“Hello,” Simi says, greeting the old man.

“Enjoy your meal?” he asks.

Simi tries to place the accent. It’s neither Jacobus, nor Rudd. It’s almost English.

“Delicious,” she replies. “And you?”

“Terrific.”

Age-wise, Simi settles on a few years younger than eighty, and wonders why he is sitting alone.

“Are you waiting for someone?” she asks.

The man points to the furthest umbrella. Simi follows his gaze along the edge of the pool, to where two upright shapes are smudged together.

“My niece said to meet here.” The man looks at Simi, and winks. “I may have to wait a while.”

Simi laughs.

“Do you want to join me?” he asks. “My apologies, but I can’t stand up. It will take a night’s rest to get my spine straight after that drive.”

“I know the feeling,” Simi says, pulling up a chair. “I’m Simi. From London.”

“Saw you at supper. Pleased to meet you. I’m Fred Owens, an ancient relative of the bride’s.”

“I’m a city girl, taking a break. Coming to a place like this is a first for me.”

“Good for you,” Fred says. “It’s a long way from London. If there weren’t so many clouds, I could show you stars like you’ve never seen.”

“I glimpsed them earlier. What I love is the sound of the wind in the trees. Not much of that where I’m from.”

“Huh! We take all this for granted, forget to notice sometimes. Get tangled up in problems instead, and there’s no shortage of those, that’s for sure.”

Simi sits quietly, saying nothing. She can hear the card players arguing. Fred shifts in his chair.

“You know our worst problem? We love this place too much. Spoil it like a child. When it starts to run amok, we just indulge it.”

Simi is about to try a response, but changes her mind. Fred senses her discomfort.

“Sorry. Don’t mean to get gloomy. It’s just seeing all these youngsters.” He waves towards the swimming-pool. “I don’t want their lives wasted.”

He leans back, his thoughts lost somewhere in the dark.

It’s like a confessional, Simi thinks, studying the cropped, thick white-grey of his hair, and the valleys and sunscars of his face. Looks cheerful. As if reading her thoughts Fred turns to her with a big grin.

“Ever smelt the air here?”

“Well … I suppose so. But not as in an official air-tasting ceremony.”

Fred laughs.

“Might as well do one now.”

He lifts his chin, closes his eyes, and heaves his chest dramatically upwards. Simi hears the air squeezing into his lungs. Then he does it again.

“Excuse the wheezing,” he says, eyes open. “Used to be a smoker. You try.”

Simi tips her chin up, flares her nostrils, and pulls in the air. It rushes deep inside her, thick as velvet and soft with scent. She breathes in again.

“Can you smell the rain?”

“Not sure. Faint metallic something out there? And green, lots of green.”

“That’s it. That’s the rain, and the earth getting ready for it.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi smiles at Jacobus as he leans back and pats his stomach.

“Good braai hey?”

She lets the word roll around in her head, feeling it thick with wood smoke and red meat. Beside her Marybelle is quiet, her plate scraped clean. She catches Simi’s eye and raises her almost empty glass, then dips it towards her new friend.

“So nice to chat to you Simi,” she says.

“It’s been quite an evening,” Simi replies, her mood mellowed by food and wider company.

Around them the crowded tables begin to shed their guests. Young couples drift into the darkness, whilst a few singles cling like limpets to the bar. Jacobus scrapes back his stool.

“Time to head to our beds,” he announces. “Good night everyone.”

As he gets to his feet, Karen does the same, bending down to pick up a fork off the floor as she does so. Then she adds her own farewells, and Jambee drains his beer.

“I’m coming,” he says.

“Where’s your room?” Simi asks.

“Not a room – a tent. Just above the tennis court.” His eyes, suddenly shy, flick back to his mother.

“Right, come on. Time to go,” says Jacobus, already several strides away from the table.

“Wait. I’ll come with you,” calls Marybelle. She slips down from her  stool, and walks around to hook an arm through Jambee’s. “I want to see this tent of yours Jambee. I think you’re just outside my room. Sleep well Simi.”

Marybelle blows her a kiss, and Jambee nods, without looking at her.

“You lot, come on. Good night Simi.” Jacobus raises a hand in a half-wave as they head off into the dark.

“Good night,” Simi calls after them, sweeping one foot under the table in search of her missing sandal. Her bare toes find it, and hook it back. She picks it up, loosens it slightly, and slips it on, wondering which way she should take back to her room. It is nearly midnight, and she knows she has to be up early if she wants to join the morning birdwalk.

After a little hesitation she decides to take the route back past the bar, and on through the main body of the lodge. On her way she sees Rudd chatting to a group of men. She slips past unnoticed towards the quiet space of the verandah above the pool.

There is a warm wind, and clouds race across the dark. On the grass terrace below, the blue-lit pool is gusted with tree shadows. Simi hears the water lap softly against the sides, and stands still for a few seconds, enjoying the quiet and the moment. The breeze pulls at her kaftan, and her mind drifts away to other pools in other places.

A sudden shout of laughter lifts her back to reality. She peers along the dimly lit verandah, and at the far end sees a young group playing cards around a table. They are intent on the game and unaware of her gaze. It is as she draws her attention back that she notices an old man, half swallowed by the arms of the chair closest to her. He is hidden in its bulky frame, only his hands, and his smile caught by the light.

 Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Marybelle looks at Simi. “You asked about Rudd. His granny was killed by a landmine up here when his dad was a teenager. Dad married, stayed here. Too much for Rudd’s mum though. She started drinking. Then left. Then Rudd and his dad left too.”

“Horrible,” says Simi. “I remember my parents listening to news about your war.”

“I don’t like talking about it,” says Marybelle. “Let’s enjoy ourselves instead. You look amazing, by the way. I can’t get over your eyelashes.”

Simi half smiles, then turns her gaze to the wide night beyond. She does not want to be under the fashion microscope of this spangly lady.

“You okay Simi? Not sad are you?”

Simi shakes her head. She is not sad, but she is hungry and does not want to answer any more questions about God or her eyelashes.

Marybelle has another question. “Is England wet, and crowded?”

“Well, it gets rain, and it is crowded.”

“And cold?”

“In winter.”

“Must be so hard for you, I mean being from Africa, and all that.”

Simi puts her glass down, and turns her full focus on Marybelle. “I’m not from Africa.”

“But you look like you are.”

“I’m a Londoner. Born and raised. And, by the way, I’m used to the cold. In fact I like it.”

“No.” Marybelle’s eyes are as surprised as street lights in the dark. “Are you really a born-in-London, Londoner?”

Simi nods, eyelashes lowered.

“Went to school there and everything?”

Simi nods again, wondering about Marybelle’s sanity. She tenses, knowing more is coming.

“Somehow I never imagine people like you in London. Sorry. That sounds all wrong. I love your kaftan. You’re like a goddess, but a proper African goddess. Except when you speak of course. Then you sound English, but I can’t believe you actually are?”

Simi closes her eyes, and clasps her hands together in front of her. She takes a deep long breath.

“You see. You do believe in God.”

Simi shakes her head.

“I am not praying. I am calming myself.”

“Oh,” says Marybelle.

Simi’s eyes fly open. “There may not be many of me in the books or tourist brochures, but there are plenty like me around, especially in London.”

“Oh. Funny how we get things wrong, hey? Anyway, I only know about England from how I imagine it. I’ve never been there.”

“Haven’t you got a television?”

“No. Too expensive.”

“Never had one?”

“When I was a child. Don’t have any electricity half the time anyway.”

Simi is silenced, but Marybelle is not.

“Are you surprised by us Simi?”

“Yes,” Simi replies emphatically. “Why are there so many of you white people here in Africa? In the middle of nowhere. Not even near a beach.”

 “A beach?”

“Well that’s where white people love to go, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never even seen a beach. Not in real life.”

“What? Never?” Simi frowns.

 “Never. Isn’t that funny?” Marybelle smiles, eyes bright.

Simi swirls her wine around her glass.

Neither of them notice Jacobus coming over with a tray loaded with plates of food.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023