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

Rudd imagines Hansie’s mum, up early, preparing the koeksisters, while everyone else was out on the walk. As he thinks of her, his mind flashes back to the last memory he has of his own mother.

He’d been in his bedroom. All he could hear was them arguing.

He shakes his head, and tries to focus on the koeksisters again, but his stomach is twisted tight with the tension that came each time he woke to the shouting. Mainly his father, but that night his mother too. Her voice fierce as he’d ever heard … and frightened. They’d been in the kitchen, just across from his bedroom. The place his father kept his drink. The beer. The bottles. The cracking thump, like the sound of crate being dropped. A scream. Then cursing. His father cursing. Light cutting across his room from the corridor outside. Then his father’s hulk passing the open door. Still cursing. Then the light goes, and he is lying in the dark, heart thumping, barely breathing. Waiting minutes, maybe hours, for his mother to come. Like she always did. But she never did. Waiting. Waiting. Then the sound of the television. James Bond. The song about diamonds. Forever.

He closes his eyes, and tries to block out the clanging kitchen noises, thickening the memory. But they surround him. A plate crashes to the floor, smashing into the voices of his parents. He braces his arms on the counter, chin on his chest, and breathes slowly, steadying himself. Then he stands straight, and turns just in time to see the kitchen door thud back on its hinges.

Samere, the head chef, bursts into the kitchen with a woman behind him. She is slight, and bouncing a baby on her back. By her skirt there is another child, who peers out shyly. Silence swivels briefly around them, then swells into greetings and laughter. Rudd walks over and adds his own to the pile. He is relieved to have Samere’s solid, cheerful presence back at the centre of the kitchen.

“Samere, please could we have lunch on the table as soon as possible,” Rudd says, as the talk settles. “The wedding service is at 3pm sharp.”

“Yes. Tonderai has told me this,” Samere replies, crossing over to the sink to wash his hands.

“Excellent. Thank you.”

Rudd leaves the kitchen, and outside in the sunshine, he runs his eyes around the edges of the lodge, drawing up a mental checklist.

Lock up the umbrellas. Find torches. Batteries. Candles. Matches. Check fuel. Maybe that generator will start this time.

Laughter swings up from the tennis court, and in the distance the clip of a well struck golf ball. Warm in the sun, and calm again, Rudd stretches his shoulders up and back, thankful his head has cleared.

Stress. Always when I’m stressed.

“Hey Rudd?” a voice calls, from the edge of the pool. “What time’s lunch? ”

 “Shouldn’t be long now. Half an hour max. Sooner I hope.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023