“Hello. Kaftan …”

“Hello. Is a lady called Simidele there?” The voice of an older man cuts down the line.

“Fred?”

“Simidele?”

“Yes. Marybelle called to tell me that you’re both coming over to see your daughter.”

“Correct.”

The strength in Fred’s voice amazes Simi. He does not sound like the old man with the wavering cough, who she last saw wrapped in blankets on the lodge verandah. “You sound well.”

“I am well. We’re going to stay with my daughter in Rotherhithe. May we see you while we’re in London?”

“Of course. When?”

“Two weeks time.”

“I shall be in my shop, working on our new project.”

“Ah. A new project?”

“To raise funds for that school – the one near the lodge that got hit by the landslide.”

“Ah …” says Fred.

Simi hears hesitation, and pauses her enthusiasm. “It’s a good idea isn’t it?”

“Well … it’s a generous idea,” Fred replies.

“But?”

“But, perhaps we need to fund our own schools.”

“Yes, but surely after the cyclone …. don’t you think you need some help?”

“Of course, but we must be the helpers. Zimbabwe is rich, and we know how to build schools.”

Simi frowns. “But …I thought … I mean … things didn’t look great even before that cyclone. Now there’s all the damage?”

“I agree, but if everyone keeps fixing us, our leaders will keep robbing us. That’s the problem. Anyway, what if we came over there and started building schools?”

Simi laughs. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” says Fred.

“But … you wouldn’t have to. We’ve got plenty. I think we can manage.”

“There you go. That’s where we need to get to.”

Simi feels her excitement flattening. “So what then? What can I do? How can I help?”

“Help one of your own schools, while thinking of us.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And, you could always give us lunch?” Simi hears the smile in Fred’s voice. “Shall we say the last Wednesday of the month? Leave plenty of time to fix the world.”

“It’s a deal,” says Simi, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice, despite the squashed plans.

“Not sure what time we’ll arrive. I’ll telephone when we get there.”

“Perfect. And you’ll meet my assistant and new designer, Lola. Kaftan Shop. You’ll find it on the internet.”

“I look forward to it. Best greetings to you both. Goodbye.”

Simi puts the mobile back in her pocket. She looks at Lola and sees that she is struggling not to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

Lola’s reply tumbles out, each word grinning. “You. He was the soldier, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well … I could sort of hear him. Made you listen.”

“And?”

“Sounded like he didn’t want our help.”

“Well, I don’t know if he knows ….”

“Makes sense to me. He’s not going to want your charity.”

Simi feels a flash of impatience. “You didn’t see what a mess it all was out there.”

“No. But I know my old school needs help. Our library books were so ancient …”

“Huh.” With a swirl of kaftan Simi turns away from Lola’s mirth, and stands looking out through the front entrance, arms folded. She sees that it’s raining outside, and that Joe and his dog are now huddled together under the same plastic mac.

“What are you going to do with Marybelle and the soldier when they’re in London?” Lola asks.

“I have no idea,” Simi replies, quietly.

Marybelle in London – that’s going to be a whole other story.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“Okay.” Lola shrugs, and bends down to pick up her fallen pencil. “Nothing on Instagram.”

“How’s the design going?” asks Simi, coming close enough to peer over Lola’s shoulder.

“Not bad,” says Lola, flipping the page over to one that is fresh and blank. “I’ll show you when I’ve done more.”

Simi sighs, and goes back to her desk, her head tumbling with thoughts about Marybelle and Fred, and seeing them both in London. She is excited, but afraid to be excited at the same time. She cannot believe that they will actually be in her city. The feeling is the same as when she thinks about her trip to Zimbabwe – she is buzzing that she went, but in London feels so far removed that at times, she doubts she ever did. Her hand is the only tangible proof, and now, the memory of the morning’s call which seems as fragile and disconnected as her own state of mind.

That trip. That cyclone. Made me rethink everything. Life. What is it? What matters? What doesn’t matter? Does this matter? This shop. Ten years of my life. All this fabric. All my clients.

She looks around the shop from kaftan to kaftan, corner to corner.

“You okay?” Lola asks. “You look a bit … a bit … somewhere else.”

“Just thinking. I thought I had all the answers. That the Kaftan Shop was important. But are we good for people? I mean, maybe we’ve been selling the wrong way round. You know all this ‘you must look beautiful. Buy this. Buy that.’”

“Isn’t that how shops work.”

“But, is it good for us? That place, Zimbabwe … nothing was perfect. Sometimes stuff wasn’t even there. I mean the basics – shops like we know them, roads like we know them. The lodge was great, but the in between stuff. But nobody complained. They just got on with it. They’re survivors. I went to bits. So that’s what I want to find – what I want to sell. How to live. How to stay really alive. I want to wrap whatever it is into each kaftan. That being alive. Being part of something.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think I’m talking about what you’re talking about. Stories. I want every kaftan to have a story. Have a soul. Where it’s from. The cloth. The community. So the buyer loves it. Looks after it. Passes it on.”

“Okay … ,” says Lola.

“And people can bring us their cloth. Old fabric. New fabric. Tell us their stories. Then we make the kaftans. Make them beautiful. Make them alive.”

“Okaaay … ” says Lola, chewing the end of her pencil, as she considers her boss in the grip of this strange new excitement.

“This is going to be the Kaftan Community Shop. Your new kaftan, your design for those children, is going to be at our new opening. So are Marybelle and Fred.”

 “But you don’t even know when they’re coming …”

“They will …”

“And what are we going to do with all this fabric we’ve already got?”

“Find out where each roll came from.”

“Really?” Lola’s eyes pop with dread.

“I’ll do it,” says Simi. “You design. We’ll …” Simi feels her mobile buzz again.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“Me?” exclaims Marybelle. “I’m not Fred’s daughter. The daughter’s in London. He knew she’d been born, but never saw her. Can you imagine? The baby’s granny wouldn’t let him, so Fred went and joined the Army. That was it. Lost touch. But Father Norman found her. The daughter. Not the mother. She’s died sadly.”

“Oh …”

“And the daughter’s rich Simi. She’s paying for our flights. I’m coming because Bernard doesn’t want to. And she doesn’t want to come to Zim. Weird. Says she’s too busy. And not ready.”

“What a story,” Simi says softly.

 “Simi? Are you there? Cooeee Simi – can you hear me? We want to see you. Simi? I’ve got to go.”

“Marybelle. I can hear you,” says Simi.

“Okay… we also promised Bernard we’d visit that memorial in England. The one for the Malayan campaign. Not sure where but …”

Simi, suddenly anxious that they might lose connection, interrupts. “Marybelle, how’s Tonderai?”

“Tonderai? He’s going to take over the lodge. The tea estate will help him. Simi I’ve got to go. Will tell you everything when I see you. Fred’s going to call. Byeee!”

Marybelle disconnects, leaving Simi adrift, memories spinning. She puts her mobile back into her pocket.

 “Who was that?” Lola asks without looking up from her sketching.

“Marybelle. A woman I met at the wedding.”

“A white woman?”

 “Yes. A slightly mad white woman.”

“How mad?” asks Lola, stretching out her back.

“Well …” Simi hesitates, wondering why she used the word. “Well not mad mad. Just always cheerful. Always chatting to God. You know … always happy. Loves everyone. Never complains.”

“Sounds brilliant,” says Lola, head on one side admiring her sketch.

“Suppose she is really. Stuck with me from the moment I stepped into that white party. I’ll always love her for that. And she probably saved my life.”

Lola turns around to face Simi. “She sounds amazing. So what did she want?”

“She’s coming over.”

“To here? To London?”

Simi nods.

“That’s brilliant. She can help with your plan. Will she come to the shop? When’s she coming?”

“She didn’t say. Said her friend would call. She’s travelling with him. An old man. An old soldier.”

“A white soldier?”

Simi nods again.

Lola stares, eyes worried. “What’s he like?’

“Seemed nice. He nearly died too. Got too wet and cold.”

“This is getting really weird. Your two friends – an almost mad white woman and a nearly dead old soldier – are coming here? They’re coming all this way just to see you?”

“No. Well …” Simi explains the story of the new found daughter.

“Whaaat?” Lola’s pencil drops to the floor. She ignores it, her eyes stalking Simi. “This is like a film. You know one of those stories … This is real? You’re not making it up?”

Simi laughs. “I am not making it up. The best part is the daughter is rich. She’s paying for their trip.”

Lola claps her hands together. “I love it! I’m going to message my friends …”

“Maybe not Lola. It’s very private. You know. Let’s just give them time. In case anything goes wrong. See how they are?”

“Really?” Lola rolls her eyes. “You know you could do so much with this story. Put it on Insta. Everyone would want to come to the shop … please?”

“No. Not this story.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023