“This story comes from a grandmother – a gogo. She told it to my daughter when we waited together for the bus. But the bus was not coming.”

“How old is your daughter?” Simi asks.

“Twelve. She’s our first born. Precious.” Tonderai smiles, eyes gentle and faraway, then he clears his throat and begins. “In this story there is a young girl. Like Precious. She is too clever. And there is a grandpa – an old man, a sodja – but he is not like these men. ” Tonderai gestures towards Fred and Bernard, each cocooned in their blankets like silkworms. “This Grandpa is not like Mr Fred, who is a kind man. This Grandpa is a frightening man. A BIG man. A man of power who can kill with one snap. The gogo calls him Grandpa. So do I.”

Tonderai turns to face Jacobus by the broken door, his voice deliberate with detail.

“This Grandpa has arms like a baobab, and fists the size of gomos. He lives with his people in a House of Stone. In this house there is a Table, a very high, big Table. Every day Grandpa sits at the head of the Table and he feasts. Below the Table, are Women who run to and fro to bring him food. There are others too, others who huddle at Grandpa’s feet, beside his big, shiny, expensive shoes. These others are the People, and amongst them are the old and the frail. All the People have is hope. Every day they hope they will not get stood on. Every day they hope for food. They hope for water. They hope for light. Sometimes, now and then, if they have not been squashed, these People get a little of what they hope for, but they only get enough to remember what it should feel like to be alive. This is what they get, and no more. And this is on the good days.”

Tonderai’s eyes sweep the room, taking Rudd’s with them. In the dark, on the far side of the table, are the damp, young friends of the bride and groom. Closer to the fire are the aged outlines of Fred and Bernard, and beside them Simi and Marybelle, listening intently, with the shadows of Jambee and Father Norman just visible, on the edge of the dark beyond.

“Amongst the People are many, many Youth … too many,” Tonderai says, his voice rolling into each corner of the room with a new urgency.  “Every day these Youth try to climb the legs of the Table to see how those at the top are feasting? To see why they have so many fast cars? Why so many gold bars? Why so much shopping in London and Dubai? The youths try to climb but most cannot reach. Every day, every minute, every second, there are those who try to climb. Perhaps one may be lucky, but mostly they are not, and soon they get tired of their climbing and their falling, and they stand back exhausted. They do not want to live in the dust. But what can they do?” asks Tonderai.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd listens to the calls for storytellers.

Maybe … doubt it though. Storyteller? The priest? But this lot? They’re going to be a tough crowd.

He looks around the room at the faces, all doubtful, until he comes to Simi.

Eish she’s keen. Really keen.

 “Come on! We need a storyteller …” Marybelle insists, turning to look towards him, and then beyond him to Jacobus.

“Don’t look at me,” Rudd says.

“No ways Marybelle. Not me,” says Jacobus, arms folded across his chest, stubborn as stone. Above him rain surges down on the roof again. It lasts a few minutes, then pulls back, and as it does Simi puts in her request.

“Tonderai, have you got a story for us?”

Rudd sits up.

Of course. He’s the one. He’s the storyteller.

He watches Tonderai – his half-smile, the slow shake of his head, his frame straight and still on the bench opposite the fire drum. Rudd’s never listened to Tonderai’s stories. Never wanted to, but now he does.

“Tonderai,” he calls. “You know those stories you tell the guys … have you got one for us? One for our guests from London?”

“Please,” Simi appeals. “Just to take our minds off this. I’m going crazy.”

Tonderai nods, eyes still on the fire. When he replies, his voice is soft.

 “In my family, at work, for sure we have stories. All the time. But we know those who listen. That is my problem here.”

For a few seconds there is quiet. Just the sound of logs collapsing in the fire, and rain dripping from edges outside. Occasionally the door taps, as the wind shifts in through the gap.

“Tonderai,” the priest calls, “stories are born to travel. Your one, this one, will find its audience.”

Tonderai looks at Father Norman. “You have a story for us?” he asks.

“Maybe. Maybe one for later. But you have the one for all of us. Not me. But … I am a good listener. Try me, and the others can listen if they want.”

“I’ll listen,” prompts Marybelle.

Then a voice comes out of the shadows.

“Tonderai, soldiers know stories. But we are not strong. Please.”

Rudd peers down the bench. He’d forgotten Fred. Had him down as barely alive.

“Yes,” says Bernard. “A story would take us away. We need warmth back in our bones.”

Tonderai smiles, shakes his head, defers to the older man, and then invites him to take the stage. But Bernard dismisses the request.

Another pause follows, swirled with a fresh smudge of smoke that hangs in a veil above the drum, pierced here and there with torchlight. Then the wind gathers its strength again, and forces its way back through the broken door, flinging the smoke aside, and slapping the door against the cast iron side of the old stove. When its tantrum is done Tonderai rises smoothly to his feet.

“Okay. There is one story, and I shall tell this for our visitors and for our elders.”

“Excellent,” says Marybelle, clapping her hands.

Outside the wind gives another kick, rattling debris. When all is still, Tonderai begins.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi tries to catch the jokes being pushed around the room. They come in snatches blown apart by the weather, some batted back by Tim and Jacobus. None of it makes any sense to her.

You know, I can’t understand this lot. Why’m I even here? Could be down Goldhawk Road right now. Picking fabrics. Chit chatting. I don’t need this. Even mad Soapy and his opera next door. I’ll take that. Anything. Just not this.

“Tim … Hansie and the lion,” Sal calls.

 “Oh … not that …”

Laughter rocks the room, then drowns beneath a fresh tip of rain and wind.

 “Hey …” Tim shouts, ” … gonna leave it … Hansie … this … is all over.”

Hansie holds both thumbs up, and Tim and Jacobus splash down from the table. As they return to their seats, Simi lets the fire draw her eyes into its shifting dance. When she next looks up she sees Marybelle approaching, so she holds the blanket wide, inviting her friend to join her.

“Thanks,” says Marybelle, drawing the blanket close. She smiles at Simi, lifting her chin to speak into her ear. “At least we got a bit of the speeches.”

Simi nods. “Don’t understand this farm thing,” she says, bending close to Marybelle, narrowing the space for the wind to tear the words apart.

Marybelle laughs. “Agh, it’s all politics now. You scratch my back, and I’ll let you plough my land. Don’t even think about it Simi.”

Simi nods, and asks one more question. “Are Bernard and Fred war vets?”

“In a way,” Marybelle says. “But those two were in Malaya. For you.”

“For me? I mean for who? For the UK?”

“I think so,” says Marybelle shrugging.

“Why? What is this Malaya thing?”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t know. I think the UK needed soldiers for some war somewhere so took them. Ask them.”

Malaya? Never heard of any war there. Probably not even born anyway.

Simi’s relieved when Father Norman shouts a question across the room.

“Marybelle, any storytellers here?”

“Storyteller?” Marybelle shouts back. “Any storytellers?”

The high cry from Marybelle, sounds like that of a gull riding the wind. But there’s no response from the room, so she tries again. But this time, she has barely begun when her question is swamped by a great wash of rain. Heavy and loud on the roof, it pins them all to silence. They wait, watching the sparks as Tonderai throws another log on the fire. At last the downpour passes and Marybelle tries again.

“Anyone know any stories?” she shouts.

“Stories? No way,” rumbles Jacobus. “We’ve got enough problems without stories.”

“Jacobus! That’s ridiculous,” Marybelle scolds. “I love stories. Doesn’t anyone know any?”

“No speeches?” someone asks.

“No way. We’ve done our bit,” Tim shouts.

 “Anyone? If not, I could give you a sermon.”

“Oh no …” someone groans. “Spare us Father Norman. Please spare us.”

“Story please!” urges Marybelle.

Simi looks around at the lack of voices.

Surely? Surely they’re stories here? I’m in Africa? I thought stories began in Africa. I think I’m going mad. London’s packed with stories. In fact … maybe there’s more Africa in London, than here? Please? Somebody? Give us a story. This rain is doing my head in.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023