Simi’s focus starts to fade. The edges of her vision swim, blurring around Katania’s teeth white smile. It is tight and disapproving, and holds for a wing beat, then it vanishes as Katania chops briskly through Aneke’s hopes of a ride.

“No. No room for you. Possibly the doctors. That’s why I’m here. But I do have quite a lot of luggage with me. Essentials …”

Simi leans back on the sofa with helicopters spinning her mind to the point of nausea. They thump through her, dragging voices behind them. Some talk of rescue, others of disaster. She tries to listen through the ache, but worse than the ache now is anxiety, fresh and urgent. The anxiety knows and she knows, something is very wrong with her hand. She is sweating now. Her back sticks to her kaftan, and her kaftan is damp beneath her arms. She forces herself upright, and turns to Marybelle to ask for help, but Marybelle does not see her. Marybelle has both hands over her mouth, eyes shocked, as her whole body listens horrified to Dr Miriam’s description of the damage and the dead seen that morning. Simi’s plan to tell Marybelle evaporates, and she collapses back again.

She closes her eyes and rests, her breathing shallow. She hears a groan. Then it comes again. She notices that the voices have stopped talking, and that the groan has changed to whimpering. She tries to place it, but gives up, her head too heavy to search. Then she feels a hand on her arm. She opens her eyes and sees Marybelle’s face looming close. There is another groan, close and raw, and she realises it is she who is groaning and whimpering. She hears Marybelle call her name again.

 “Simi. Simi. I’m so sorry. Where did my mind go? Dr Miriam please, would you have a look?”

Simi closes her eyes. She can hear people talking, and she knows most of them, but she cannot follow what they are saying, for her head is sludgy with the mud of nightmare – with rain, and more rain, with lost families, and bones. The bones. Those bones. She cannot remember where they come from. It bothers her. She starts to fret. Searching. Not quite reaching. Whose were the bones? Why the bones? Then, as she starts to sink, she feels a new hand on her forehead. She tries to respond, to catch herself somehow, but she is exhausted, and her body heavy as lead. It is weighed down and clammy, and her eyes throb. She drops her chin on to her chest, desperate to sleep. Just for a little.

“Simi. Simi.”

Yes. No. Please wait. Must sleep. Just … later …

“Simi!”

Simi opens her eyes, and sees someone, but she cannot focus. She cannot keep her eyes open.

“Simi. Please. You have to try. Please.”

The tone pulls Simi from the deep. She looks up again. She tries to sit straighter, manages slightly, but with each movement the band around her forehead gets tighter and tighter. She sees Dr Miriam kneeling beside her, studying her. Simi feels sick.

“Simi, may I look at your hand please?”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“Simi … oh, hello.”

Simi turns to see who Marybelle is greeting. She expects it to be the doctors coming back to their seats, but it’s not. It is Jen, Hansie and Katania who approach the sofas.

“There you are. We’ve been looking for you,” says Hansie.

As they come closer, Simi sees Katania twitch a patronising smile towards them. “You ladies were marvellous,” she says. “Mind if I sit down? My feet are killing me.”

“Sure,” says Ruan, pulling up a chair for her.

“And you are?” she asks before sitting, looking first towards Dr Miriam, and then turning to the pilot.

“I am the pilot. Douglas Makanda. That young lady is Dr Miriam Muzenda.”

Katania acknowledges the information with a nod. “I am Katania Stone,” she says. Her bangles jangle as she raises her right hand and places it briefly on her chest, before gesturing towards Jen. “This young lady is my daughter, Jennifer, and her new husband, Hansie van Graan.”

“Congratulations,” says Douglas Makanda.

Katania sits down on the chair Ruan has provided. She crosses her legs slowly, turquoise trousers clinging. Simi wonders wearily how she manages to look so pristine every time she sees her. The white of her blouse is ghostly in the dark, and a broad gold hairclip gleams when she turns her head.

Simi adjusts her kaftan, aware suddenly of the lingering smell of sausages. Carefully, she raises her good hand to check her hair wrap, and is relieved to find that it is still holding its position, at least as far as she can tell. She tweaks it slightly, just for the sake of doing something, and as she does so notices the newly-weds slipping away to join the smokers sheltering outside, under a remaining patch of roof.

She swings her attention back again and hears Katania questioning the young doctor. “Are there more of you? Someone told me there were four of you.”

“Three of us,” Dr Miriam replies.

“And one pilot,” adds Douglas Makanda, grinning.

Marybelle chips in. “The other two doctors have just left. They were telling us how terrible it is out there.”

“Awful, simply awful,” agrees Katania. “So sad that I won’t be able to help any more tomorrow.”

“Why? Are you off somewhere?” Marybelle asks.

“’Fraid so. Desperate shame, but Jean Jacques can’t stand the thought of me stranded in this chaos. He’s sending a helicopter to take me to Harare. His driver and car are waiting there.”

Simi tries to hang on to the conversation, but her mind starts to spin, mulching ideas into fragments and then scattering them just out of reach. She is vaguely aware that Aneke and Ruan are chasing helicopters, hoping for a ride. That Marybelle is talking about Jean-Jacques. Jean Jacques? Simi ponders, then connects. Katania’s man. Somewhere remote. Africa. Mining. Something. Simi struggles to focus. She wants to know. How did he hear? How did he arrange a rescue? She sits forwards, clutching the wrist of her sore hand against her chest.

“I just know …. wouldn’t like me to be stuck … he’d want this. Hansie and Jen sorted it …. insisted. He’ll pay … don’t want him worried.” Katania’s smile, sweet as a slice of lemon, holds until Aneke asks the question again.

“Any space for us?”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“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