Simi says the little phrase again. Nobody steals your sun. Her battle cry. She ponders the words, turning them around in her head, then she places them up against the devastated school, a school she cannot even imagine because she never saw it, nor one like it, and now it is buried. Their sun was stolen she thinks, her mood sinking, dropping like a bag of wet flour, down into the depths. Down. Down. Until another thought wedges its way underneath her gloom, stopping the fall. She sits straighter.

Hold on. Their sun is stolen. Mine is not. I can do something. I could build a school? A school? Could I build a school?

She considers the plan, all sections of her business brain reviewing it from every angle. It does not take long for her to decide that there is no way she could build a school.

Not over there. Not with just Marybelle to help. So what then?

She looks around the shop, at the kaftans, and the rolls of fabric, and her eyes pause, pause on the fabric. And suddenly she knows. I can design a special kaftan. Dedicate the profits to the children. Then use those profits for books. Lots of books. Maybe a library? Then … maybe … a school? Stop Simidele. Stop. Stop. Stop. Slow down. One kaftan design. Make it special. Then see how it goes. That’s it. Slowly. Slowly. A proper plan. One that we just might be able to do.

She picks up the email again, and re-reads the last paragraph.

“How’s your hand? Hope it’s better. Would love to hear your news. Must go. Father Norman wants his computer back …”

Simi feels energised now. She has a vision, and she has Marybelle’s voice skipping around in her head.

“I’ll email again if the internet’s working, AND if there’s any electricity. Hope you’re warm and dry. Stay safe there Simi. Mind the rain. School due to start again in a week. Have to go …”

Covered in kisses, Simi refolds the piece of paper and puts it back into her pocket, her head already sketching designs for the new kaftan. She feels confident, sure that Marybelle will like the plan. That working on it little by little will be perfect for both of them.

Across the street she sees Joe’s dog stand up and stretch out his back. She watches as he shakes himself, turns a few small circles with his nose to the ground, and then lies down again, close to Old Joe. At least he has someone to share his life with she thinks, her eyes travelling to the elderly cactus on the corner of her desk. Small and spiky it sometimes surprises her with a pink flower, but not today. She leans across and digs her fingertips into the soil around the base of the plant. It feels dry, but not too dry.

“I’m going to build those kids a library,” she whispers to the plant. Then she leans back in her chair, swivelling it to either side, and makes the announcement again, a little more loudly. “Put this in your vape SJ. Your Mama Africa is going to build a library in Zimbabwe.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023