“Come on Tim,” one of the young crowd shouts. “Entertain us.”

“Cheer us up!”

“Jacobus you too. You’ve got to stand up there, and introduce him,” Marybelle urges, as she heads over to Jacobus, hands beckoning him insistently.

Simi watches Jacobus’ try to resist. She knows it is futile, for Marybelle is as tenacious as time. Their voices argue back and forth, and the rain raises its tempo.

 “No … no … Okay … from here, man.”

 “No Jacobus … this properly. Up … get.”

A slow clap begins on the far side of the room. Simi shrugs off her half of the blanket and tries to join in, but the pain in her hand makes her stop. She holds it up against her chest and watches the tussle of the speeches unfold. Tim points at the table with its piles of logs and steaming clothes, the shrug of his shoulders implying that there’s nowhere for him to stand. Instantly Tonderai leaps to his feet. He clears him a space, and then, mission accomplished, he invites Tim to the pedestal. As the doctor hesitates, the clapping becomes more insistent.

“Speeches! Speeches!”

The stomping chant mixes with the rain, with Tim’s voice loud over the top, urging Jacobus to join him. As the crowd waits, it changes its chorus to “Jacobus! Jacobus!”, closing off any hope of escape for either man. At last the doctor climbs on to the table, and holds out his hand to the embarrassed Jacobus, who crosses the room to join him. Tim hauls him up, and the pair stand together, one slender and the other like rock. Slowly the applause and laughter still. Tonderai sits down, and Marybelle slips into the vacant seat beside Fred.

“You okay, Fred? Bernard?” Tim asks.

Simi sees Fred raise one hand in response, while Bernard nods emphatically beside him.

“Right,” calls Marybelle. “Jacobus, I want to hear you now. Not the rain.” As if obeying her, the pounding on the roof eases.

Jacobus wags his finger down at her. “I’m only doing this for you, hey.”

Marybelle blows him a kiss, and Simi pulls the blanket close. She’s looking forward to the speeches, anything to distract herself from the thrashing of the storm. The wind has dropped back, but the sudden violence of the rain when it comes still shocks her, and she doesn’t even want to think about the possibility that it might go on and on for hours.

 Jacobus begins. “Ladies and gents, I haven’t got my notes with me, but may I introduce to you Dr Timothy Southwaite, the best man. Hansie’s mate since they were kids.”

The far bench claps, and Tim swings round to face it, his head almost touching the roof.

“Right,” he begins, “here goes. I’ll skip the toast to the bridesmaids, etc.” Below him, the hecklers start to jostle for drama.

“What?”

“Speak up.”

“You’ve gone all Pom now man … can’t understand you.”

“Okay …” Tim raises his voice. “Well, for those of you that don’t know, the first time I met Hansie was at my fifth birthday party. April – best month of the year.”

“Apart from this year …” Jambee calls.

More laughter. “You can say that again.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi can’t decide whether it’s the beef or the tea that makes her feel stronger, but something does. She thinks it might be the biltong, slithers of it shaved into their hands by Jacobus.

“Our delicacy,” he says, as he comes around again. “Doubt we’d still be in Africa without this stuff.”

Simi accepts a little more, gratefully. She wouldn’t have tried it, if it hadn’t been for Marybelle.

“You’ll love it Simi!”

“Oh yeah? Dried cow?”

“Yes! It’s so good.”

She’d said no. Said it twice. Told Marybelle about her first experience, couple of years ago in London en route to a Mandela exhibition. She’d got chatting with a white woman in a kaftan heading in the same direction, and she’d offered her some, like a blessing, and in a spirit of togetherness, she’d accepted.

OMG – that was a mistake.

Simi almost gagged just telling Marybelle about it. That piece, strip of fat running through it, had sat in her mouth like a lump of chewed carpet until she’d been able to get away from the white woman, spit it into a tissue and hide it in her pocket.

“So?” Marybelle laughs. “This is not like that. Come on. You need to keep your strength up.”

She tried refusing some more, head shaking, hand hiding, but Marybelle kept tinkling away about Jacobus risking the storm to fetch it. So brave. So delicious. So rude to say no. So she gave in. She’d taken the slimmest slither, placed it on her tongue and chewed slowly, Marybelle’s eyes watching her like she was about to rise from the dead.

And in a way she had. The flavours of pepper and coriander pleased her, and the meat was cut so fine it was easy to swallow. She’d been embarrassingly keen for her second handful.

“Good, isn’t it? I love biltong. Haven’t had any for ages,” Marybelle grins, eyes shining.

Simi nods, finishes off her last few pieces, and calls out her thanks to Jacobus as he heads back to his seat by the door. As he disappears into the shadows, she turns to look at the youngsters on the far side of the room, partly to avoid any more of Marybelle’s shining enthusiasm, and partly to see how the priest is doing. Whether he tried any biltong. But she can’t find him in the dark beyond the fire. And then Jambee’s announcement distracts her.

“We never got the speeches.”

“You’re right!” voices shout, including Marybelle’s, chiming with delight, beside her.

“We could have them now.”

“The best man’s here. And Jacobus could do the introductions.”

“No way. Not now. I’m on duty,” Tim objects. “I’m looking after Fred.”

 “No need for that,” says Fred, his voice weak but clear. “You go boy!”

“Brilliant,” says Marybelle, jumping up and shedding the blanket. Simi pulls it tight, smiling at the sight of her, like a ragged fairy, petite and disheveled, both hands outstretched in front of Tim. In seconds she’s pulled the protesting doctor to his feet, and positioned him by the fire. “I’ll look after Fred,” she insists, bending to kiss the old man on his cheek.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023