Simi angles her head against the window as she tries to look back and up towards the lodge. She sees most of it still standing, walls complete, but everywhere it is compromised by debris and broken trees. She tries to tip her head a little further to catch a last glimpse of her own room, but the bulk of her hairwrap, and protests from her neck, pull her back to the verandah’s torn roof, and the stubborn stand of the billiard room.

She wonders again who will pay for the repairs, and briefly wishes she could see into the future, then changes her mind.

I would never have come in the first place if I’d known.

She leans the top of her head against the window and closes her eyes. The heavy plod of sleep tugs at her, drifts her away. Then the rotor blades change their pitch, and her eyes flick open again. She struggles to hold them wide, but they droop, floppy as sunhats, and she lets herself doze in their shade, deeper and deeper. Next time it is the quickening speed of the tiny vibrations in the window that wake her, as the whole craft starts to hum, reaching for lift. She looks up. This is it. She places her good hand flat on the window, fingers splayed in farewell, and tries to memorise each of the windrushed faces outside. Then they are gone, pushed backwards by the acceleration of the bunker-flooded golf course below.

Simi drops her hand back into her lap and turns away from the window, wiping her tears. She knows, and understands, but still cannot quite believe, that Marybelle, bright as a never dimming bulb, is gone.

The pilot’s voice floats into Simi’s headset.

“I’m going to take you as low as possible for as long as possible so we can get a good assessment of the damage.”

Simi straightens her back, and tries to see down between Katania and the pilot to the world limping beneath them, but the effort curdles her stomach. She leans back, hoping that the sensation will pass. Slowly it does.

“That’s the tea factory below us now.”

She peers down and sees the jagged edges of a large roof, fractured as a jigsaw, with bits of machinery sticking through at odd angles. Fencing lies around it, tangled in fallen trees, and littered here and there with bits of roof and the occasional car. They fly on beyond the factory, above their own shadow, darting black beneath them, as they follow a washed away road down towards a brown and angry river. On one bank, half a bridge, its end ripped, sticks out towards its other half on the opposite bank, where a small group of people stands beside a lone blue truck.

Simi watches them for as long as the turmoil in her body will let her, then she leans back, suddenly overwhelmed by the fallen trees, and wounded buildings, by the sight of those trapped and waiting, and by her own sadness.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi presses her face as close to the window of the helicopter as she can. She feels dazed and numb, her whole being still clinging to the sun as it burns off the early morning cloud, its blue lifting her up from the pale bruise of dawn. It is the first dry morning she’s seen since the day of the wedding, and it gives her hope. So does the lack of pain, thanks to whatever the doctors dosed her with the night before.

Outside the helicopter, close to the palm trees where the wedding service was, she sees Marybelle, hair fluffed by the wind. Next to her is Rudd, and beside him Father Norman. The three are laughing and chatting, occasionally looking across at the helicopter. As the blades start to rotate a little faster, the pools of water on the ground begin to swirl, and the grass around their edges to flatten. Simi notices Father Norman’s trousers blowing tight against his legs. Like scaffolding poles she thinks.

She raises her good hand and waves, unsure as to whether or not anyone will be able to see her, but she is desperate to connect for one last time. As the blades circle faster and faster, a pit of longing, of deep emptiness, opens up inside her. The feeling gets worse as Marybelle begins to wave, one of her hands sweeping rainbows, the other trying to calm her hair. And then Rudd joins in, both arms wide above his head.

Eyes flooding, Simi looks away from the small group, to further along the green where the doctors and their pilot, Douglas Makanda, are gathered by the remaining helicopter, its blades drooped like a wilted flower. As she watches a voice tins through her headphones.

 “Everyone okay?”

Simi turns in her seat. Beside her Dr Miriam gives the pilot a thumbs up, while Katania, seated in the front, does the same. Simi copies the gesture, then turns back to the window. She sees Marybelle now has both hands clamped to either side of her head, holding down her hair as the thumping whine of the blades gets faster and faster. Simi smiles, a salty, tearful smile.

She’s been in helicopters before, once or twice, tourist trips, but she’s never felt as alone as she does now. Alone, and weak, all energy gone, all confidence vanished as though the core of her being has dissolved. There is no-one to distract her from her sadness, or her guilt at leaving. There is nothing to cling on to as she says goodbye to the battered lodge. She leans her forehead on the stiff Perspex window, tears dripping on to her kaftan.

What is wrong with you Simidele? You must be so ill to be snivelling over some irritating white woman.

She sniffs as quietly as she can, her good hand searching for a tissue in one of her kaftan pockets. She finds the tissue, wipes her eyes and turns her gaze back to the window. That’s what I’ll miss she thinks. All this green. And touching the earth – every day touching the earth. And feeling the weather. Smelling it. Fearing it. Tasting it. She sniffs again.

Nearly killed me, but I was there. Really, really there.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi struggles to understand the request, and when at last she does, she lifts her hand slowly towards the doctor. The effort throbs, and the pain beats in the knowledge that infection has set in.

“Thank you,” says Dr Miriam, taking the hand gently.

Simi does not register much over the next few minutes, apart from understanding that others are trying to help her. Propped up by cushions, she sits with her eyes closed, trying to stay awake, and to make sense of the voices that come and go. She hears Marybelle’s threading through them all like the chorus of a song, with Dr Miriam’s drifting in and out to either side. In front of her somewhere she can hear the deep voice of Dr Jabu Ndlovu.

“When’s this helicopter coming?”

She opens her eyes and sees the doctor is talking to Katania. Beside him, bulky and deeper in the shadows is Dr Jonathan Hove. Katania, still seated, is looking up at them both and telling them that her helicopter will arrive in the morning – first thing.

“That so? Douglas here tried to find another helicopter for us in Mutare but couldn’t,” says Dr Jabu Ndlovu.

“What a shame. This one belongs to a friend of Jean Jacques. Perhaps I could take a report or news with me?”

 “Yes. That is essential. Plus a list of supplies for the helicopter to bring back. And this lady must go with you. Her condition is deteriorating.”

Simi sees Katania peer across at her, then, golden hairclip shining, she stands up. “I’ll see what I can do.” She is about to leave when Dr Miriam steps past Simi to speak to her.

“Excuse me. I shall need to travel with this guest, to monitor her condition.”

“Well, I’m not sure …”

“It is extremely urgent.”

 “And what about us?” says Aneke, as she gets up off the sofa, arms folded.

“You?” Dr Miriam asks.

“Best thing for you is to walk to Mutare with the others tomorrow,” says Dr Jabu Ndlovu.

“What? Walk?”

“Yes. Your embassy can come and get you from there.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Too right,” says Ruan.

“Come on Ruan. We’re wasting our time here.” The pale fuschia of Aneke blurs through the dark past Simi, with Ruan hurrying to keep up behind her.

Simi feels a touch on her arm, and turns to see Marybelle. “You need to rest Simi. We’ll get you back to your room.” Eyes dizzy, Simi tries to get to her feet, but a surge of nausea forces her back. “Don’t rush. We’ll wait for Dr Miriam.” Simi nods. Grateful to be still, she waits.

Then Dr Miriam is beside her, asking if she can stand. She tries to, but as she does so, her thumb knocks the edge of the table, sending a slash of pain down into her wrist. She cries out, and thumps back on to the sofa.

“Simi!”

She feels arms rush in to support her. They lift her upright and half carry her through the dark reception area and down towards the bedrooms.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023