay. To help us.”

“Oh.” The doctor lets the word fill the space for a few seconds, then he turns to his colleagues. “I’m not sure these good people know what’s going on out there.” He turns back. “Do you know what’s going on out there? Do you understand why we’re here?”

“Ja, of course,” snaps Aneke. “We’re not stupid. And we know that you’ve been sent up to help.”

“Sent up by who?” asks the doctor, his voice getting curter by the syllable.

“How should I know? The boss we’re looking for maybe. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Here we are. Your first customers, hey?” She tries a laugh, but it doesn’t catch. Silence hangs like a guillotine.

In the end the first response is from the doctor at the furthest end of the sofa. Comfortably round, he heaves himself upright, and begins to speak so softly that Simi, head and hand throbbing, has to sit forward to hear him.

“I am Dr Jonathan Hove. We’re here to help the injured. Not you. Out there everything is broken – hillsides, bridges, roads, all broken. Rivers flooding. Homes flattened. And more rain coming. Tomorrow our job is to help those we couldn’t reach today. To help them. Not you.”

Simi stares at the sweaty glisten on the doctor’s forehead, shining in the semi-dark. Nobody says anything. The doctor takes off his glasses and polishes them on his shirt, then he puts them back on, tweaks them with one hand and edges out from between the table and the sofa. With his eyes averted he walks past Aneke and Ruan, and Dr Jabu Ndlovu follows him. Neither of the doctors says a word.

“It’s terrible,” Marybelle whispers to Simi. “Terrible. Poor Tonderai.”

Simi thinks about Tonderai. Images from his story about a girl merge with memories of the storm and its neverending, pouring rain. She looks outside to see if it is still raining, but it is too dark to tell, and her view is obstructed suddenly by Aneke crossing over to take a seat on the sofa next to the pilot, who moves down hastily.

“Agh Ruan man, what are we going to do?” Ruan does not provide an answer.

Simi closes her eyes. She has no idea what they’re going to do. What any of them are going to do.

Must be about twenty-four hours since that cyclone hit, and only progress I’ve seen is the lights flashing on, just now. Don’t know who managed that. Brilliant, except they went out again. At least the doctors are staying. They’re our big hope. I like them.

She feels a hand on her arm as the sofa cushion dips beside her, and Marybelle leans over.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023