“Yes. Our London visitor is happy. Have you read the report?”

Rudd raises his eyes. The look on Tonderai’s face warns him not to be dismissive. He clears his throat, and turns back to the computer.

“I’ve read it, and I’m looking. Can’t see anything else yet. No warnings that we need to evacuate.” He scrolls downwards, flicking past headlines, then pauses, frowning. “Here’s something from the Manica Post.”

He reads in silence for a few seconds.

“What does it say?” Tonderai asks.

“Can’t make much sense of it, but at least it’s reporting from this area.”

Rudd starts to read aloud from the text in front of him, skipping sections and emphasising those he is able to understand.

“Manicaland on high alert over Cyclone Ipsos … moving south-westwards … it is expected to start moistening the country’s atmosphere … beginning with the eastern highlands … path and speed can change drastically … we are likely to see some heavy flows … people need to be on the lookout … we will advise the nation through the relevant stakeholders …”

He looks up at Tonderai, who is shaking his head slowly, but saying nothing.

“Doesn’t make much sense. So … presume it’s no worse than usual? Do you have any other forecasts?” Rudd asks.

“No.”

Rudd scans down through several more websites, but can find nothing else that mentions Zimbabwe.

 “Okay,” he says, and switches off the computer. “You know what? Not much we can do. No warnings have been sent to us directly. From what I can see, it’s not clear where this cyclone is going to end up exactly, although it looks like bad news for Beira. You don’t have family in Beira do you?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s lucky. Does not look great for them, but I think we’ll be fine here. So, let’s just wait. Keep our ears open.”

He stands up, and looks directly at his assistant manager.

“Tonderai, thanks for the report. I can’t see any reason to be worried. I think we’ll be fine.”

He pulls his shoulders back, and waits for Tonderai to speak, but he doesn’t say anything, so Rudd, uncomfortable in the silence, steps out from behind the desk.

“Look Tonderai, only report I can see that mentions us is the one you found, and even then we’re only on a map right at the end. So, seems to me there’s no worries. Well, not about the storm at least. Plenty else though, like giving these guys a great wedding, and taking good care of Simi.”

Avoiding the silence in Tonderai’s eyes, he picks up the papers and walks back behind the desk to put them away in the top drawer. Then he walks purposefully around again to the door and pulls it wide. Bright sunlight falls between them and with it comes the sound of car tyres rolling over gravel. The first of the guests have arrived.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd opens the office door. He has only a few minutes to check through emails.

On the table in the far corner of the room the old computer screen gleams dull black. A white envelope is propped up against it. He picks it up, and sees the word URGENT written in Tonderai’s carefully blocked handwriting. He tears the envelope open, and flicks through the pages inside, reading them fast. Then he begins again, more slowly this time.

“Cyclone Ipsos … heading straight towards Beira.”

Beira? Does Tonderai have family there?

Rudd hasn’t been at the lodge long – a little over a year. It’s his first job in management, and he knows that he’s only survived thanks to the support of Tonderai, his most experienced, and respected member of staff.

If you go Tonderai, I don’t know what I’m going to do. This wedding is a big deal. It’s the only big one we’ve got.

The lodge needs funds desperately. Rudd begins to sweat. He struggles to concentrate on the papers, his mind throwing curses at the country, at the lack of fuel, at the lack of cash, at the lack of everything. And at the cyclone. Or rather at the people who predicted it. He tries to calm down. To focus.

Right. Tonderai. Let’s think about this. Okay. No. Of course. He’s not from Mozambique. He’s been here forever. They told me that when I started. His mother used to work here. Father killed in the war I think. Brother in Mutare. So what then?

Rudd turns back to the papers.

What’s the worry with this cyclone? Mozambique gets them all the time.

It’s on the back of the last page, on his third flip through, that he sees the grainy map, predicting the path of Ipsos. Marked in red ballpoint, at the tip of the cyclone’s reach, is the lodge. He goes back to the start, and reads again, more slowly this time.

“… Global Disaster Alert and Coordination System … Beira … unprecedented flooding … edge of cyclone reaching Zimbabwe …” … okay, but not here … surely? We never get them here. Might reach Mutare, but not us. No. No way. They never do. Never will.

He rubs a hand around his neck.

Maybe it’s the timings bothering Tonderai. Right over the wedding. Aagh … I’m not bothered. These guys are just doing they’re job.

He slaps the papers down on the far corner of the desk, and sits down. As he leans over to switch on the computer, there is a knock on the door and Tonderai comes into the room. He looks worried.

 “Our London visitor happy?” Rudd asks, his tone light, and his focus back on the screen.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi thinks back to the day before, to her rush to catch the tube out to the airport.

Seems like a different planet. That rain. All those umbrellas. At least it was Heathrow, and not miles away but I could have picked to go somewhere with a direct flight. Should have checked. Impulse. Every time. Looking for the special deal. And that travel agent was so persuasive. Zimbabwean. Told me I’d love this place. Not touristy. Proper Africa.

She looks around, memories melting under the heat.

Plus she said it would be cooler up here.

Simi tips her glass up, finishes the liquid, and crunches through the vanishing ice. Then she slips her feet out of her sandals, and into the thick scratch of the grass. It rubs across her soles like an old sponge, smoothing in sunshine. She stretches then curls her toes. First, up towards the sky, and then down again, blades of grass catching between them. She feels the bruising in her feet begin to ease, and she leans back, letting the jetlag, like a slow tide, begin its to and fro. She has no energy left to worry about her hair. She closes her eyes.

In the background there are noises – a shout, the clang of a piece of cutlery as it drops to the floor, and the sudden flap of a bird in the trees behind. Each sound triggers a memory, metal grey at first, then raw, soil-red. Barefoot children run beside the truck, shouting for sweets, hands outstretched. Small thatched houses give way to trees, and fields of tea. The images fracture and blur, heavy now, and slow. Then there is a cough. It repeats, marking something, getting louder, more definite. More annoying.

Simi’s mind, half-asleep, begins to catch hold of itself. The cough comes again. For a few more tangled seconds she stays confused, then suddenly she sits up. She knows she’s heard the cough before. Tonderai.

She looks around, and sees Tonderai standing a pace or two behind her. He dips his head in apology.

“Your lunch is ready.”

“Oh, thank you,” says Simi, her toes scrabbling to find their sandals.

She slips her feet into them, and stands up. She straightens her kaftan, and picks up her bag.

“I must have fallen asleep.”

“It is warm today,” says Tonderai, as he leads her towards the shade of the verandah.

There Simi sees a white cloth over a small table, its creases falling bright and sharp down to the polished floor. Tonderai pulls out the chair that faces the view. Simi sits down and places her bag on the floor beside her.

“Thank you for the nuts,” she says, as she makes herself comfortable. “They were delicious.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023