Simi pushes her chair back, and twists sideways to face Marybelle. “Decrepit! You! No!”

Marybelle – cheeks pink, blouse pink – talks to her plate. “I didn’t used to be.”

“Neither did the country,” says Sal. “Don’t worry about it. Things will get better.”

Simi puts a hand on Marybelle’s arm. “I don’t know anything about this e’Pap, but I’ll have some if this is what it does. You’re like a gold nugget.”

“Ha ha Simi. As if you need e’Pap. Anyway being gold’s no good, you need to be in the ‘gold class’ here.”

“That’s so true,” Sal laughs.

“Too right,” says Jambee, through his mouthful of chicken.

Simi, not sure what the gold joke is, but relieved the mood is lifting, pulls her chair back towards the table.

“I’ve been longing for this wedding,” says Marybelle, picking up her knife and fork. “All this meat is such a treat. Like a gift from God. He’ll help us get through this Simi. Don’t worry.”

Save me. Please no more God. Don’t know what it is about this lady. I want to snap her in half one second, then glue her together the next.

“Simi,”Jambee says, “if I close my eyes, I’d think you were English. White English I mean.”

Here we go again. These people!

“You’re right Jambee,” Sal grins. “How do you notice this stuff.”

“I don’t know. I just do. I never even knew there were black Londoners.”

“I never knew there were so many white Zimbabweans,” says Simi, matching her tone to Jambee’s.

“What? We’ve always lived here. My grandfather was born here.”

“Well, I never knew that. Not here in Zimbabwe. I know they’re plenty of white people in places like Cape Town, but I thought you’d all been kicked out of here … long ago.”

“No. Well, yes. They mainly kicked us farmers out. Not everyone left though. Lots of us haven’t got anywhere to go anyway. But loads of us are farming again now. Farming other people’s farms for other ‘other people’.”

This does not make sense, but I’m not asking. So glad Jambee’s chatting, but this stuff is not for me. Not on holiday.

She nods and smiles, then piles her fork with more chicken.

“Simi, if you’re from London, where are your parents from?” Sal asks.

“Nigeria and England.” Simi pauses her fork in mid-air. “I meet lots of Nigerians in London. They come and go all the time. But here … I mean …”

A burst of music blasts over the end of Simi’s sentence.

“It’s working!” somebody shouts.

“Of course!”

Around the dancefloor the fairylights spin, and the wind gusts in, snatching candlelight.

“Who needs candles, anyway?” someone shouts.

“Zimbabwe!”

“We need lots of them. And tourists.”

“At least we’ve got Simi.” Sal calls out, raising her wine glass. “Welcome Simi! A real UK visitor.”

Simi, feeling as strung out as the lights, picks up her napkin – her thick white colonial napkin – and dabs at her mouth.

“Thank you,” she says to Sal.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

As Simi watches the easy chat between Fred and Bernard, a fork pings on a glass and Hansie, seated at the end of the table closest to the bar, gets to his feet.

“Right everyone, listen up. Father Norman is going to say grace. Please stay seated otherwise it gets too complicated.”

Father Norman, sitting beside Katania, bows his head, and the tables fall silent.

“Benedictus, benedicat, per Jesum Christum Dominum Nostrum … Amen”

Simi looks at Marybelle, one eyebrow raised.

“Latin, in Africa, hey?”

Marybelle laughs.

“School grace. Katania will have asked him to use that. Sounds posh.”

As the chat begins again, Hansie pings the glass once more. “Right, please start. I’ve a long speech to get through later, and I know you’ll be looking forward to that.”

Instantly there are groans and laughter, banging on plates, and shouts for more wine. The fairy lights bounce in the wind, and the DJ tests his sound system.

“One, two, one, two …”

Simi unfolds her napkin and places it on her lap, smoothing down its heavy white fabric, as Marybelle, hair blowing loose across her face, pours them each a glass of wine.

“Cheers!” she says, raising her glass with one hand, and hitching her hair behind her ear with the other.

They drink to each other’s health, and then begin on the soup. Simi eats slowly, savouring the light spice.

“Delicious. Do you like it?” asks Marybelle, her bowl already empty.

Simi nods, and is about to add another compliment, when Hansie shouts out fresh instructions, and the plates start to get passed down to the kitchen end of the tables. Simi scoops a few more spoonfuls, then adds her bowl to the rush travelling up and down, soup bowls one way, and plates piled high with chicken and rice, the other.

The sweet chilli kick of the chicken surprises Simi, as does the speed with which Marybelle polishes off her own plate.

“That was quick,” Simi says with a laugh.

Embarrassed, Marybelle puts down her knife and fork, laying them neatly together. She presses her napkin to her mouth, a red flush creeping along her cheeks above the white cloth.

 “I’m … sorry …” she mumbles into the napkin.

“What for? Eating fast is a compliment to the chef,” says Simi, sensing instantly that she has tripped over a line she that she didn’t realise was there. Beside her Marybelle folds her napkin carefully, never once looking up at her. To Simi’s relief, a voice, Sal’s voice, chips in across the table.

“Hey Marybelle, this chicken makes a change from e’Pap doesn’t it?”

Marybelle looks up, her eyes deep with embarrassment.

“As good as Nando’s huku,” says Jambee, flaunting a forkful.

A smile tiptoes into Marybelle’s eyes. “I can’t even remember what a Nando’s tastes like,” she says.

“What’s e’Pap?” asks Simi cautiously.

“It’s an instant porridge,” says Sal. “Packed with supplements.”

“My church gives it to me. Food’s so expensive now. Simi, I’m sorry for being so greedy. I’m like the country … decrepit and broke.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi stands in front of the mirror trying to decide whether or not she has chosen the right outfit for the dinner. She has gone for blue and gold, with a high styled hair wrap, patterned in deep browns with golden threads. Her skin is creamed smooth, and her eyelashes the thickest she has with her.

“Magnificent” she says to herself, mimicing Marybelle’s voice, as she checks her earrings are safely fastened. The swing of their bronze orbs reaches down her neck to her shoulders.

Turning sideways, head still, she smooths her kaftan across her hips, her earrings glinting in the glass.

I think it’ll do. Didn’t know I’d be coming to a wedding.

She picks up the room keys and steps outside. The wind slams the door closed behind her, and tugs at the edges of her kaftan.  Looking up she can see no stars, just a stream of torn clouds across the moon.

She takes the shortcut over the lower terrace, past the dark of the pool, and up towards the broad backs and tight-fitting dresses that circle around the bar. She has just reached the top of the steps when a gong sounds from inside the lodge. It rolls out once, twice, three times, and the bar falls silent.

Rudd calls out over the crowd. “Please make your way to your seats. There’s no seating plan. Bride and groom know where they have to go. If you want a beer, take it with you. Wine is on the table.”

The crowd begins to shift, and Simi to follow it. Moving in the opposite direction is Marybelle, making her way towards her.

“Simi, will you come and sit with me?” she calls.

“Of course! Wow – look at you. That’s an amazing pink.”

“Same teacher friend,” says Marybelle with a little pirouette.

“Beautiful.”

“You too Simi. I love your kaftan, and your … your … headscarf. Like an Egyptian queen.”

They walk together past the small stage, where the wedding cake sits on a pedestal, and on out to the verandah lined with tables in white cloths, each buttoned down the centre with wild flowers and candles in glass jars. Along the outer edges, waiters deliver plates of steaming soup.

 “Come, we’ll sit here, next to Jambee and Sal.”

As Simi squeezes through behind Marybelle, Jambee rises to his feet.

“Evening ladies,” he says, eyes shy.

“Hello,” says Simi. “Nice jacket.”

They sit down, Simi catching sight of Katania as she does so, with Fred beside her. Then she sees the man she’d glimpsed at the service – tall, angular, his skin as black as hers.

She nudges Marybelle. “Who’s that beside Fred, please?”

Marybelle cranes her neck to see.

“Oh that’s Bernard. Friend of Fred’s. Army friend. They were in Malaya together right at the end of those troubles. Same regiment. I think he was Fred’s driver. Still is. Can fix anything.”

“Ah,” said Simi, taking in the broad forehead, the deep age lines, and the eyes, still and watching. “Malaya? Zimbabweans fought there? I’ve heard about that war, I think we had to study it at school. But I thought it was just the British?”

“Well … we were Rhodesia back then. Southern Rhodesia. A colony. I don’t know the details. Fred doesn’t say much. Just know they were both there together.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023