Marybelle looks at Simi. “You asked about Rudd. His granny was killed by a landmine up here when his dad was a teenager. Dad married, stayed here. Too much for Rudd’s mum though. She started drinking. Then left. Then Rudd and his dad left too.”

“Horrible,” says Simi. “I remember my parents listening to news about your war.”

“I don’t like talking about it,” says Marybelle. “Let’s enjoy ourselves instead. You look amazing, by the way. I can’t get over your eyelashes.”

Simi half smiles, then turns her gaze to the wide night beyond. She does not want to be under the fashion microscope of this spangly lady.

“You okay Simi? Not sad are you?”

Simi shakes her head. She is not sad, but she is hungry and does not want to answer any more questions about God or her eyelashes.

Marybelle has another question. “Is England wet, and crowded?”

“Well, it gets rain, and it is crowded.”

“And cold?”

“In winter.”

“Must be so hard for you, I mean being from Africa, and all that.”

Simi puts her glass down, and turns her full focus on Marybelle. “I’m not from Africa.”

“But you look like you are.”

“I’m a Londoner. Born and raised. And, by the way, I’m used to the cold. In fact I like it.”

“No.” Marybelle’s eyes are as surprised as street lights in the dark. “Are you really a born-in-London, Londoner?”

Simi nods, eyelashes lowered.

“Went to school there and everything?”

Simi nods again, wondering about Marybelle’s sanity. She tenses, knowing more is coming.

“Somehow I never imagine people like you in London. Sorry. That sounds all wrong. I love your kaftan. You’re like a goddess, but a proper African goddess. Except when you speak of course. Then you sound English, but I can’t believe you actually are?”

Simi closes her eyes, and clasps her hands together in front of her. She takes a deep long breath.

“You see. You do believe in God.”

Simi shakes her head.

“I am not praying. I am calming myself.”

“Oh,” says Marybelle.

Simi’s eyes fly open. “There may not be many of me in the books or tourist brochures, but there are plenty like me around, especially in London.”

“Oh. Funny how we get things wrong, hey? Anyway, I only know about England from how I imagine it. I’ve never been there.”

“Haven’t you got a television?”

“No. Too expensive.”

“Never had one?”

“When I was a child. Don’t have any electricity half the time anyway.”

Simi is silenced, but Marybelle is not.

“Are you surprised by us Simi?”

“Yes,” Simi replies emphatically. “Why are there so many of you white people here in Africa? In the middle of nowhere. Not even near a beach.”

 “A beach?”

“Well that’s where white people love to go, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never even seen a beach. Not in real life.”

“What? Never?” Simi frowns.

 “Never. Isn’t that funny?” Marybelle smiles, eyes bright.

Simi swirls her wine around her glass.

Neither of them notice Jacobus coming over with a tray loaded with plates of food.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“Jambee told me you were here. Can’t have you sitting all alone.” Marybelle pauses and waves her wine glass around the empty table, “although this lot will be back. People of their word in this family.”

“Okay,” says Simi. “I hope so. Already met one couple who didn’t like me.”

“What?”

“They were rude.”

“Who?”

“Aneke and Ruan.”

“Oh them!”

Simi feels her hands begin to shake. She puts down her glass.

“It’s not right.”

Marybelle touches Simi’s arm.

“Ruan and Aneke used to be Jacobus’ neighbours, until their farm got taken. House surrounded for days. They got driven off and their dogs killed. That’s why they went to Australia. This is the first time they’ve been back here. Over twenty years now.”

“Do you like them?” Simi asks quietly.

“They haven’t moved on like we have. Inside, I mean. We’ve changed hey, Simi. When you lose everything, you see things differently. You figure out what matters. It’s this. This matters.”

Marybelle lifts her wine glass again, raising it to the crowd and the stars above. As she does so Simi studies her profile. The pale skin, blotched and lined by decades in the sun. The happy sadness. The lack of apology.

“I don’t like it when people are racist,” Simi insists, suddenly feeling irritated.

Marybelle sighs, and hitches her hair behind her ears.

“Simi, we can’t do much about them. Anyway, here we’ve got major problems, proper problems. All of us, together. Black, white, green, purple … we’re all in it together.”

Simi looks down at her hands. They are still shaking, but less. She wonders whether she should have chosen a darker nail varnish. She wonders about her impulse choice of destination.

“Simi?”

She looks up.

“Do you believe in God?”

“Believe in God?”

“Yes.”

Simi fiddles with the stem of her wine glass, avoiding Marybelle’s eyes.

“I don’t know …”

 “I used to be like that,” says Marybelle, “but I’m not now. I believe. It’s God who’s keeping this country going. That’s why we’re still here. God and the Crocodile. You heard of The Crocodile?”

Simi nods.

“He says he’s going to do amazing things for us. Ha ha. We’re still waiting, and while we do God takes care of us. He’ll help you too Simi, so don’t worry. Look at us. This is a great place. Things are going to get better. Let’s have another drink!”

Marybelle twists around in her seat towards the bar.

“Do you know where the waiter is? Can you see him?”

Simi scans the guests returning with plates of food, but she can see no sign of a waiter. She looks at Marybelle, eyes searching, her hand on her chest trying to keep down the hiccups.

“Marybelle, how do you fit in here?”

“Oh, I still work at the school Jacobus and his family all went to. Same with Katania’s – Jen’s mum,” says Marybelle, without turning round. “Oh … look there’s the waiter, talking to Rudd.”

She raises her arm above her head and waves, calling out a loud “wooo hooo” as she does so.

“And Rudd?” Simi asks. “What’s his story?”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi sees a tall woman approach Jacobus as he leaves the verandah. Her blond head dips like a reed in the wind to kiss him on each cheek, and then moves on to Karen whose face is already tipped up to receive a similar blessing.

“Hello.”

Simi turns on her stool.

“Oh … sorry, I never saw you,” she says. “Too busy people watching.”

“Plenty to watch here. I’m Jen. The bride,” the young woman says smiling.

“Oh,” Simi is on her feet now. “Congratulations. Thank you for including me.”

“Not at all. I’ve known Rudd all my life, and any guest of his is a guest of ours,” Jen says, pulling her long hair off her face as a gust of wind rushes between them.

Over Jen’s shoulder Simi sees the tall woman approaching.

“Jen, introduce me please,” the woman calls.

“Oh,” says Jen looking around. “Simi, this is my mother … Katania.”

“Hello. Over from London, I hear.”

Simi shakes the long-fingered hand, trying to ignore the eyes that sweep over her kaftan, and then slow as they ascend past her earrings to her headscarf.

“Adorable,” says Katania, her attention already back on the crowd, eyes hunting through the faces. “Lovely to meet you.”

Then she is gone.

“Don’t mind her,” says Jen with a laugh. “I’m off to get some food. Can I get you anything?”

“No thanks,” said Simi. “It’s coming.”

“Okay,” Jen smiles, disappearing back into the crowd in a flow of skirt.

Simi has just sat down again when a sparkly top catches her eye. She studies its progress as it tries to find a path through the elbows, a glass of wine raised precariously. Suddenly it succeeds, and Simi realises that its small, slightly disarranged occupant, who she judges to be in her late sixties, is toppling towards the stool next to her.

“Hello. May I join you? Oops I’m spilling … these shoes. And the wine, but I’m not drunk… hic … just does this to me if I haven’t eaten.”

The spangly lady places her glass down beside Simi’s .

“Hello. I’m Marybelle. And you’re? No … don’t tell me … don’t tell me … you’re … you’re S…ss …” She puts a finger on her lips and frowns, her hand extended. “You’re … hic … sss? Sss …. sss … … kay, tell me.”

“Simidele. Please call me Simi.”

Simi shakes the hand, and then releases it to allow its owner to wriggle herself up on to the stool.

“Simi. That’s it. Lovely name. Why do they always make these so … hic … tall? Excuse me, while I hold my breath. Get rid of the hiccups. Count of twenty does it.”

Marybelle leans back, strands of grey hair tumbling loose from the clasp on the back of her head. She plumps her cheeks with breath and holds the pose, eyes closed.

Simi, eyes wide, finds she is counting the seconds. She has reached nineteen when the eyes pop open.

 “Done. Always works. Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” says Simi, taking a long slow sip of wine.

 “Now, you’re from London. We are SO pleased to have you with us. First visit?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Why?”

“Well, you look so … so … unrelaxed.”

“That so?” Simi raises an eyebrow, and takes another sip of her wine.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023