“Shop looks great by the way. Any problems?” asks Simi, her eyes still avoiding Lola’s.

“No. No problems. I didn’t sell much from the rails, but I took some orders. One woman wanted five in kente cloth. I got the measurements. Wants them by the end of the month.”

“Great! That will cost her a bit,” says Simi.

“Money isn’t her kind of problem. Not like me,” Lola laughs. “By the way what’s that good idea of yours? The one that made you so happy.”

“Aha!” says Simi. She looks at Lola, who has half a doughnut still to go, sugar all over the desk in front of her, and a head full of happy hopes. Simi sighs, knowing she’s about to open a box her young assistant probably won’t have looked in before. She starts gently. “I want to try to help some people in Zimbabwe. Some children.”

“White children?” Lola asks, as she pats her hands together to get rid of the sugar.

“No. Black children.”

Lola stops what she’s doing, and looks at Simi. “I thought you said you only met white people?”

“Staying at the lodge, yes, but most of the staff were black. Some of them lost so much in this storm.”

“Oh. What happened?” Lola asks her eyes widening.

“Lots of flooding, and one school got hit by a landslide. Ten children died and two teachers.”

“Aaaah …” Lola’s intake of breath, rushes through her lips, shaking her whole body. Eyes ready to spill, she whispers, “that’s terrible.”

“I know,” says Simi quietly.

“Who will help them?”

“I don’t know. They say the government doesn’t work properly.”

“Those poor children. How old were they?”

“Primary school I think. They’ve lost their friends, their teachers, their school. And they don’t have a lot of anything.”

“What? No money? Like people here?”

“No. It’s way worse than here.”

“Worse than here?” Lola looks sceptical. She picks up her coffee.

“Different. Money’s not about stuff there. It’s about staying alive. Food.”

“I know some people like that,” says Lola, staring out across the street to Old Joe. “You know I can’t imagine it – imagine Africa. All you hear about is fighting or starving. Then this kind of weather. Those poor kids.”

“I know,” says Simi. Then fearing Lola might be about to cry, she fills her voice with as much hope as she can, and repeats that she has had a good idea.

“Yes … but what is it?” Lola asks, her gaze coming back to Simi.

“I want to design a kaftan. Or,” Simi hesitates, then rushes on, “rather, I would love you to design a kaftan. One you would wear. Then we can make them and sell them, and use the profits for books. For the school?”

“Raise money for the school. Sounds good. But … a kaftan I would wear?”

“Yes,” says Simi.

“Me? Wear a kaftan?” Lola looks sideways at Simi, eyebrows raised.

Simi laughs. “Well, if you design it, you’d wear it, right?”

“Hmm.” Lola sits back and folds her arms. “Any design?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes … I think so,” says Simi, now worried about her latest impulse idea.

“Great!” says Lola, jumping up. “Let’s do it.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi steadies herself and the chair. She likes her new plan and feels stronger because of it. Even her hand doesn’t feel as bad as it did when she raised the shop shutter. The clip of Lola’s shoes brings her attention back to the street.

There she is. Tight as a plum in that dress, but will she wear a kaftan? Says she’s too young. Not even twenty. Huh! And those heels. But … what can I do? I like her. So do my customers.

She watches as Lola beams in, and places the cups she is carrying on to the desk. “Sorry it took so long. They were only just opening. I got doughnuts too. It’s a celebration right? You back, and all that.” She digs in the large bag slung over her shoulder and pulls out a paper packet, which she tears open lengthways and places between the cups, scattering sugar like glitter. “And I remembered the napkins.”

“Thanks,” says Simi, leaning back to avoid the glistening confetti fall. “All you need is a chair.”

Lola dusts off her hands, and goes to collect the wooden, back-of-store chair. “You look happy. Something happen while I was away?” she asks Simi as she carries it back.

“Well … yes and no.”

 “I was worried earlier. You looked tired,” she says sitting down.

“I was, but not now – some bad news has given me a good idea.” Simi pulls a coffee towards her, and takes off the lid. “You’ve no idea how I was dreaming of one of these.” Closing her eyes she takes a long sip.

Never going to take Gino’s deli for granted again.

Lola bites into her doughnut, sugar sticking to the plump, poppy red of her lips. She wipes the grains off with a napkin. “I can’t even imagine what it was like out there in Zim … Zim …”

“Zimbabwe.” Simi finishes the word for her. “Green. It was green. Green and brown. Lots of trees and stuff – ‘bush’ they call it. Place was so remote. All I looked at was the lodge when I booked it. To be fair, was beautiful though. Mountains. Tea estates. Ever seen tea growing?”

Lola shakes her head. “No. What was the lodge like?”

“Really comfortable. But strange. You know why? Everyone staying was white.”

“What? White?” Lola, napkin poised by her mouth, stares at Simi. “You were in Africa right?”

Simi nods. “I landed myself in the middle of a white wedding.”

“A white wedding? That’s bizarre.” Lola puts down the napkin. “I should have come with you. Two of us then.”

Simi laughs, head shaking. “It was crazy.”

“Then there was a big cyclone? Where you got hurt?” Lola’s eyes are now so big, Simi fears she might drown.

“Picked up some kind of infection,” she says, looking away.

“You know what? No way I’m going to those kinds of places.” Lola takes a bite of doughnut and chews it slowly, eyes still swallowing Simi. “Why did you go?”

Simi shrugs. “I have no idea. Life. Trying to prove something.” She doesn’t want to talk about SJ so she breaks off a piece of doughnut, and puts it into her mouth like a full stop. Once she’s eaten it, she tries to move the subject on.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi says the little phrase again. Nobody steals your sun. Her battle cry. She ponders the words, turning them around in her head, then she places them up against the devastated school, a school she cannot even imagine because she never saw it, nor one like it, and now it is buried. Their sun was stolen she thinks, her mood sinking, dropping like a bag of wet flour, down into the depths. Down. Down. Until another thought wedges its way underneath her gloom, stopping the fall. She sits straighter.

Hold on. Their sun is stolen. Mine is not. I can do something. I could build a school? A school? Could I build a school?

She considers the plan, all sections of her business brain reviewing it from every angle. It does not take long for her to decide that there is no way she could build a school.

Not over there. Not with just Marybelle to help. So what then?

She looks around the shop, at the kaftans, and the rolls of fabric, and her eyes pause, pause on the fabric. And suddenly she knows. I can design a special kaftan. Dedicate the profits to the children. Then use those profits for books. Lots of books. Maybe a library? Then … maybe … a school? Stop Simidele. Stop. Stop. Stop. Slow down. One kaftan design. Make it special. Then see how it goes. That’s it. Slowly. Slowly. A proper plan. One that we just might be able to do.

She picks up the email again, and re-reads the last paragraph.

“How’s your hand? Hope it’s better. Would love to hear your news. Must go. Father Norman wants his computer back …”

Simi feels energised now. She has a vision, and she has Marybelle’s voice skipping around in her head.

“I’ll email again if the internet’s working, AND if there’s any electricity. Hope you’re warm and dry. Stay safe there Simi. Mind the rain. School due to start again in a week. Have to go …”

Covered in kisses, Simi refolds the piece of paper and puts it back into her pocket, her head already sketching designs for the new kaftan. She feels confident, sure that Marybelle will like the plan. That working on it little by little will be perfect for both of them.

Across the street she sees Joe’s dog stand up and stretch out his back. She watches as he shakes himself, turns a few small circles with his nose to the ground, and then lies down again, close to Old Joe. At least he has someone to share his life with she thinks, her eyes travelling to the elderly cactus on the corner of her desk. Small and spiky it sometimes surprises her with a pink flower, but not today. She leans across and digs her fingertips into the soil around the base of the plant. It feels dry, but not too dry.

“I’m going to build those kids a library,” she whispers to the plant. Then she leans back in her chair, swivelling it to either side, and makes the announcement again, a little more loudly. “Put this in your vape SJ. Your Mama Africa is going to build a library in Zimbabwe.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023