A cyclone? Rudd stares at the moth-eaten tar, at the emptiness, at the sun-faded bush. Here? No. Surely not? Mozambique? Sometimes. But not here. And not this weekend. No. She must have heard that wrong. She’s tired. Confused. Getting old. Never even been here before.

Simi sighs. She shakes her head.

“I should’ve gone to Victoria Falls. If I’d had the money I would’ve. Elephants. Infinity pools. Luxury. Perfect.”

Rudd knows she’s not talking to him, but he thinks he should say something. He rubs a hand through his hair.

“Everyone loves the lodge,” he tries.

 “Hmm. Maybe. I hope it’s worth it. How much longer?”

“Half an hour. Max.”

She sighs again.

Rudd wonders what his assistant manager, Tonderai, will think. He knows he’ll be expecting the lady from London to be white. The thought cheers him up.

“Not much chance of sleep is there, with roads like these?”

“Not really. I’ll take it steady. That might help.”

Rudd likes this bit of the journey – the small villages, the signs of life.

There is a roadside store ahead. An old car, pulls out from the bus-stop beside it. The vehicle is crammed with passengers. Rudd slows down. There is a juggle of heads above the back seat, and the car’s suspension is sagging, which pushes its bonnet higher than its back. He can hear a loud rattling coming from the exhaust, which he sees is swinging loose.

Rudd is about to put his foot down to overtake the car when its rear door suddenly flies open, and a child drops out. In a fraction of a fraction of a second, he brakes, Simi shrieks, and the child hangs suspended, legs flailing, as shouting adults drag it back. Then the car door slams shut, and the driver puffs on, unaware of the drama.

“What?” Simi, snapped upright in her seat, has her hands rigid on the dashboard.

Rudd whistles, his heart thumping. He accelerates to pass wide of the car.

Simi spins round to follow the lopsided vehicle

“Did a … did a … did a child just fall out?”

“Looked like it to me. But they saved it.”

“What? How many in that car? Seven?” 

Rudd checks the rearview mirror. Through its small rectangle he tries to count.

 “Maybe eight or nine? At least two kids in the front by the adults. The same, maybe more, in the back.” He sees the driver is an old man, with a pork pie hat on head.

Simi turns, eyes hot with horror.

“Eight or nine? No seatbelts?”

Rudd shrugs.

“I don’t think my heart can take this.” 

He glances sideways and sees her, head high, like a startled kudu, her hand over her kaftaned chest. He wants to laugh, but doesn’t.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“Ever been to London?”

Rudd shakes his head.

“Well … plenty of Zimbabweans in London. Sophisticated. Entrepreneurs, doctors, nurses. Some in my choir. I like them. Partly why I came. Curious I suppose. I know it’s got problems, but I never expected it to feel like this. Sort of sad.”

Rudd’s fingers begin to drum on the wheel. He chews his lip, and forces himself not to point out the stuff he’s heard about London – the rain, the knife attacks, the crowded trains. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Simi. Goddess Simi. Suddenly he can’t imagine her liking the lodge at all.

She’s still talking, more to herself than to him. He doesn’t mind. Better than silence. He rubs a hand around the back of his neck to wipe away the sweat.

“Is there going to be anything fun at your lodge?”

“Fun?” He looks across at her.

“Yes. Didn’t realise it was so far from anywhere.”

“We’ve got a bar. Swimming-pool. Tennis court. Golf. Walks … that kind of thing?”

“I suppose so,” said Simi, her voice dropping. “Don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea. Detox. Healthy living. Feels like I’ve made a massive mistake.”

Body language Rudd. Be confident. Convince her. He clears his throat.

“No. Not a mistake. We’ve got stuff happening. We’ve got a wedding this weekend.”

“A wedding?”

“Yes. Big wedding. Local wedding. They won’t mind you joining in. Nobody does here. You’re the only non-wedding guest staying anyway.”

“I’m the only non-wedding guest?”

“Ja. This weekend you are. Most people come in families and we couldn’t fit any of them. Had room for you though.”

 “Okaaay.” Simi stretches out the word. “A wedding? Never been to one in Africa. Could be interesting. As long as there’s not so much of the nothing-really-works problem, the pothole-problem.”

“Well,” says Rudd, “it’ll be different. Look … over there.”

Simi eyes follow Rudd’s finger to the horizon.

 “There. Those rocks, up there on the left. Those are kopjes.”

Simi studies the lumbering parade of rock.

“They look brilliant in this light,” says Rudd. “We’ve had a lot of rain.”

“And there’s more coming.”

 “Maybe. Won’t spoil anything.”

“Oh no? Our pilot said something about a cyclone?”

“Cyclone? This weekend?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Must have meant Mozambique. We don’t get cyclones here.”

“No?”

“No,” says Rudd meeting her eyes. “Hardly ever. Not here.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

For a while, they drive on in silence. It’s almost ten o’clock, and the pale blue day is getting hotter.

Rudd lifts his damp back a little further from the seat. He fiddles with the air conditioning, but knows he won’t get much out of it. No replacements around, and the lodge doesn’t have the money anyway.

He gives up, and tries to think of something to say. It’s important. He knows that, remembers it from his training.

“Communicate.” “Body language.” “Be accessible.” “Professional.” “Friendly.” “You want them to like you.”

Great.

After a few more awkward miles he tries a little conversation.

“We’ll be heading through the kopjes soon.”

“The what?” Simi turns towards him.

“Kopjes. K-o-p-j-e. Afrikaans word I think. They’re big rocks. Balancing. You’ll see them. They’re beautiful. Msasas all around them.”

“Msasas?”

Simi raises her hands to adjust the broad yellow band that holds her hair back, fountain style. Her eyes never leave Rudd.

 “Ja. Msasas are trees. They change colour. September, October, and they’ll be all oranges and reds.”

“But not now?”

“No.”

Her hands drop back to her lap. She twists a ring on her finger.

“Getting warm,” she says. “No air con?”

“No. Doesn’t seem to be working.”

Nor my window, thinks Rudd, but he doesn’t tell her that.

Simi presses the button on her door, opening the window slightly.

“You know,” she says, as a slither of wind cools the cab, “this place is nothing like I expected. Don’t know what I expected, but the airport was so quiet. It felt tired. Not much 2019 about it. And those petrol queues? What’s going on there?”

 “Petrol shortage. It comes and goes. Things are different here.”

“Thanks. I can see that.” She pauses. “Sorry. I’m a little tired. It’s just that so far nothing feels like the other bits of Africa I’ve seen. There’s no buzz.“

Rudd, braves a glance. She’s staring ahead. Eyes lost. He looks back at the road, relieved that at least her tone sounds softer.

“I suppose I did ask for somewhere different, but I didn’t want somewhere completely comatosed.” She looks at him. “Is it always like that?”

“The airport?“

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

“Half dead?“

 Rudd avoids her eyes. He feels irritated suddenly. It’s his airport. Same as always. At least the main luggage belt worked this time. And the lights were on. Not good enough for her? Then she’d better take her fancy earrings somewhere else.

He shrugs.

“Really? That’s it?”

He looks at her.

“It works for us. “

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023