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

Rudd’s mind clenches in the corner of his skull. When he answers, his voice is barely a whisper.

“Jim opened the window. Jim, the house boxer. Stephen was in bits.”

“Why did you do it?”

Rudd looks straight at the priest. “Because I was a coward. Dad did that kind of thing to me. To toughen me up, he said. So I passed it on.” He tips his head back, eyes fixed on the emptiness above him, trying to escape. But Father Norman drags him back.

“Listen to me Rudd,” he says slowly. “Must have been terrible for you, and for Stephen, but this storm is nothing to do with either of you, or your father. This is not your fault.”

“I should have told them not to come. It was my call. Dad’s right. I’m weak.”

“You’re not weak Rudd. You’re human, and you’re exhausted. If you start beating yourself up now, chances are you will fail. But you haven’t failed yet. Nobody’s saying that. Nobody’s died, and you’ve fed them twice. People like you.”

“Stephen’s died. At Christmas. I never got to apologise.”

Rudd closes his eyes, the weariness in him now so deep that all he can see is down. He is descending, descending, when the kitchen door thuds open. Its crack snaps him upright, and spins Father Norman on his chair. They see Aneke, in a bright pink rain jacket, with Ruan behind her. She is waving something in one hand, body language distraught.

She shouts out to them, each word fired like a bullet. “Man, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. See our passports? They’ve been ruined.” She comes closer, passports waving. So close now that water drips over Father Norman’s head.

 “Excuse me, but those are wet,” says the priest, patting water off his shoulders.

“I know,” retorts Aneke. “That’s my point. They’re ruined.”

“Write offs,” says Ruan, shirt buttons panting. “They were in her bag on the floor and they’ve got soaked. Our room is like a lake.”

“Total disaster.” Aneke’s voice rises an octave. “You’ve got to call the embassy now Rudd, and get this sorted.”

Rudd stands up. “I can’t. They’re no comms.”

 “Surely your mobile works?” says Ruan.

Rudd shrugs. “Battery’s dead. Same as everyone’s. No power. Plus, you’re never going to get much reception here, especially in this weather.”

Aneke storms at him. “Typical. Nothing works. So glad we don’t live here any more.” Hair frizzing around her red face she turns to her husband. “See I told you. We could be stranded here for another month. Or more!” Her voice catches on a high squeak, and suddenly, urgently, Rudd wants to laugh. He fights to steady himself, yanking hard on the broken edges of his own sanity.

Opposite him Father Norman gets to his feet, and tries to calm things down. “I’m sure when the weather clears, someone will be able to …”

“You’re not even from here,” Aneke spins towards him. “As if you’d … as if you’d … ” She huffs, then stutters, then stops, her face inches from the priest’s. Breathing hard, she sits down heavily on his chair, and drops the passports with a wet slap on to the table.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023