Rosa Rio
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 12
Pullman Lubumbashi Grand Karavia.
I let my gaze drift across the terrace as I sank into the chair beside Andy. The bar breathed with a quiet lull, the kind that made the air feel heavier than the heat itself. Sunlight slid across the pool in fractured lines, sharp as blades one moment, softened into liquid gold the next. Beyond the railing, the palms swayed lazily, indifferent to the restlessness threading through me.
Inside, a bartender worked in silence, the rhythm of cloth against glass punctuated by the occasional chime of ice. A server passed by with the precision of a shadow, setting coasters in place with a practised hand. Nothing about the scene betrayed urgency — and that, I thought, was precisely why it felt so surreal.
Two drinks rested on the table, already sweating through their glasses, beads of condensation pooling into small, careless rings on the polished wood coaster. I traced one with a finger, eyes flicking toward the empty chairs waiting in orbit around us. Ricky, Charlotte. and Nisreen, or should I say “Rose”, would soon join us, but now it was only Andy and me.
For the moment, though, the bar was holding its breath. The music — low jazz, soft enough to seem like it was coming from another room — pressed at the edges of thought without breaking it. The smell of citrus peel, of tobacco lingering faintly in the breeze, of wood polished to a shine: all of it seemed sharpened, as though the world itself was tilting toward some stories that were bound to be told.
And in the stillness, I thought, sometimes the beginning felt heavier than the end.
“You say Miss Al-Kuwari has a British passport in that new name?” Andy asked confirmation as he lifted his cocktail and took a sampling sip.
“Yes,” I replied.
“How did she get that right?”
“I have no idea. Let’s wait for her to tell us.”
“If she will. It sounds rather, how should I phrase it ... rather spy-ish, James Bond-ish...”
“I would not say it like that,” I replied. “She’s a free spirit, a tomboy, you can say. Her father tried to cage her and use her as an asset to merge two high profile companies. She’s not ready for that and thus the rebel in her awoke and now broke free.”
“I would like to know how she managed to get a British passport under a new name...” Andy shot back and took another sip of his Lubumbashi Cooler. “Damn! This thing tastes good.” It was vodka, fresh pineapple juice, soda water, muddled mint, a hint of ginger syrup, served tall over ice.
“As I said, let her tell us, if she wants...”
“You like the girl, don’t you?”
“She sort of crept in under my skin...” I admitted.
“If she settles in South Africa, you have a stunning winner,” Andy chuckled.
“The word is ‘IF’. If she settles her restless soul...”
Ricky strode in first, full of restless energy, as though the afternoon heat had only wound him tighter instead of slowing him down. He wore the casual confidence of a man who thought the world was his for the taking — shirt un-tucked, sleeves rolled high, grin flashing like he was already halfway through a story. He dropped into his chair with a thump, scanning the table as though searching for the punchline everyone else had missed.
Charlotte followed at an easier pace, a contrast that only made her more striking. Sunlight from the terrace caught in her blonde hair, turning it into a halo of pale fire. She moved with a certain French poise — light on her feet, shoulders back, chin lifted as if the room were a stage and she its reluctant star. The smile she offered was quick, playful, and carried that unmistakable lilt of mischief: the kind of smile that left you wondering whether she was laughing with you or at you.
“Why do you two look so serious?” Ricky asked, glancing between Andy and me.
“We’re just relaxing,” Andy replied evenly. “Go get yourself and Miss Charlotte something cool at the bar.”
“I’ll get her a Coke. She’s too young to drink alcohol,” Ricky said with a grin.
“Non!” Charlotte giggled, tossing her blond hair back. “I’m twenty-two. Yes?”
Ricky chuckled and pushed himself up, heading toward the bar. Charlotte trailed him with her eyes, shaking her head with mock despair.
That was when she appeared. Nisreen — or perhaps I should already say Rose — didn’t so much walk in as she floated in. The afternoon light spilled through the terrace doors and framed her like an artist’s afterthought: shoulders bare beneath a lace half-top, a blue casual short mini-dress rising a little to far above her knees and showing off a pair of gorgeous legs. Fashionable sneakers light on her feet. Her jet-black hair fell like silk to her waist, catching every glint of shine the sun threw across the room.
But it was her smile that broke me. A smile so bright it seemed to pull the air out of the room. For a moment, I swear the world stopped turning — or maybe it was just me forgetting to breathe. A vision, I thought. Or am I hopelessly biased?
Andy rose immediately, his hand extended. “The name’s Andrew Boucher. You can call me Andy...”
She giggled lightly, sliding her hand into his. “Rose Eileen Smith. You can call me Rose.”
“Damn, Miss Al-Kuwari, you look stunning!” Andy blurted, voicing what the rest of us kept locked behind polite silence.
Her eyes darkened for just a heartbeat. “Rose,” she corrected, her tone velvet but firm. “From now on, call me Rose.”
She slid gracefully into the chair beside me, the lace brushing against my arm. “What are you having, Dolf?” she asked, as though she hadn’t just rewritten herself in front of us.
“A Katanga Sunset,” I said. “Dark rum, fresh mango juice, passion fruit, lime, and a dash of grenadine.”
Her lips curved. “Hmm. I’ll have one too.”
“Miss Al-Kuwari...” Andy began, still caught in old habits, but she cut him off like a blade through silk.
“Mister Boucher,” she said, with a spark in her eyes, “Nisreen Al-Kuwari is dead. Please call me Rose.”
“But—”
“No buts, please. From now on I’ll live in sunshine, swim in the sea...” She paused, inhaling deeply as if tasting her own words. “And drink the wild African air.”
“Wow,” Ricky said, returning just in time with drinks in hand. “Alright, enough mystery. We’re sitting here sweating while you play chess with secrets.”
“Yeah,” Charlotte added, folding her arms and leaning in. “What’s going on? You got a new name, you look serious — it is exhausting, no? Crachez le secret, s’il vous plaît.”
Rose’s smile shifted, no longer dazzling but dangerous — a candle flame instead of the sun. “You may think it’s wrong, and perhaps it is. But to me, it feels right. I saw the door to heaven ... and I just walked through.”
“Let’s just say Nisreen has finally cut the shackles her father tried to bind her with,” I said quietly, watching her.
Her gaze held mine as she spoke, each word measured. “Yes. I am no longer a Muslim girl to be married off as a bargaining chip. That life is finished. I am Rose Eileen Smith, British citizen, Roman Catholic, and free.” She drew a breath, then in Arabic whispered: “rahim allah ruhaha wa’askanaha fasih janaatiha” — may God have mercy on her soul and grant her paradise.
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “So ... you are really a British subject, a UK citizen, yes?”
”Nisreen is dead. Rose is ... under construction. Passport. Passport number. An apartment at Frobisher Way in Southend-On-Sea in the name of Rose Eileen Smith, that she bought for eighty-four thousand Pounds. A job with an Aviation Charter company at London Southend Airport.” She smiled, this time softer. “Yes, I am a British citizen,” Rose paused and looked at me, “all I need to complete me is this guy sitting her next to me...”
And in front of everybody Rose kissed me on the cheek.
Andy whistled low, shaking his head. “That’s not a passport, that’s sorcery. You’ll have to explain it to me slowly — with pictures.” He took a long sip of his cocktail. “Damn, this drink is dangerous. Sweet enough to fool you, strong enough to floor you.”
“I need something stronger than a cocktail,” Ricky muttered, scanning the bar.
I chuckled. “I don’t think they stock single malt whisky here.”
Getting back to my room, I took a luxurious shower with lots of hot water and spent about half an hour under the steam and spray, scrubbing away the dust and grime of Goma. It felt good—like shedding an old skin. Dressing in my usual casual uniform of multi-pocket pants and a denim shirt, I felt relaxed and at ease for the first time in days.
Outside, dusk was falling, and through the wide window of my hotel room, Lubumbashi stretched out before me like a living tapestry. The city lights winked on one by one, tiny orange and white constellations scattered across the earth. I pressed closer to the glass, taking it in. The streets below still pulsed with activity — vendors packing up their stalls, children darting between cars, the calls of hawkers drifting faintly up to me. Motorbikes buzzed like restless insects, weaving through the evening traffic with casual daring.
Beyond the bustle, I could see the low sprawl of neighbourhoods, roofs glowing faintly in the fading light. The red dust of the day still clung to the horizon, hanging in the air like a veil, softening the edges of the city. In the distance, smokestacks exhaled lazy plumes into the twilight, reminders of the mines and factories that kept Lubumbashi’s heart beating.
I leaned against the window frame, listening. The hum of generators, the bark of a dog, the rhythm of distant music — an uneven patchwork of sound that somehow fit together perfectly. Lubumbashi wasn’t quiet, nor was it calm, but there was a steadiness to it, a kind of rough harmony. The city wasn’t polished like some of the capitals I’d passed through; it carried its scars openly, but also its vitality.
For a moment, I let myself imagine I was a part of it — just another figure disappearing into the glow of the evening streets. Then I pulled back, content to remain an observer, watching Lubumbashi breathe into the night.
I did not even think of switching on the big plasma TV on the wall facing the bed. As usual in an African country like the Democratic Republic of The Congo there’s only fifteen channels of nothing to watch, as the language is usually either Swahili, French, or broken English.
There was a knock on the door, and I went to open it. I found a bellboy with a smile to light up the universe.
“I have message for you, Sir,” He beamed as he handed me a sealed envelope with my name on it.
“Oh, thank you,” I replied as I took the envelope from him, handing him a five-dollar bill. That is about thirteen thousand four hundred and fifty Congolese Frank. He could buy at least two and a half loaves of bread.
“Tank you much, Sir,” And with that he scurried down the passage past Rose coming out of her room and walking over to mine.
“What was that all about?” She asked.
“He brought me a message ... Let’s see...” I replied and tore open the envelope. Inside was a printout of an email. I read it.
“Now this is something!” I said and handed the page to Rose. She took it and read it.
“What does this mean?” She responded with wide eyes.
“It means that instead of joining you in the Otter flying south tomorrow, I will be all alone and miserable in Tookie-Tookie for another few hours...”
“They are not going to take Tookie-Tookie back!”
“Seems we are stuck with Tookie-Tookie,” I chuckled. “I’ll fly her back to Wonderboom and contact the Angolan Embassy in Pretoria for arrangements.”
“Damn!” She gave that short burst of laughter that sounded like bells ringing. “Can we go play with Tookie-Tookie in Pretoria then?”
“Well, the fuel and stuff will be for my account, but who cares – Of course we can go play with her,” I said smiling at Rose who was just as excited as a little girl in a candy store.
“Ain’t you going to invite me in?”
“Yeah ... Sorry! I was a bit caught up in the moment of the Angolan Air Force extending the use of the Tucano.”
“This is exciting...” Rose said but I caught the underlying tremble in her voice and the sadness in her eyes.
“What’s wrong, Little one?”
“I feel a little guilty about abandoning my family...” She blurted and a tear trickled down her cheek.
“Come, sit down. Let’s talk,” I replied.
Rose sat down on my bed and I took a seat next to her. “Tell me about it.”
“I ... feel that I might have not done the right thing...”
“Do you want to go back to Qatar? You now have an opportunity to be free, to be your own person...”
“I know ... But...”
“Your fingers have to feel, they shouldn’t just touch. Your feet have to roam or else, you don’t matter. What in the world is love, if you sit still? Your hands must pray because you stand on mercy. You have to look for the paths that forms around your actions. What good are fingers and feet for then, if you sit behind walls and never experience anything?”
She looked at me with moist eyes and I continued: “So just drink the water even if it sometimes looks dirty, because there is a mud pool full of heart-sore when people cry ... Life is a great big canvas, throw all the paint you can on it.”
For a long moment that stretched into minutes she was silent. Just looking at me.
“Is that what it means to forgive and forget?”
“You got to know when to hold the cards, know when to fold them. Know when to walk away, know when to run...”
“What way do I run?”
“You run to me ... I’ll help you make it through the night...”
“Why are you always right?”
“Because I’m not a woman ... I know things...”
“Kiss me, then we go get supper...”
“I’ll have to put my shoes on first...”
“You can kiss me without shoes; I’ll even kick mine off...” She replied with a straight face but there were devils dancing in her eyes.
“If you kick off your shoes ... we might never get to supper,” I sighed.
But the devils in her eyes only danced harder.
“Then let’s postpone supper for a while,” she whispered, and with a delicate shrug, kicked off her sandals. They landed softly on the carpet with barely a sound. She reached for my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine, and pulled me gently backwards onto the bed.
Rose snuggled into me, forming her body to mine and throwing a leg over mine. I held her in my arms and kissed her. Her lips were soft, searching, sometimes lingering with quiet hunger, sometimes brushing lightly as if she was testing how much of herself she dared give. I felt a trembling in her body as if she was about to let go, but still reluctantly restraining herself. I let her lead the cuddles and touches. With her I was not in a hurry. She will let things happen in due time.
Her hand began to wander, shy at first, tracing the line of my arm before resting over my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt as if she needed to anchor herself there. When I kissed her again, she met me with a sudden depth, lips parting just enough to let me taste the warmth of her breath, her sigh caught between us. My own hand explored slowly, skimming the curve of her hip, the small of her back, then higher — never rushing, only savouring the way her body leaned instinctively closer at each touch.
We lay there, side by side, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window. Her head rested on my chest, the steady rhythm of my heartbeat a comfort. My arm was around her, holding her close, and with my free hand, I traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her ear. She turned into my touch, and when I bent to kiss her again, she welcomed me eagerly, her lips warmer now, less hesitant, carrying the spark of a desire she fought to restrain.
There was a quietness between us, a profound peace that settled over the room. The sound of Lubumbashi outside seemed distant, irrelevant. Her fingers idly played with the buttons on my shirt, sometimes sliding beneath the fabric just enough to graze my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. I could feel the tension slowly drain from her body, replaced by a deep relaxation. She sighed, a long, contented sound that resonated deep within me. This was all we needed, all we had yearned for – simply to be, together, safe in each other’s embrace. The world could wait. The guilt, the fears, the future – for now, we were just two souls finding solace in the quiet intimacy of the present.
We did get to supper. A little late – but did get to supper.
The next morning, after breakfast, Andy gathered us in the lounge with his usual crisp efficiency. He had that air about him — half pilot, half schoolmaster — standing tall with a folded map in one hand and a mug of black coffee in the other.
He laid out the flight plan in that steady, no-nonsense voice of his. Nine hundred and seventy nautical miles from Lubumbashi to Wonderboom Airport in South Africa. It sounded like a number on paper, but I could already feel the weight of it in my bones: a long day’s work in the air, with every leg demanding its own discipline.
Andy tapped the map, tracing the route with his finger. “First stop, Kasane, Botswana. Quick refuel, quick checks, and then back in the air.” He looked around the group, making sure we all followed. “From there, we’ll head to Sir Seretse Khama International, also in Botswana. Another fuel stop — this one a little longer. And then on to Pilanesberg International in South Africa.”
He paused, letting that last destination sink in. “That’s where we’ll have to go through customs and immigration. Expect it to take some time. After that, it’s a short hop—sixty nautical miles south east — to Wonderboom.”