“Me?” exclaims Marybelle. “I’m not Fred’s daughter. The daughter’s in London. He knew she’d been born, but never saw her. Can you imagine? The baby’s granny wouldn’t let him, so Fred went and joined the Army. That was it. Lost touch. But Father Norman found her. The daughter. Not the mother. She’s died sadly.”

“Oh …”

“And the daughter’s rich Simi. She’s paying for our flights. I’m coming because Bernard doesn’t want to. And she doesn’t want to come to Zim. Weird. Says she’s too busy. And not ready.”

“What a story,” Simi says softly.

 “Simi? Are you there? Cooeee Simi – can you hear me? We want to see you. Simi? I’ve got to go.”

“Marybelle. I can hear you,” says Simi.

“Okay… we also promised Bernard we’d visit that memorial in England. The one for the Malayan campaign. Not sure where but …”

Simi, suddenly anxious that they might lose connection, interrupts. “Marybelle, how’s Tonderai?”

“Tonderai? He’s going to take over the lodge. The tea estate will help him. Simi I’ve got to go. Will tell you everything when I see you. Fred’s going to call. Byeee!”

Marybelle disconnects, leaving Simi adrift, memories spinning. She puts her mobile back into her pocket.

 “Who was that?” Lola asks without looking up from her sketching.

“Marybelle. A woman I met at the wedding.”

“A white woman?”

 “Yes. A slightly mad white woman.”

“How mad?” asks Lola, stretching out her back.

“Well …” Simi hesitates, wondering why she used the word. “Well not mad mad. Just always cheerful. Always chatting to God. You know … always happy. Loves everyone. Never complains.”

“Sounds brilliant,” says Lola, head on one side admiring her sketch.

“Suppose she is really. Stuck with me from the moment I stepped into that white party. I’ll always love her for that. And she probably saved my life.”

Lola turns around to face Simi. “She sounds amazing. So what did she want?”

“She’s coming over.”

“To here? To London?”

Simi nods.

“That’s brilliant. She can help with your plan. Will she come to the shop? When’s she coming?”

“She didn’t say. Said her friend would call. She’s travelling with him. An old man. An old soldier.”

“A white soldier?”

Simi nods again.

Lola stares, eyes worried. “What’s he like?’

“Seemed nice. He nearly died too. Got too wet and cold.”

“This is getting really weird. Your two friends – an almost mad white woman and a nearly dead old soldier – are coming here? They’re coming all this way just to see you?”

“No. Well …” Simi explains the story of the new found daughter.

“Whaaat?” Lola’s pencil drops to the floor. She ignores it, her eyes stalking Simi. “This is like a film. You know one of those stories … This is real? You’re not making it up?”

Simi laughs. “I am not making it up. The best part is the daughter is rich. She’s paying for their trip.”

Lola claps her hands together. “I love it! I’m going to message my friends …”

“Maybe not Lola. It’s very private. You know. Let’s just give them time. In case anything goes wrong. See how they are?”

“Really?” Lola rolls her eyes. “You know you could do so much with this story. Put it on Insta. Everyone would want to come to the shop … please?”

“No. Not this story.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi calls after Lola. “You know Lola – I loved it. The experience of my life. You’ll want to go and see Africa one day. Trust me.” But Simi can tell Lola isn’t listening. She’s over in the far corner, leaning on the cutting table, sketching something on to a large piece of paper. Above her a lamp is switched on, its light picking out her braids.

Love her hair. If you’ve got a sister who can braid you are so in luck. Plus she’s got the time.

Simi stands up, and as she does so the mobile in her pocket buzzes.

“I’ll get it,” she calls out to nobody in particular. “Hello. Kaftan Shop.”

“Hello,” a cheerful voice bounces down the line. “Can I speak to … Simi? Is that you?”

“Marybelle? How did you get my number?

“From the doctors. Oh, it’s so lovely to hear you. I can’t talk long, I’m on Father Norman’s mobile. It’s just that I’m coming over to England for a visit. Isn’t that crazy?” Marybelle giggles.

“What? A visit? When?”

“Soon. Not sure exactly. Are you well Simi?”

“Yes. Yes I am. But …?”

Simi tries to gather her thoughts, as Marybelle charges on.

“Simi I’m coming all because of Father Norman and Lady Rodwell. Anyway, he got Fred and I …”

“Lady Rodwell?”

“Yes. Oh. Sorry. Maybe you weren’t there. Do you know the Lady Rodwell?” 

“No …”

“Oh. It’s a hospital in Bulawayo. Lots of babies got adopted from there. I was adopted from there.”

“You?”

“Yes. Well, Father Norman’s mother has just died, and she asked him to search for someone in the records there.”

The words tumble down the line.

“Oh …” says Simi, mind racing. “Marybelle, can you just slow down a little?”

“Oh sorry. Well, the person Father Norman was looking for …”

“Is? Is you Marybelle?”

 “No. No silly. Sadly the lady his mother wanted him to find has died. In one of those Viscount disasters I think. But the point is Father Norman also helped Fred and I look for people.”

“Fred? You’re related to Fred?”

“What?”

“You and Fred are family?”

“What? No Simi.” Marybelle’s laughter bubbles into Simi’s ear. “No Simi … I’ll start again.”

“Okay. Can you slow down a bit. I’m really confused.”

“Right.” Simi hears Marybelle take a deep breath. “Father Norman was looking for somebody his mother knew about, a cousin I think. He found the name, but the lady’s died. He then asked me if I would like to find out about my father and, I said ‘yes’. I never wanted to before, but I think the cyclone and the wedding made me think.”

“And?” asks Simi.

“Well, he helped me search. Turns out there’s no trace of my father, and I’m sad, but not too sad about that … can’t really imagine finding him now … but it was exciting to look … but … Simi … guess what?”

“What?”

“He found someone for Fred.”

“For Fred?”

“Yes. Fred also has a link to Lady Rodwell, but I didn’t know that, until Father Norman came. Then I found out.”

“And?”

“Fred has a daughter.”

“And it’s you?”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“Shop looks great by the way. Any problems?” asks Simi, her eyes still avoiding Lola’s.

“No. No problems. I didn’t sell much from the rails, but I took some orders. One woman wanted five in kente cloth. I got the measurements. Wants them by the end of the month.”

“Great! That will cost her a bit,” says Simi.

“Money isn’t her kind of problem. Not like me,” Lola laughs. “By the way what’s that good idea of yours? The one that made you so happy.”

“Aha!” says Simi. She looks at Lola, who has half a doughnut still to go, sugar all over the desk in front of her, and a head full of happy hopes. Simi sighs, knowing she’s about to open a box her young assistant probably won’t have looked in before. She starts gently. “I want to try to help some people in Zimbabwe. Some children.”

“White children?” Lola asks, as she pats her hands together to get rid of the sugar.

“No. Black children.”

Lola stops what she’s doing, and looks at Simi. “I thought you said you only met white people?”

“Staying at the lodge, yes, but most of the staff were black. Some of them lost so much in this storm.”

“Oh. What happened?” Lola asks her eyes widening.

“Lots of flooding, and one school got hit by a landslide. Ten children died and two teachers.”

“Aaaah …” Lola’s intake of breath, rushes through her lips, shaking her whole body. Eyes ready to spill, she whispers, “that’s terrible.”

“I know,” says Simi quietly.

“Who will help them?”

“I don’t know. They say the government doesn’t work properly.”

“Those poor children. How old were they?”

“Primary school I think. They’ve lost their friends, their teachers, their school. And they don’t have a lot of anything.”

“What? No money? Like people here?”

“No. It’s way worse than here.”

“Worse than here?” Lola looks sceptical. She picks up her coffee.

“Different. Money’s not about stuff there. It’s about staying alive. Food.”

“I know some people like that,” says Lola, staring out across the street to Old Joe. “You know I can’t imagine it – imagine Africa. All you hear about is fighting or starving. Then this kind of weather. Those poor kids.”

“I know,” says Simi. Then fearing Lola might be about to cry, she fills her voice with as much hope as she can, and repeats that she has had a good idea.

“Yes … but what is it?” Lola asks, her gaze coming back to Simi.

“I want to design a kaftan. Or,” Simi hesitates, then rushes on, “rather, I would love you to design a kaftan. One you would wear. Then we can make them and sell them, and use the profits for books. For the school?”

“Raise money for the school. Sounds good. But … a kaftan I would wear?”

“Yes,” says Simi.

“Me? Wear a kaftan?” Lola looks sideways at Simi, eyebrows raised.

Simi laughs. “Well, if you design it, you’d wear it, right?”

“Hmm.” Lola sits back and folds her arms. “Any design?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes … I think so,” says Simi, now worried about her latest impulse idea.

“Great!” says Lola, jumping up. “Let’s do it.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023