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

Simi stands in front of the mirror trying to decide whether or not she has chosen the right outfit for the dinner. She has gone for blue and gold, with a high styled hair wrap, patterned in deep browns with golden threads. Her skin is creamed smooth, and her eyelashes the thickest she has with her.

“Magnificent” she says to herself, mimicing Marybelle’s voice, as she checks her earrings are safely fastened. The swing of their bronze orbs reaches down her neck to her shoulders.

Turning sideways, head still, she smooths her kaftan across her hips, her earrings glinting in the glass.

I think it’ll do. Didn’t know I’d be coming to a wedding.

She picks up the room keys and steps outside. The wind slams the door closed behind her, and tugs at the edges of her kaftan.  Looking up she can see no stars, just a stream of torn clouds across the moon.

She takes the shortcut over the lower terrace, past the dark of the pool, and up towards the broad backs and tight-fitting dresses that circle around the bar. She has just reached the top of the steps when a gong sounds from inside the lodge. It rolls out once, twice, three times, and the bar falls silent.

Rudd calls out over the crowd. “Please make your way to your seats. There’s no seating plan. Bride and groom know where they have to go. If you want a beer, take it with you. Wine is on the table.”

The crowd begins to shift, and Simi to follow it. Moving in the opposite direction is Marybelle, making her way towards her.

“Simi, will you come and sit with me?” she calls.

“Of course! Wow – look at you. That’s an amazing pink.”

“Same teacher friend,” says Marybelle with a little pirouette.

“Beautiful.”

“You too Simi. I love your kaftan, and your … your … headscarf. Like an Egyptian queen.”

They walk together past the small stage, where the wedding cake sits on a pedestal, and on out to the verandah lined with tables in white cloths, each buttoned down the centre with wild flowers and candles in glass jars. Along the outer edges, waiters deliver plates of steaming soup.

 “Come, we’ll sit here, next to Jambee and Sal.”

As Simi squeezes through behind Marybelle, Jambee rises to his feet.

“Evening ladies,” he says, eyes shy.

“Hello,” says Simi. “Nice jacket.”

They sit down, Simi catching sight of Katania as she does so, with Fred beside her. Then she sees the man she’d glimpsed at the service – tall, angular, his skin as black as hers.

She nudges Marybelle. “Who’s that beside Fred, please?”

Marybelle cranes her neck to see.

“Oh that’s Bernard. Friend of Fred’s. Army friend. They were in Malaya together right at the end of those troubles. Same regiment. I think he was Fred’s driver. Still is. Can fix anything.”

“Ah,” said Simi, taking in the broad forehead, the deep age lines, and the eyes, still and watching. “Malaya? Zimbabweans fought there? I’ve heard about that war, I think we had to study it at school. But I thought it was just the British?”

“Well … we were Rhodesia back then. Southern Rhodesia. A colony. I don’t know the details. Fred doesn’t say much. Just know they were both there together.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“Come on Jambee!”

Jambee begins to run.

“You’re taking forever.”

“Let’s get these photographs done.”

“They like him,” says Simi, placing her empty glass on the tray held out by a waiter who is collecting glasses off the tables.

“No more champagne,” says Marybelle, her face disappointed, as she squeezes her glass on to the crammed tray.

“Plenty up at the lodge,” the waiter smiles.

“We’d better go up then. Oh … just hold on,” Marybelle waves at a group on the edge of the trees. “Look who’s there. Simi, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to catch up with that lot. Haven’t seen them for years. I’ll follow you up.”

“Sure,” Simi replies, shivering slightly.

Sun drops like a rock here. Suddenly gets cooler. And those gusts don’t help.

She begins to make her way up to the lodge, following the trail of guests heading towards the glow of the lights. Already long shadows from the trees stretch over the grass. They lie still until the wind skims in, shaking their branches. As Simi walks, she notices a young man break away from the group in front, and come back in her direction.

It’s Tim.

“Did you like the service Simi? We didn’t do badly with All Things Bright and Beautiful, did we?”

“You did your best!” Simi laughs. “Have to say, I don’t think the priest will be recruiting any of you as choristers.”

“So picky! Serious drinking now though, and we’re good at that. Are you coming up to join us at the bar?”

“Sure. Reckon this wind will carry me halfway there at least. All the photographs done now?”

“Most of them. They’re just finishing off by the trees, and then we’ll do the last ones up by the lodge.”

“They’ll have to hurry won’t they? The light’s going fast.”

“The staff better get going too,” says Tim, pausing to watch the rush of waiters over the green, as they pack away the tables and glasses.

“How do they get everything back?” Simi asks.

“With that,” Tim points to the small tractor approaching over the bridge at the far end of the golf course. Rudd is at the wheel.

“Looks like they’ve done this before,” says Simi watching the loading begin. In minutes the trailer is piled with the tables and chairs, and the tractor begins to circle back up the track it came down.

“Seems pretty slick to me,” Tim says. “Oh good. Looks like they’ve finished the photographs.”

Jen and Hansie, hand in hand, are walking out from under the trees, with Katania and the photographer behind them. The bride’s dress catches the last of the sunlight, its ivory cream shimmering between the green of the grass, and the dark race of the clouds above.

Simi and Tim watch for a few seconds more, then continue their way upwards, with the waiters hurrying, and the last of the guests strolling, behind them.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023