“No, I don’t have anyone special,” Simi says.

“No? You’re so glamorous. So strong, so … so … I don’t know, confident. And I love that red wrap around your hair. You look … magnificent.”

“Ha! I know how to walk the walk. I’ve had to learn that. My parents taught me. When they tell you you’re wrong – wrong colour, wrong place – that’s what you do. Walk tall.” Simi pauses, watching the wide wonder in Marybelle’s eyes.

“I like that.”

“You’ve got to sail out there like a ship. Look your finest. Every time. Catches attention. Gets you noticed.”

“So… who’s noticed you? Somebody has.”

“Well … there was …”

“And? Please. Everybody tells me. You might as well. Not like you’re going to bump into me anywhere in London.”

 Simi lowers her lashes, and considers her inquisitor. “That’s true. Okay … so there was someone. But … it ended.”

“Recently?”

Simi nods.

“Why? What happened.”

“Well. I moved on. Maybe I’m just wary.”

“Is that why you’re here? A broken heart?” Marybelle’s eyes shine with warmth.

“No. Well my heart’s not broken. Mostly I was annoyed. He said I was a fraud. Didn’t know anything about Africa.”

“No!”

Simi laughs. “Well. He was right. Until I came here I’d only been to Morocco. Once, on a school trip. That’s why I’m here. When he left I picked somewhere properly inside Africa just to show him. And my friends”

“Is he waiting for you?”

“No. He’d met a Lola somewhere. Younger than me. I don’t mind. I never wanted to marry.”

“What? He left you! I thought you left him. Why? Why don’t you want to be with him?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Okay. So …?”

Simi wonders if Marybelle can possibly imagine life in a tower block. If she’s ever even seen one.

Light as a dandelion. Like talking to a leaf.

“I don’t know if you’ll understand this, but our neighbours, when I was little, they were always fighting. We could hear them through the wall. Then one night she came pounding on our door. White woman. Your size. Face a mess. Said she didn’t want the police. He only did it when his team lost.”

“Did what?”

“Beat her.” Simi, voice flat, looks directly at Marybelle. “She went back to him. Can you imagine?”

“No. I can’t,” says Marybelle.

“We moved soon after that. Don’t know where she is now, but I’ve never forgotten her. I can still see her. Eye swollen, nose bleeding, shirt ripped, and it was freezing. November, I think.”

“Horrible. Awful. But men aren’t all like that. You can still find someone Simi.”

“You think so?” said Simi,

“Well, not if you don’t try. Then, when you find them, keep trying.”

“We’re from different worlds Marybelle. It’s tough in the cities. Stressed. Not like here. It looks easy to be happy here.”

Marybelle looked around. “Perhaps. Maybe we’ve just got to trust in God Simi. That’s what we’ve got to do.”

How am I talking to this woman? Back in London I’d walk right on past. And I don’t want this God stuff that’s for sure.

 “Marybelle,” Simi says, taking a step away and studying the crowd, “how about we look for some more champagne?”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi is in a daze. She takes a sip of her champagne, and examines the idea of being the only black woman at a wedding in Africa.

It’s like I’m in a film, or something. 1950’s. Bride and her father riding through tea fields on a white horse.

Mind floating between real and not real, she lifts her glass up towards the sun, and admires the fine stream of bubbles flowing up the centre. Half a glass left. She lets the last mouthful linger, and turns her attention to the come and go in the shade, where families are being arranged into photographs. Nearby, but she is not quite sure where, she hears the best man calling out names to join those under the trees. She is lost in the watching, when Marybelle bubbles up to her.

“Hi Simi. What a beautiful service. Wasn’t it great? Such a special couple. Don’t you think? Oh … look … there’s Katania. Katania! Cooeee!”

Marybelle stretches one hand high over her head in her signature wave. Katania does not respond. To fill the gap, Simi tries to draw Marybelle’s attention back.

“You look beautiful today. Such a pretty dress.”

“Thank you. I borrowed it from one of the teachers. I just love the flame lillies on it,” says Marybelle, smoothing her hand over the billow of light fabric, patterned with reds and greens. “This is our national flower.”

Simi stands back to admire the dress a little more. As she does so, a gust of wind comes through, sweeping her kaftan tight against her, and blowing empty glasses off the cocktail tables. Marybelle topples slightly on her heels, then steadies as the breeze drifts back to nothing. Waiters hurry to pick up the fallen glasses, and under the trees the photographer re-drapes Jen’s dress, and Katania re-pins the veil.

“You’ll have to be quick,” a voice calls. “This wind … getting stronger.”

“Right … everyone …”

Words snatch back, but Simi only catches a few before they fly out of reach.

 “Shouldn’t you be there with them?” she asks Marybelle.

“Who? Me?” Marybelle’s hand flies to her chest, with a laugh. “No. They make me feel like part of the family, but I’m not. I’m more like an old rug. Just there.”

Simi laughs, then wonders. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Never been?”

“No. Came close … but no.”

“What happened?”

“He got killed in our ‘bush’ war. They said it was an ambush. I only wanted him.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Simi stands quietly as Marybelle’s eyes bury back into the past.

“It was a long time ago. I’d just turned nineteen. It was mad here. Whole place in a mess. Terrible things happening. Lots of people left. My friends went off to uni, but I stayed. Too sad to go anywhere, so I got a job in my old school. Haven’t moved since.” Marybelle sighs, then catches hold of herself again. “That’s me. School secretary and agony aunt, forever and ever, Amen.” She ends on a shining smile.

“No man since?”

 “No. Why would I? He was the one. Now I just love everyone.”

“Good plan,” Simi smiles.

 “And you Simi? No one special?”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd slips back to the office, as soon as lunch is cleared.

He sits down in front of the computer, and stares at his reflection in the screen. It is vague as a thumbprint, but still accusing. They both know his last chance to warn the guests is slipping away. He runs his fingers through his hair, first one way and then the other, while the machine dares him to turn it on.

Do I really want to know? And if it’s the worst? What then? Nothing man. This is Zim. Heads down. Carry on. Pretend it’s not happening.

He remembers his mother’s caution. Always telling him to put on a lifejacket. To watch out for crocodiles. His father taunting him to take the risk.

“You’re not going to learn from the edge boy. Don’t be a wimp.“

Rudd knew his mother would board the place up straight away … and then his father would come along, shout a lot, and rip it off.

“Caution? Put it in the bin where it belongs boy. You need to start living.”

Rudd can see them both. His mother blurred, her features vague. His father up close and definite. Eyes full of scorn. Mouth tipped down. Face fleshy and red. And his hands. So big. In his mind he hears them arguing. Shouting. Turning around. Looking for him. Their voices ricochet inside his head. He thumps his fist on the table, and the keyboard jumps.

Right. Decision time.

He reaches around the back of the computer to switch it on. There is a click, but nothing else. No rush of electricity. He tries again. Still nothing. He flicks the light switch on the wall, and the bulb above the desk comes on. He switches it off and tries the computer. Again the click, but there is no life. He looks beneath the table to check whether anything has been unplugged, but the socket is as it should be. He tries once more, but the screen stays dormant.

He pauses, wonders briefly, then relief soars through him, and he pushes his chair away from the table. He jumps to his feet and leaves the office, rattling the door closed behind him. He feels blessed by the Almighties, everywhere, personally rescued, and the threat of danger wiped.

In the distance he sees Father Norman and Katania, walking together towards the grass steps down to the golf course.

That’s a good sight. Perhaps that cyclone’s given way to Katania.

He rounds the corner of the verandah towards the bar, and there, suddenly, his joy falters, dragged back to earth by the flap of white tablecloths, and the breeze that gusts through. The wind licks his skin, then sinks away, unnoticed by the chat of the waiters as they hurry past to add finishing touches. The staff look confident and energised, and the mood sparks nervous hope back into Rudd.

A few paces on, the barmen arrange trays of glinting glasses. Rudd shouts a greeting as he passes, then stops on the edge of the drop down to the golf course, where dresses flutter together, blowing like petals towards the seating under the trees.

Later than I thought. Time to get changed.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023