“This Girl,” Tonderai says, voice raised above the retreat of the wind, “she is like my Precious. She is a brave one.” He waits a few seconds for the flailing door to still, then clears his throat. “So, beneath Grandpa’s Table there are schools. Some are shiny new for the children of the Favourites, but many, many other schools – the faraway schools in the faraway rural lands, where they are not seen by many – they are falling down. So is the school that Girl must attend. But some days, many days, she does not attend for she is serving others. Or the school is closed. Or the teachers have no money to come to the school to teach. And anyway, in the classrooms there are no books and no desks.”

A cough from the bench interrupts. It is Bernard. “She is right. This gogo is right,” he says. “The schools where my people are from, those schools are nothing now.”

Rudd looks across the room, and sees the droop in the old man’s shoulders. The resignation in the shake of his head.

“Aha,” Tonderai replies, addressing Bernard, “I am sorry for that. There is too much that is broken.” He shakes his head, waits a few sombre seconds, then continues. “But this Girl, this very clever Girl, she will not be forgotten in these tired schools. Girl knows what she must do. Every day she is reading, reading – learning, learning, so that she may know more of how the world may be. And, she is lucky, for she has books. An old teacher, another gogo, sends these books to her, to her place beneath the Table. Girl does not know this gogo, does not know even who sends the books, but Girl does not mind, for at least she may read. And every day her reading gets stronger and stronger. She knows that this is good, so this is what she does. She reads many things, different things, when she is not serving others.”

Tonderai walks with slow, wet steps around to the far side of the billiard table. As he disappears into the shadows the wind pushes in through the door again, but it does not stop the reach of his voice, which rises louder with every beat.

“As the days pass, Girl’s learning grows like a river. It grows wide and strong, powerful as manzi when the rains come. And the more Girl learns, the more she sees that what Grandpa does is wrong. She knows that good leaders should not have Favourites. Favourites who carry guns. Favourites who grow fat like pigs. Favourites with golden pockets. Favourites who do not care that others starve while they feast. Sometimes, on brave days, Girl shouts and stamps her feet, but Grandpa only laughs. And when Grandpa laughs the Favourites laugh too. They shout down to her that one day they will squash her like a cockroach. Then they bang their guns on the table, and laugh again.” 

Rudd feels the words flick over the hairs on his arms, and run down the back of his neck, like the rain that scatters across the roof. Then he hears the clump of Tonderai’s boots coming closer, bringing the story with them.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd looks around at the expectant faces in the room, and he sees that Tonderai is no longer the assistant manager. Now he is the storyteller, the hypnotist, gleaming in the firelight, his long plastic mackintosh reaching to the top of his boots. He watches him turn to hold his hands out over the flames, silence sparking in the fire basket. He spreads his fingers wide, then he rubs his palms together and begins again.

“These young men, these women, these Youth, they struggle beneath the Table. If they stop to listen, they hear, high up above them, Grandpa’s tales of war from a time they do not know. And they hear the Favourites beside Grandpa, jingling gold and diamonds. Jingling up there. And these Youth, they grow impatient. Their stomachs are empty. Their families have no future. They do not want to hear this jingling. And anyway they cannot stand still. For some are leaving. And some are staying. And all are working working. Always working. Many jobs. Little jobs. Any jobs. And they are hungry. Always hungry. So hungry sometimes they are stealing. Stealing from me. Stealing from you. Fighting for scraps that fall from the Table.”

Thunder rolls outside. In a grey stutter of lightning Rudd sees Tonderai turn towards Marybelle, a finger on his lips. “But!” he says, the word heavy with stones, “But … there is one person, a small person, who does not get scraps from the Table. No. Not even one taste. For this person, always waiting, always helping, always most obedient, is Girl. She is told always to wait. To serve the others. To fetch and carry. And then, perhaps then, these others will honour her with enough to survive. For that is how it is for this small person. This Girl.”

Tonderai, pull his shoulders back, and moves away from the fire. “This Girl …” he says, his voice smiling, “this Girl, maiwe!” He shakes his head. “She is veeery clever. And the gogo told us, that this Girl is clever for she has Ancestors of Fire in her blood. Ancestors who know a thing or two. Ancestors who will not let her be pushed this way or that. Or bossed by those who think they are mighty. No. This person, Girl, she has power. Plenty power. Power from those who came before. The power of her Ancestors. It is they who show her what is right and what is wrong. And they will not let her be still. She is strong, very strong, this Girl. But …” Tonderai turns slowly, his eyes finding Simi, “most do not see this, for Girl is only a girl.”

Rudd feels the word ‘girl’ settle between them. It holds the room, calm and present, but not for long, for the storm comes bashing in at the door, snuffing the story out like a candle. Rudd waits, and the room waits, waits for the noise and the rain to ease enough for Tonderai to drag the story back to the surface.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“This story comes from a grandmother – a gogo. She told it to my daughter when we waited together for the bus. But the bus was not coming.”

“How old is your daughter?” Simi asks.

“Twelve. She’s our first born. Precious.” Tonderai smiles, eyes gentle and faraway, then he clears his throat and begins. “In this story there is a young girl. Like Precious. She is too clever. And there is a grandpa – an old man, a sodja – but he is not like these men. ” Tonderai gestures towards Fred and Bernard, each cocooned in their blankets like silkworms. “This Grandpa is not like Mr Fred, who is a kind man. This Grandpa is a frightening man. A BIG man. A man of power who can kill with one snap. The gogo calls him Grandpa. So do I.”

Tonderai turns to face Jacobus by the broken door, his voice deliberate with detail.

“This Grandpa has arms like a baobab, and fists the size of gomos. He lives with his people in a House of Stone. In this house there is a Table, a very high, big Table. Every day Grandpa sits at the head of the Table and he feasts. Below the Table, are Women who run to and fro to bring him food. There are others too, others who huddle at Grandpa’s feet, beside his big, shiny, expensive shoes. These others are the People, and amongst them are the old and the frail. All the People have is hope. Every day they hope they will not get stood on. Every day they hope for food. They hope for water. They hope for light. Sometimes, now and then, if they have not been squashed, these People get a little of what they hope for, but they only get enough to remember what it should feel like to be alive. This is what they get, and no more. And this is on the good days.”

Tonderai’s eyes sweep the room, taking Rudd’s with them. In the dark, on the far side of the table, are the damp, young friends of the bride and groom. Closer to the fire are the aged outlines of Fred and Bernard, and beside them Simi and Marybelle, listening intently, with the shadows of Jambee and Father Norman just visible, on the edge of the dark beyond.

“Amongst the People are many, many Youth … too many,” Tonderai says, his voice rolling into each corner of the room with a new urgency.  “Every day these Youth try to climb the legs of the Table to see how those at the top are feasting? To see why they have so many fast cars? Why so many gold bars? Why so much shopping in London and Dubai? The youths try to climb but most cannot reach. Every day, every minute, every second, there are those who try to climb. Perhaps one may be lucky, but mostly they are not, and soon they get tired of their climbing and their falling, and they stand back exhausted. They do not want to live in the dust. But what can they do?” asks Tonderai.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023