Simi adjusts her chair a little, and rereads Marybelle’s email. This time, with concentration fixed, she is jolted back instantly to the lodge, and to the battered land that lay beneath her as she was flown out of the Eastern Highlands. The words on the page cluster in her brain – ‘whole village flooded’, ‘swept away roads’. It is as though she is in the helicopter again, swooping low then up, with the pilot’s dry, staccato voice detailing the damage in her ear, logging the broken homes and bridges, the small businesses lost, the dangerous surge of the rivers flooding free of their banks.

So much gone, and so quickly.

She shuts her eyes, and tries to slow her brain, to steady it for the news that she knows is coming next.

 “ …Tonderai’s brother and family are safe, but sad news about the school. Caught in a landslide. Terrible. Ten children and one teacher dead. Another teacher still missing.”

The words chisel into Simi’s guilt, carving out the question she asks herself again and again – whether she could have done more? Whether she really was too ill to stay? She re-reads the paragraph about the school.

“… school … landslide … Another teacher still missing …”

Again the horror of it shocks through her. She pauses, and looks up from the email, staring out on to the street, eyes stiff.

A school. Those ten and the teachers must have been sleeping at the school. Staying over night because of the weather. Staying to avoid the worst of the rain and storm.

She is sure the school is the one that Precious attends. The Precious she has never met. The Precious she feels she knows well. The child of Tonderai, sharer of the story. A police siren wails down the road outside, snapping Simi back to London, back to her reality.

What am I doing? Sitting here dreaming. Stuck in a nightmare. Like I’ve been sucked into some kind of never never land. Their problems are not my problem. Only thing is, I can’t get out. Can’t just walk away. It’s like there’s a part of me still there. A part that needs to know their lives are getting better. That the chaos is clearing. Healing. Like my hand.

She turns her palm over and runs a finger along the scar. It is no longer sore to touch. All infection is gone.

They fixed me well out there. I have to give them that.

Then she thinks of Marybelle, hungry as the homeless, and of Tonderai and Rudd, their homes broken. Fixing themselves.

She shakes her head, and forces her senses back to the world on her own street. She holds herself there, soaking up the smells of the curry takeaways being prepared down the road – letting the noise of the traffic fill her head, like an orchestra that keeps interrupting itself. As she listens, her ear is caught by the bright singing of a bird from the tree behind her shop. Its voice is clear and pure. It lowers her sense of dread.

Nobody steals your sun.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

It’s Simi’s first day back at work. She sits down at the small, slightly wobbly table she calls her desk. It stands in the middle of her shop, and gives her a clear view of the street beyond the entrance. To either side of her hang rails of kaftans, vibrant as the tropics, with rolls of fabric stacked behind her, each flaring colour or bright with geometric repetition. This is her cocoon. Her Africa. And she is its queen.

She swivels the chair to take a look at herself in the floor length mirror behind her desk. Blazing in red and gold, she knows she looks magnificent. Big earrings. Big hair. And lipstick of the darkest red she could find. She feels deeply content, back in the pattern of life she loves, waiting for Lola to return with the coffees.

Home Simidele. This is home.

She turns her chair round to face the door again and lets her gaze wander out to the grey shades of comings and goings on the early morning street. Outside the newsagents sits Old Joe, just as he always does.

Him and that dog. Like bollards. Nobody notices them. Well some do, I suppose. I do most days. Try to put something in that hat of theirs.

She wants to wave, but he’s not looking.

I’ll go across later. At least it’s getting warmer for them now. But all that traffic. Those fumes. Bad enough sitting here.

As she watches a delivery van parks up in front of the pair, blocking her view. A car hoots, then hoots again. She sees it is not irritated with the van but with the scooter zigzagging fast through the traffic, boxy back defiant.

Hello London, she thinks, smiling to herself.

She closes her eyes, and remembers the pleasure of turning the key in her front door, of seeing the mail on the doormat, and the plants still alive. The hot water. The lights. The ready meal in the fridge. The vase of tulips from Lola, with that envelope propped up next to them.

That envelope. Where is that envelope?

She puts her hand into her pocket and feels its sharp edges.

I did remember it. That is one big relief. No way I want to lose Marybelle’s contact details.

She takes it out, its cream cool against the brilliance of her kaftan, and removes the carefully folded email inside, smoothing it out on the table as she begins to read. Tonderai’s name is the first to jump out at her. Marybelle’s note, written from Harare, and dotted with exclamation marks, tells Simi that Tonderai, his family and his village are safe. More good news!!! Jacobus and Tim, are well. Everyone says they’ve done INCREDIBLE work helping the doctors and the locals, and that now they are with Rudd, organising repairs to the lodge. Looks like they will be there for another week at least.

Simi counts the days on her fingers, starting with the date the email was sent.

They should be home tomorrow.

She skims on to the end, reaches the final row of kisses, and then goes back to the beginning, to read again, more slowly this time.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd and Father Norman find Tim and Jacobus at the back of the truck, loading it with belongings. Both men look exhausted.

“Such a mess out there,” says Jacobus as he closes the back.

“Any idea how many dead?” Rudd asks.

“No. Still discovering bodies.”

“Plus hundreds of families without anything. Everything gone. Just like that.” Tim clicks his fingers, the sound snapping between them.

Father Norman shakes his head sadly. “You two must have been a godsend.”

“Perhaps, but we couldn’t do much,” says Tim. “We’re heading to Mutare now. Guess the roads are okay if you’ve managed to get through?”

“Not easy, but you’ll do it,” says Father Norman.

Jacobus nods. “Good. We’ll get some kip in Mutare, and catch up with Hansie and the others. Then bring in more supplies.”

“Should be back first thing tomorrow,” says Tim, swinging his backpack into the cab.

“I’ll be here,” says Rudd.

“I won’t. I’ll be at the mission, roads permitting. All the best with your plans,” says Father Norman, shaking both men by the hand.

“Thanks for your help Father, and big thanks to whoever saved this baby,” says Jacobus. He pats the top of his cab, and then settles himself into the driver’s seat.

“Good luck Rudd,” says Tim.

“Thanks.”

As the truck edges away slowly down the hill, Father Norman claps his hands together. “Right. I must go, if I want to get back before it’s dark.”

“I’ll come with you. Don’t know what the road’s going to be like up there. You may need a hand.”

They set off in slow convoy, heading deeper into the mountains, away from the lower levels of the tea estate. The further they go, the easier and dustier the journey gets. They reach the track leading to the mission without incident. The deep red walls of its church are the first thing Rudd sees through the trees. As they approach children scatter out from the shade, laughing and jumping, while two women try to gather them back.

Rudd switches off his engine and sits quietly, watching as Father Norman gets out to touch heads and hands. When the general chat, and exclamations over the state of the truck, have calmed a little, Rudd walks over to join the excitement.

“Can we give you a cup of tea?” Father Norman asks.

“No thank you. I’d better be getting back.” Rudd extends his hand to say goodbye, and Father Norman seizes it, wrapping it in both of his own, his gaze so intense that Rudd has to look away.

“Thank you. And may God bless you boy,” says the priest, finally releasing his hand.

“And you,” Rudd mumbles, climbing back into his truck.

He drives away slowly, eyes on the rearview mirror, watching Father Norman at the centre of the growing group, with the church behind. It’s like a painting he thinks, untouched by the cyclone. He stretches his arm out of the window in a final farewell.

He takes the journey back slowly, enjoying the viewpoints, and wondering with each whether his decision to leave is the right one. He knows he will never know, but he is certain of two things – he feels relieved to have made the decision, and he is certain that he will be back.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023