Rudd looks around at the expectant faces in the room, and he sees that Tonderai is no longer the assistant manager. Now he is the storyteller, the hypnotist, gleaming in the firelight, his long plastic mackintosh reaching to the top of his boots. He watches him turn to hold his hands out over the flames, silence sparking in the fire basket. He spreads his fingers wide, then he rubs his palms together and begins again.

“These young men, these women, these Youth, they struggle beneath the Table. If they stop to listen, they hear, high up above them, Grandpa’s tales of war from a time they do not know. And they hear the Favourites beside Grandpa, jingling gold and diamonds. Jingling up there. And these Youth, they grow impatient. Their stomachs are empty. Their families have no future. They do not want to hear this jingling. And anyway they cannot stand still. For some are leaving. And some are staying. And all are working working. Always working. Many jobs. Little jobs. Any jobs. And they are hungry. Always hungry. So hungry sometimes they are stealing. Stealing from me. Stealing from you. Fighting for scraps that fall from the Table.”

Thunder rolls outside. In a grey stutter of lightning Rudd sees Tonderai turn towards Marybelle, a finger on his lips. “But!” he says, the word heavy with stones, “But … there is one person, a small person, who does not get scraps from the Table. No. Not even one taste. For this person, always waiting, always helping, always most obedient, is Girl. She is told always to wait. To serve the others. To fetch and carry. And then, perhaps then, these others will honour her with enough to survive. For that is how it is for this small person. This Girl.”

Tonderai, pull his shoulders back, and moves away from the fire. “This Girl …” he says, his voice smiling, “this Girl, maiwe!” He shakes his head. “She is veeery clever. And the gogo told us, that this Girl is clever for she has Ancestors of Fire in her blood. Ancestors who know a thing or two. Ancestors who will not let her be pushed this way or that. Or bossed by those who think they are mighty. No. This person, Girl, she has power. Plenty power. Power from those who came before. The power of her Ancestors. It is they who show her what is right and what is wrong. And they will not let her be still. She is strong, very strong, this Girl. But …” Tonderai turns slowly, his eyes finding Simi, “most do not see this, for Girl is only a girl.”

Rudd feels the word ‘girl’ settle between them. It holds the room, calm and present, but not for long, for the storm comes bashing in at the door, snuffing the story out like a candle. Rudd waits, and the room waits, waits for the noise and the rain to ease enough for Tonderai to drag the story back to the surface.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“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