It’s Simi’s first day back at work. She sits down at the small, slightly wobbly table she calls her desk. It stands in the middle of her shop, and gives her a clear view of the street beyond the entrance. To either side of her hang rails of kaftans, vibrant as the tropics, with rolls of fabric stacked behind her, each flaring colour or bright with geometric repetition. This is her cocoon. Her Africa. And she is its queen.

She swivels the chair to take a look at herself in the floor length mirror behind her desk. Blazing in red and gold, she knows she looks magnificent. Big earrings. Big hair. And lipstick of the darkest red she could find. She feels deeply content, back in the pattern of life she loves, waiting for Lola to return with the coffees.

Home Simidele. This is home.

She turns her chair round to face the door again and lets her gaze wander out to the grey shades of comings and goings on the early morning street. Outside the newsagents sits Old Joe, just as he always does.

Him and that dog. Like bollards. Nobody notices them. Well some do, I suppose. I do most days. Try to put something in that hat of theirs.

She wants to wave, but he’s not looking.

I’ll go across later. At least it’s getting warmer for them now. But all that traffic. Those fumes. Bad enough sitting here.

As she watches a delivery van parks up in front of the pair, blocking her view. A car hoots, then hoots again. She sees it is not irritated with the van but with the scooter zigzagging fast through the traffic, boxy back defiant.

Hello London, she thinks, smiling to herself.

She closes her eyes, and remembers the pleasure of turning the key in her front door, of seeing the mail on the doormat, and the plants still alive. The hot water. The lights. The ready meal in the fridge. The vase of tulips from Lola, with that envelope propped up next to them.

That envelope. Where is that envelope?

She puts her hand into her pocket and feels its sharp edges.

I did remember it. That is one big relief. No way I want to lose Marybelle’s contact details.

She takes it out, its cream cool against the brilliance of her kaftan, and removes the carefully folded email inside, smoothing it out on the table as she begins to read. Tonderai’s name is the first to jump out at her. Marybelle’s note, written from Harare, and dotted with exclamation marks, tells Simi that Tonderai, his family and his village are safe. More good news!!! Jacobus and Tim, are well. Everyone says they’ve done INCREDIBLE work helping the doctors and the locals, and that now they are with Rudd, organising repairs to the lodge. Looks like they will be there for another week at least.

Simi counts the days on her fingers, starting with the date the email was sent.

They should be home tomorrow.

She skims on to the end, reaches the final row of kisses, and then goes back to the beginning, to read again, more slowly this time.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd and Father Norman find Tim and Jacobus at the back of the truck, loading it with belongings. Both men look exhausted.

“Such a mess out there,” says Jacobus as he closes the back.

“Any idea how many dead?” Rudd asks.

“No. Still discovering bodies.”

“Plus hundreds of families without anything. Everything gone. Just like that.” Tim clicks his fingers, the sound snapping between them.

Father Norman shakes his head sadly. “You two must have been a godsend.”

“Perhaps, but we couldn’t do much,” says Tim. “We’re heading to Mutare now. Guess the roads are okay if you’ve managed to get through?”

“Not easy, but you’ll do it,” says Father Norman.

Jacobus nods. “Good. We’ll get some kip in Mutare, and catch up with Hansie and the others. Then bring in more supplies.”

“Should be back first thing tomorrow,” says Tim, swinging his backpack into the cab.

“I’ll be here,” says Rudd.

“I won’t. I’ll be at the mission, roads permitting. All the best with your plans,” says Father Norman, shaking both men by the hand.

“Thanks for your help Father, and big thanks to whoever saved this baby,” says Jacobus. He pats the top of his cab, and then settles himself into the driver’s seat.

“Good luck Rudd,” says Tim.

“Thanks.”

As the truck edges away slowly down the hill, Father Norman claps his hands together. “Right. I must go, if I want to get back before it’s dark.”

“I’ll come with you. Don’t know what the road’s going to be like up there. You may need a hand.”

They set off in slow convoy, heading deeper into the mountains, away from the lower levels of the tea estate. The further they go, the easier and dustier the journey gets. They reach the track leading to the mission without incident. The deep red walls of its church are the first thing Rudd sees through the trees. As they approach children scatter out from the shade, laughing and jumping, while two women try to gather them back.

Rudd switches off his engine and sits quietly, watching as Father Norman gets out to touch heads and hands. When the general chat, and exclamations over the state of the truck, have calmed a little, Rudd walks over to join the excitement.

“Can we give you a cup of tea?” Father Norman asks.

“No thank you. I’d better be getting back.” Rudd extends his hand to say goodbye, and Father Norman seizes it, wrapping it in both of his own, his gaze so intense that Rudd has to look away.

“Thank you. And may God bless you boy,” says the priest, finally releasing his hand.

“And you,” Rudd mumbles, climbing back into his truck.

He drives away slowly, eyes on the rearview mirror, watching Father Norman at the centre of the growing group, with the church behind. It’s like a painting he thinks, untouched by the cyclone. He stretches his arm out of the window in a final farewell.

He takes the journey back slowly, enjoying the viewpoints, and wondering with each whether his decision to leave is the right one. He knows he will never know, but he is certain of two things – he feels relieved to have made the decision, and he is certain that he will be back.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

The next day Rudd is up at dawn to say goodbye to the helicopter bound for Harare. On board, as decreed by the doctors, are Fred and Bernard, and, after a little persuasion, Marybelle. Rudd waves until the glinting speck disappears into the blue, then he heads back up to the lodge, where a text from Hansie pings on to his mobile.

“Arrived. All fine. Tried calling no luck. Aneke and Ruan got lift to Harare. Hope tea estate roads sorted. Will get bus to main road junction midday for last guests.”

Rudd considers the message, the roads, and the guests he has left – including Hansie’s mother Karen, her elderly cousins, and a not very mobile, middle-aged couple from Harare. He finalises a plan and explains it to the group when they gather for morning tea, and the last of the bread. All are relieved to hear that they will be on their way out that morning.

The first task is to get passengers and luggage to the top of the hill. Rudd does several trips on foot with an assortment of bags, before escorting the not so young up to where his truck and Father Norman’s are waiting.

Once he has loaded the guests into the vehicles, and padded the luggage into place around them, he leads the way down, the battered mission truck following precisely in his tracks. It is not an easy journey for anyone. Those in the front of the vehicles are especially nervous, and those crammed into the back especially uncomfortable, but any complaints are silenced by the devastation beyond the lodge.

The tea factory is nothing but twisted metal and broken sheets of corrugated roofing, its perimeter patched here and there with fallen trees, and smashed avocadoes. Both sides of the dirt road beyond it are washed away in places, with only just enough firm ground left on which to coax the trucks along. Slowly, slowly they make progress, passing rockfalls, flooded ditches, destroyed homes, electricity lines swinging listlessly from leaning poles, and the occasional straggle of tired families, the mothers with belongings balanced on their heads, and their babies strapped to their backs. There are no happy children calling out for sweets.

The journey is so slow, that the minutes to the meeting place stretch out to three times their usual length. By the time the convoy reaches the main road it is after midday, and the bus already waiting. The last to board is Karen, maker of the morning’s tea. She gives Rudd a fierce hug, thanking him for all he has done. As she disappears behind the others to find a seat the bus lurches back up on to the tarmac, leaving Rudd and Father Norman in a fog of diesel fumes.

Their drive back to the lodge proves more hazardous than the one from it. The worst part is the final stretch up through the tea fields. Rudd inches upwards slowly, riding the ridges and gravel patches, with the red truck roaring and slipping in the steep red mud behind. At last they reach the final rise, and as Rudd crests the top he sees Jacobus’ truck gleaming in the sun.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023