Rudd’s heart pumps with the knowledge that there is not much time now. He watches the waiters rush to clear and deliver, then scans his eyes across the guests, searching for signs of concern, but he can see none. Even New Zealand Steve seems blissfully into his beer.

Then, as the last of the plates from the main course is carried towards the kitchen, the thunder arrives. Distant but definite, it drums closer, its scent gusting in on the wind, rich with static and wet earth.

Fear prickles up the back of Rudd’s neck and along his arms. It fizzes him with adrenaline. Unable to stay still, he decides to check on the bar area. As he strides around the edge of the lodge towards the dance floor, the wind hits him in the chest. It takes his breath, and flings it out into the darkness, leaving his lungs shocked and empty, waiting for the oxygen to come gasping back. Alarmed, Rudd abandons his mission and turns around, anxious to be back, close to the dining area and the guests.

He finds them as he left them, cheerfully seated and enjoying the moment, protected by the main body of the lodge. He listens to their chat, louder now against the thunder, and apparently unbothered by the static in the air. He reaches his spot between the kitchen and the tables, just as the wind forces its way around the building behind him. It flies in, and for a few short seconds it rips up chat, flaps fabric, tangles hair, and smashes empty bottles on to the floor.

Rudd moves quickly to help clear the broken glass. He and Tonderai are bent double, sweeping up the shards when the first of the rain comes in. It rattles across the verandah roof, lifting the laughter louder.

“This is it,” Rudd says.

“For sure,” replies Tonderai.

On the stage behind them the cake stand wobbles, but keeps its balance.

Rudd returns to his post once the broken glass has been collected. He tries to calm his mind, but it slips through his fingers, wet with the threat of flood and problems he still can’t imagine. He catches hold of it at last, and realises that he has not seen Simi for a while. His eyes sweep over the tables again, and he spots her, near the middle of the central row, next to Marybelle. She looks worried, but Rudd is reassured to see they are seated together.

He glances around the rest of the guests, and seeing no problems, decides to go and check that all the windows of the newly refurbished rooms have been closed. He hurries down past the swimming pool on to the lower walkway, and runs its length looking for anything that might be open. There is nothing. As far as he can see everything is shut, and the roof of the lower walkway is holding well.

Pulse tight, he turns and makes his way back up the stairs to his guests. As he reaches the verandah he is spotted by a young man on a nearby table, who raises his beer bottle in salute.

“Hey Rudd! Great meal.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi pushes her chair back, and twists sideways to face Marybelle. “Decrepit! You! No!”

Marybelle – cheeks pink, blouse pink – talks to her plate. “I didn’t used to be.”

“Neither did the country,” says Sal. “Don’t worry about it. Things will get better.”

Simi puts a hand on Marybelle’s arm. “I don’t know anything about this e’Pap, but I’ll have some if this is what it does. You’re like a gold nugget.”

“Ha ha Simi. As if you need e’Pap. Anyway being gold’s no good, you need to be in the ‘gold class’ here.”

“That’s so true,” Sal laughs.

“Too right,” says Jambee, through his mouthful of chicken.

Simi, not sure what the gold joke is, but relieved the mood is lifting, pulls her chair back towards the table.

“I’ve been longing for this wedding,” says Marybelle, picking up her knife and fork. “All this meat is such a treat. Like a gift from God. He’ll help us get through this Simi. Don’t worry.”

Save me. Please no more God. Don’t know what it is about this lady. I want to snap her in half one second, then glue her together the next.

“Simi,”Jambee says, “if I close my eyes, I’d think you were English. White English I mean.”

Here we go again. These people!

“You’re right Jambee,” Sal grins. “How do you notice this stuff.”

“I don’t know. I just do. I never even knew there were black Londoners.”

“I never knew there were so many white Zimbabweans,” says Simi, matching her tone to Jambee’s.

“What? We’ve always lived here. My grandfather was born here.”

“Well, I never knew that. Not here in Zimbabwe. I know they’re plenty of white people in places like Cape Town, but I thought you’d all been kicked out of here … long ago.”

“No. Well, yes. They mainly kicked us farmers out. Not everyone left though. Lots of us haven’t got anywhere to go anyway. But loads of us are farming again now. Farming other people’s farms for other ‘other people’.”

This does not make sense, but I’m not asking. So glad Jambee’s chatting, but this stuff is not for me. Not on holiday.

She nods and smiles, then piles her fork with more chicken.

“Simi, if you’re from London, where are your parents from?” Sal asks.

“Nigeria and England.” Simi pauses her fork in mid-air. “I meet lots of Nigerians in London. They come and go all the time. But here … I mean …”

A burst of music blasts over the end of Simi’s sentence.

“It’s working!” somebody shouts.

“Of course!”

Around the dancefloor the fairylights spin, and the wind gusts in, snatching candlelight.

“Who needs candles, anyway?” someone shouts.

“Zimbabwe!”

“We need lots of them. And tourists.”

“At least we’ve got Simi.” Sal calls out, raising her wine glass. “Welcome Simi! A real UK visitor.”

Simi, feeling as strung out as the lights, picks up her napkin – her thick white colonial napkin – and dabs at her mouth.

“Thank you,” she says to Sal.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

As Simi watches the easy chat between Fred and Bernard, a fork pings on a glass and Hansie, seated at the end of the table closest to the bar, gets to his feet.

“Right everyone, listen up. Father Norman is going to say grace. Please stay seated otherwise it gets too complicated.”

Father Norman, sitting beside Katania, bows his head, and the tables fall silent.

“Benedictus, benedicat, per Jesum Christum Dominum Nostrum … Amen”

Simi looks at Marybelle, one eyebrow raised.

“Latin, in Africa, hey?”

Marybelle laughs.

“School grace. Katania will have asked him to use that. Sounds posh.”

As the chat begins again, Hansie pings the glass once more. “Right, please start. I’ve a long speech to get through later, and I know you’ll be looking forward to that.”

Instantly there are groans and laughter, banging on plates, and shouts for more wine. The fairy lights bounce in the wind, and the DJ tests his sound system.

“One, two, one, two …”

Simi unfolds her napkin and places it on her lap, smoothing down its heavy white fabric, as Marybelle, hair blowing loose across her face, pours them each a glass of wine.

“Cheers!” she says, raising her glass with one hand, and hitching her hair behind her ear with the other.

They drink to each other’s health, and then begin on the soup. Simi eats slowly, savouring the light spice.

“Delicious. Do you like it?” asks Marybelle, her bowl already empty.

Simi nods, and is about to add another compliment, when Hansie shouts out fresh instructions, and the plates start to get passed down to the kitchen end of the tables. Simi scoops a few more spoonfuls, then adds her bowl to the rush travelling up and down, soup bowls one way, and plates piled high with chicken and rice, the other.

The sweet chilli kick of the chicken surprises Simi, as does the speed with which Marybelle polishes off her own plate.

“That was quick,” Simi says with a laugh.

Embarrassed, Marybelle puts down her knife and fork, laying them neatly together. She presses her napkin to her mouth, a red flush creeping along her cheeks above the white cloth.

 “I’m … sorry …” she mumbles into the napkin.

“What for? Eating fast is a compliment to the chef,” says Simi, sensing instantly that she has tripped over a line she that she didn’t realise was there. Beside her Marybelle folds her napkin carefully, never once looking up at her. To Simi’s relief, a voice, Sal’s voice, chips in across the table.

“Hey Marybelle, this chicken makes a change from e’Pap doesn’t it?”

Marybelle looks up, her eyes deep with embarrassment.

“As good as Nando’s huku,” says Jambee, flaunting a forkful.

A smile tiptoes into Marybelle’s eyes. “I can’t even remember what a Nando’s tastes like,” she says.

“What’s e’Pap?” asks Simi cautiously.

“It’s an instant porridge,” says Sal. “Packed with supplements.”

“My church gives it to me. Food’s so expensive now. Simi, I’m sorry for being so greedy. I’m like the country … decrepit and broke.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023