Simi’s head is full of images. They paper her fitful mind, collaging a path out of the billiard room, away from the storm, and back to the wedding. To the sunshine. The heat. The singing – sort of singing – and a hymn that goes on and on, round and round. Bright and beautiful … all things … bright and beautiful … all things … wise and wonderful … all things … On and on, round and round, little marshmallows of sound, slower and slower, soft and pink, on and on and on …

Simi’s head drops lower and lower, and finally on to her chest. Soothed at last into sleep, her fretting stills while the helicopter hums on and on towards Harare.

“If you … down … shortly will be … “

She jolts awake.

That voice again. The pilot.

She misses the words but lifts her head, turning her neck up and around to ease the stiffness. As she does so, she sees Dr Miriam watching her, and smiles. Dr Miriam sits back again.

Simi looks out the window. The land below looks different. It is the pale yellow of tall grass and dusty trees. And it is flat. No mountains. No deep green tea fields. No lakes. There are some fields. Some farms. An occasional cluster of homes.

The looking tires her. Her headache starts to tighten again, and her eyes to ache. She wonders how much further they have to go. Leaning back, she tries to sleep, but feels too awake. Too disturbed. Too in-between. Too full of headache. Her mind wallows. Helpless as a raft caught in a riptide it is dragged back into the billiard room. She sees a big table. A girl trapped. Fallen trees everywhere. And bricks. Piles of bricks. Her breathing becomes shallow and fast. She wants to help. She needs to help. To save that Girl. And those children. But she can’t. She can’t reach them. Something is holding her back. Holding her by the shoulder. Shaking her.

Simi opens her eyes. A hand is on her shoulder. Then it is on her forehead. Soft and cool. She turns, surfacing slowly. It is Dr Miriam’s hand. Her arm is outstretched, her face worried.

“Simi? How are you feeling?” The doctor lifts off her own headphones, and then Simi’s.

Simi tries to respond but has no strength. She feels too heavy, and the helicopter is spinning too fast, slipping around her, out of focus.

“Simi!” Dr Miriam’s voice again. “Simi. You need to wake up. We need to get you off here and to the hospital.”

“Off?”

“Yes. We’ve arrived. We’re in Harare.”

Simi nods, her mouth dry. She listens. The whine of the engines is gone. She looks out of the window, out at tarmac and low buildings, hazy in the sunshine. As she stares, she feels hands reach around in front of her, and click open her seatbelt.

“You okay to stand?”

She gets to her feet slowly. Her kaftan sticks to her in sweaty clumps, but she is too sore to care.

“We’re going straight to the hospital.”

The door of the helicopter swings open, and Simi, blinking against the bright light, lets Dr Miriam help her out into the dry Harare day.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023