It’s Simi’s first day back at work. She sits down at the small, slightly wobbly table she calls her desk. It stands in the middle of her shop, and gives her a clear view of the street beyond the entrance. To either side of her hang rails of kaftans, vibrant as the tropics, with rolls of fabric stacked behind her, each flaring colour or bright with geometric repetition. This is her cocoon. Her Africa. And she is its queen.

She swivels the chair to take a look at herself in the floor length mirror behind her desk. Blazing in red and gold, she knows she looks magnificent. Big earrings. Big hair. And lipstick of the darkest red she could find. She feels deeply content, back in the pattern of life she loves, waiting for Lola to return with the coffees.

Home Simidele. This is home.

She turns her chair round to face the door again and lets her gaze wander out to the grey shades of comings and goings on the early morning street. Outside the newsagents sits Old Joe, just as he always does.

Him and that dog. Like bollards. Nobody notices them. Well some do, I suppose. I do most days. Try to put something in that hat of theirs.

She wants to wave, but he’s not looking.

I’ll go across later. At least it’s getting warmer for them now. But all that traffic. Those fumes. Bad enough sitting here.

As she watches a delivery van parks up in front of the pair, blocking her view. A car hoots, then hoots again. She sees it is not irritated with the van but with the scooter zigzagging fast through the traffic, boxy back defiant.

Hello London, she thinks, smiling to herself.

She closes her eyes, and remembers the pleasure of turning the key in her front door, of seeing the mail on the doormat, and the plants still alive. The hot water. The lights. The ready meal in the fridge. The vase of tulips from Lola, with that envelope propped up next to them.

That envelope. Where is that envelope?

She puts her hand into her pocket and feels its sharp edges.

I did remember it. That is one big relief. No way I want to lose Marybelle’s contact details.

She takes it out, its cream cool against the brilliance of her kaftan, and removes the carefully folded email inside, smoothing it out on the table as she begins to read. Tonderai’s name is the first to jump out at her. Marybelle’s note, written from Harare, and dotted with exclamation marks, tells Simi that Tonderai, his family and his village are safe. More good news!!! Jacobus and Tim, are well. Everyone says they’ve done INCREDIBLE work helping the doctors and the locals, and that now they are with Rudd, organising repairs to the lodge. Looks like they will be there for another week at least.

Simi counts the days on her fingers, starting with the date the email was sent.

They should be home tomorrow.

She skims on to the end, reaches the final row of kisses, and then goes back to the beginning, to read again, more slowly this time.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023