“Is that it?” asks Dr Jabu Ndlovu.

“Is that what?” Aneke replies.

“Nothing else? No injury? Not trying to save anyone? Arrange a lift for them perhaps? You just want to get to Harare by helicopter to sort out your passport problems?”

“Ja,” says Aneke, folding her pink-jacketed arms. “Of course. We’re visitors … foreign nationals. Australians. We didn’t ask to be caught up in this cyclone. Our embassy will want to make sure we’re okay. To help us.”

“Oh.” The doctor lets the word fill the space for a few seconds, then he turns to his colleagues. “I’m not sure these good people know what’s going on out there.” He turns back. “Do you know what’s going on out there? Do you understand why we’re here?”

“Ja, of course,” snaps Aneke. “We’re not stupid. And we know that you’ve been sent up to help.”

“Sent up by who?” asks the doctor, his voice getting curter by the syllable.

“How should I know? The boss we’re looking for maybe. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Here we are. Your first customers, hey?” She tries a laugh, but it doesn’t catch. Silence hangs like a guillotine.

In the end the first response is from the doctor at the furthest end of the sofa. Comfortably round, he heaves himself upright, and begins to speak so softly that Simi, head and hand throbbing, has to sit forward to hear him.

“I am Dr Jonathan Hove. We’re here to help the injured. Not you. Out there everything is broken – hillsides, bridges, roads, all broken. Rivers flooding. Homes flattened. And more rain coming. Tomorrow our job is to help those we couldn’t reach today. To help them. Not you.”

Simi stares at the sweaty glisten on the doctor’s forehead, shining in the semi-dark. Nobody says anything. The doctor takes off his glasses and polishes them on his shirt, then he puts them back on, tweaks them with one hand and edges out from between the table and the sofa. With his eyes averted he walks past Aneke and Ruan, and Dr Jabu Ndlovu follows him. Neither of the doctors says a word.

“It’s terrible,” Marybelle whispers to Simi. “Terrible. Poor Tonderai.”

Simi thinks about Tonderai. Images from his story about a girl merge with memories of the storm and its neverending, pouring rain. She looks outside to see if it is still raining, but it is too dark to tell, and her view is obstructed suddenly by Aneke crossing over to take a seat on the sofa next to the pilot, who moves down hastily.

“Agh Ruan man, what are we going to do?” Ruan does not provide an answer.

Simi closes her eyes. She has no idea what they’re going to do. What any of them are going to do.

Must be about twenty-four hours since that cyclone hit, and only progress I’ve seen is the lights flashing on, just now. Don’t know who managed that. Brilliant, except they went out again. At least the doctors are staying. They’re our big hope. I like them.

She feels a hand on her arm as the sofa cushion dips beside her, and Marybelle leans over.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

 

Simi, numb and burning at the same time, sits down. She slips her aching feet out of her sandals, and leans back against the soft red cushions. Next to her she hears Marybelle telling one of the doctors about the splinter, and how it happened. The doctor is young with beautifully braided hair, and a vivid tiger on her t-shirt. Simi is too exhausted to listen properly, but she does learn that the doctor’s name is Miriam. She tries to follow the conversation between Dr Miriam and Marybelle, but all she can do is drift in and out, her head resting on the back of the sofa. Then suddenly a new voice jolts her awake. Familiar and unsettling, it cuts through her dosing. She opens her eyes, and tries to sit up.

Aneke.

“Hi. We’re looking for the doctors?”

“Well, you’ve found us,” the young doctor replies, her smile wide and generous.

“You’re a doctor?”

“Yes.”

There is a lingering pause. “You are the doctors?” Aneke asks, eyes sweeping around the group.

“Yes. Us three,” says Dr Miriam, pointing to herself, and the two men opposite her. “On the end there, he’s our pilot.”

“Really? Is this all of you? I mean, where’s your boss?”

Simi winces. The pilot leans forward. “Our boss?”

“Ja, the guy in charge,” confirms Ruan, standing slightly behind Aneke.

“In charge? Well, I’m the pilot, Douglas Makanda. If you wanted a ‘boss’ … maybe Dr Jabu Ndlovu here should be your man. It’s his private clinic that’s paying for the helicopter.” He grins at the large man sitting next to him.

“No. Not him,” says Aneke impatiently. “I mean your boss boss. We need to tell him that we need a lift back to Harare on the next flight.”

“Really?” says Douglas Makanda, as Dr Jabu Ndlovu gets to his feet.

“Who might I be speaking to?” the doctor asks, looking down at Aneke.

She waves the passports at him. “Mr and Mrs van Wek. From Australia.”

“And why do you need to be uplifted with such urgency?”

“I’d rather tell your boss. Your manager,” Aneke replies.

“Really? Well that’s going to be difficult. We don’t have a manager. We left our office manager, Miss Maria Marimo, in Harare. She can order stationery for you, or find you the next appointment if that’s what you need? But if you have any other kind of problem you need to tell us.” Dr Jabu Ndlovu speaks slowly, his eyes rock solid. He is a tall, broad man in his late fifties. His voice is deep.

“No manager? ” Aneke persists.

“No. We have no boss. We’re colleagues. We organised this mission together.” Simi, exhaustion put to one side, hears Dr Jabu Ndlovu’s measured patience thinning.

Ruan also hears this, and tries to manage the mood. “What’s happened is that our passports are damaged,” he says quickly. “They got soaked in the rain and we need to get back to Harare to get new ones. We’re only half-way through our holiday, and we want to sort this out so we still have time to get to Vic Falls.”

(Thanks to Pixabay for the image)

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Aneke twists around to look up at her husband. “Hey Ruan, didn’t somebody say the doctors might be flying to Harare later?”

 “Ja … ja they did.”

“We need to get on that flight and get these sorted,” she says, hand tapping on the passports. “Might still make Vic Falls …”

“Okay … could be a plan,” Ruan says slowly. He is about to say something else when Rudd cuts in.

“No way. Your problem is not an emergency. These helicopters are for the injured.”

“What do you mean?” snaps Aneke, turning to face him. “The blacks? We’re Australian citizens now. Australia will want to get us out of here. That’s the real world, hey.”

Rudd slams his hands flat on to the table, bouncing the passports. He leans towards Aneke, his jaw clenched tight. “You have NO idea do you? None.”

Her gaze does not flinch. “I’m your guest.”

Ruan steps forward. “Back off, please.” He pulls his wife to her feet. “She’s right. We’re your guests. You’re here to help us.”

Rudd wants to chop his own ears off. He stands back holding his head, and lets Father Norman’s hand on his shoulder, persuade him back to his seat.

“Have you met the doctors yet?” Father Norman asks the couple.

Ruan shakes his head.

“They’re in the reception lounge I think.”

“Okay. We’ll go and look for them. Come on Aneke.” Ruan tries to guide his wife away. She stands but doesn’t leave.

“Thanks for nothing,” she spits. “Our visit puts money into your Lodge, and this whole mess of a country. Don’t forget that.” She picks up the passports. “You should be thanking us Rudd. Not yelling at us. Let’s go Ruan.” Chin haughty, she swings around and leads her husband up the stairs. As she’s about to disappear from view, Father Norman calls out.

 “Aneke.” She slows but doesn’t stop. “They’re black. The doctors are black.”

Aneke waves dismissively. “Agh … they’ll have a white manager, hey.”

Then she’s gone.

“Good luck to them,” says Father Norman. “Rudd I think you need to rest. You nearly lost it back there. Get too tired, and you don’t know what’ll happen.” Rudd nods.

 “Many like her around?”

“No. Occasionally, but hardly ever.” Rudd lets out a deep breath, exhaustion taking over from anger. He knows he should be doing something, but can’t think where, or what. Out of half-closed eyes he watches Father Norman walk over to the tea picker painting, his hands folded behind his back.

“I like this,” he says. “Who’s the man in the yellow hat?”

Rudd struggles to focus. “My father … he loved that hat …” He slumps his head into the crook of his arm and closes his eyes. He is vaguely aware that the priest’s voice is closer now.

“Come … to your bed.”

An arm slips around his back, lifting him to his feet. He tries to shake himself free. “I’ll get there.” But the arm remains, guiding him to the steps.

“Did your father always wear that hat?”

“Ja … show people where he was … that he wasn’t afraid.” Rudd takes the steps slowly and deliberately, careful in the dark. When he reaches the last he thinks he notices a few people in the distance on the sofas. There is a flash of bright pink standing beside them.

“Looks a tall man,” says Father Norman.

 “Ja …”

They reach the medical room, and Rudd pushes the door open. He falls sideways on to the bed. The last thing he remembers is somebody taking off his shoes.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023