Simi presses her face as close to the window of the helicopter as she can. She feels dazed and numb, her whole being still clinging to the sun as it burns off the early morning cloud, its blue lifting her up from the pale bruise of dawn. It is the first dry morning she’s seen since the day of the wedding, and it gives her hope. So does the lack of pain, thanks to whatever the doctors dosed her with the night before.

Outside the helicopter, close to the palm trees where the wedding service was, she sees Marybelle, hair fluffed by the wind. Next to her is Rudd, and beside him Father Norman. The three are laughing and chatting, occasionally looking across at the helicopter. As the blades start to rotate a little faster, the pools of water on the ground begin to swirl, and the grass around their edges to flatten. Simi notices Father Norman’s trousers blowing tight against his legs. Like scaffolding poles she thinks.

She raises her good hand and waves, unsure as to whether or not anyone will be able to see her, but she is desperate to connect for one last time. As the blades circle faster and faster, a pit of longing, of deep emptiness, opens up inside her. The feeling gets worse as Marybelle begins to wave, one of her hands sweeping rainbows, the other trying to calm her hair. And then Rudd joins in, both arms wide above his head.

Eyes flooding, Simi looks away from the small group, to further along the green where the doctors and their pilot, Douglas Makanda, are gathered by the remaining helicopter, its blades drooped like a wilted flower. As she watches a voice tins through her headphones.

 “Everyone okay?”

Simi turns in her seat. Beside her Dr Miriam gives the pilot a thumbs up, while Katania, seated in the front, does the same. Simi copies the gesture, then turns back to the window. She sees Marybelle now has both hands clamped to either side of her head, holding down her hair as the thumping whine of the blades gets faster and faster. Simi smiles, a salty, tearful smile.

She’s been in helicopters before, once or twice, tourist trips, but she’s never felt as alone as she does now. Alone, and weak, all energy gone, all confidence vanished as though the core of her being has dissolved. There is no-one to distract her from her sadness, or her guilt at leaving. There is nothing to cling on to as she says goodbye to the battered lodge. She leans her forehead on the stiff Perspex window, tears dripping on to her kaftan.

What is wrong with you Simidele? You must be so ill to be snivelling over some irritating white woman.

She sniffs as quietly as she can, her good hand searching for a tissue in one of her kaftan pockets. She finds the tissue, wipes her eyes and turns her gaze back to the window. That’s what I’ll miss she thinks. All this green. And touching the earth – every day touching the earth. And feeling the weather. Smelling it. Fearing it. Tasting it. She sniffs again.

Nearly killed me, but I was there. Really, really there.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023