Rosa Rio
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 13
Sun City Superbowl, Northwest Province, South Africa
After the final note of the show faded and the applause began to die down, our group decided not to join the immediate stampede for the exits. I’ve learned from experience that leaving too quickly only throws you into the current of restless bodies, all impatient to be the first ones out. The Superbowl is massive — when it’s full, it holds close to six thousand people. That number is staggering when you stop to picture it: six thousand voices, six thousand sets of footsteps, all trying to funnel themselves out into the night. Even with twelve exits, you can do the maths — it’s about five hundred people shuffling through each doorway. That kind of crush can test the patience of anyone, and frankly, I’ve no interest in elbowing my way through when we can just wait it out.
But beyond the inconvenience, there’s something else that holds me back: Rose. In a crowd that size, it would be far too easy to lose sight of her, and the thought of her getting swept away in the shuffle makes my stomach tighten. I keep her close, always mindful of where she is, one hand ready to reach out if the surge of people presses too tightly. I’d rather linger in our seats, letting the others rush off, so when we do leave it’s at a pace we can manage — together.
I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye—a cluster of people forming near the left-hand side of the stage. They were edging closer, some holding up posters, others clutching albums or hastily torn scraps of paper, anything that could carry a signature. Before I could comment, Andy leaned closer, his voice carrying a wry amusement.
“Looks like the autograph leeches are gathering...” he muttered, nodding toward the crowd.
I grinned. “Yeah. Kensi and her band will be out any minute to face them.”
Rose, seated just to my right, tilted her head, her curiosity shining through her voice. “So does that mean she always does this?”
“Yes. Always,” I said, without hesitation. “The crowd is what puts food on her table, therefore she respects them. No matter how tired she is, she always stays behind after the show to socialise with them.”
Rose frowned slightly, a crease of concern on her brow. “But ... ain’t she scared of some assholes that might do her harm?”
I gestured subtly toward the edge of the stage where a handful of men stood tall, solid as granite. Their uniforms were identical — white shirts, black pants, earpieces coiled against their temples. They scanned the crowd with sharp, professional focus, never still for more than a few seconds.
“See them?” I asked quietly. “That’s her security. She trusts them with her life.”
Rose followed my gaze, then gave a thoughtful little chuckle. Before she could answer, Charlotte leaned in, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “Hmm ... I like Kensi’s security. They’re hunks, yes?”
That broke the tension, and we all laughed together, the sound of it rising above the fading noise of the arena.
“Well,” Andy said after a chuckle, “I would’ve joined the autograph leech crowd myself, but seeing she’s your sister, maybe you could arrange something more ... personal. An autograph, maybe?”
I shook my head, amused, and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll ask her.”
Just then, one of the security men peeled away from the group and strode toward us. He was broad-shouldered, his white shirt stretched taut across his frame, and his expression was serious but not unfriendly. When he stopped in front of me, he inclined his head respectfully.
“Mister Dolf, sir,” he said in a low, steady voice. “Miss Kensi requests you and your friends to join her in her dressing room.”
A ripple of excitement passed through our group. I rose to my feet with a grin. “Oh, yeah ... Lead the way, please.”
“This way, sir,” he replied with a curt nod.
Behind me, Andy, Ricky, and Charlotte exchanged looks of wide-eyed disbelief before hurrying to their feet, still stunned by the invitation.
I turned to Rose, offering her my hand. “Rose, are you joining us?”
She hesitated, fingers playing nervously in her lap. “I’m a little shy. You go.”
I softened my voice, leaning closer so only she would hear. “Kensi’s okay, Rose. She’ll be pleased to meet you. Come.”
There was a moment’s pause before she nodded, slipping her hand into mine with a small smile. “Okay...”
With that, we all fell in step behind the security guard, following him through the maze of corridors that led to Kensi’s dressing room. The muffled roar of the crowd faded with each turn, replaced by the quieter, more intimate vibe of backstage life.
Backstage always feels like stepping into another world — one most people never see. The roar and chaos of the audience fades away almost instantly, replaced by the thrum of generators, the occasional crackle of a radio, and the muted voices of crew moving about with purpose. It’s like watching the skeleton of the whole event at work.
The security guard led us down a wide corridor lined with doors, each marked with bold numbers and names. I knew the setup well enough: twelve dressing rooms in total, each increasing in size and comfort depending on the status of the performer. The larger groups, the supporting acts, they got the middle-sized rooms—enough for five, nine, even fifteen people if needed. Those were practical spaces, good for quick changes, instrument storage, maybe a bottle of water and some sandwiches left out by catering.
But the Star suites — that was different. They were designed to be sanctuaries, little oases where the headliners could retreat after the storm of a performance. The first suite was the crown jewel: private, self-contained, fitted with an en-suite bathroom and enough space to host not just the star but a few invited guests. That was where Kensi would be waiting for us.
As we passed the second suite, I glanced in through the open door. It was larger, two mirrored vanities against the wall, enough room for two stars to share if needed, complete with its own private bath. Farther down the hall, doors were open to the group rooms—the third and fourth suites buzzing with backup performers, crew, and musicians winding down, laughing, wiping sweat from their faces. The air smelled faintly of perfume, sweat, and hairspray, mixed with the metallic tang of stage equipment.
Our escort never slowed, his footsteps echoing steadily ahead of us. Andy, Ricky, and Charlotte followed wide-eyed, clearly taking it all in for the first time. Rose stayed close to me, her hand warm in mine, and I could sense both her shyness and her curiosity battling each other with every step.
Finally, we stopped in front of the first door. The plaque gleamed under the fluorescent lighting: Star Suite – Reserved. The guard gave a quick knock, then opened the door without waiting for a reply.
Inside, the atmosphere changed instantly. The suite was warmly lit, softer than the harsh lights of the corridor, and there was a sense of calm here that made you forget about the chaos outside. Plush seating lined one wall, a low glass table set with bottled water and a tray of fruit. A vanity ran along the far side, its bulbs glowing gently around the mirror, and just beyond was the private door to the en-suite bathroom.
This wasn’t just a room — it was a retreat, a place for a performer to breathe after giving their all on stage. And there, in the middle of it, was Kensi relaxing on a sofa with her manager, Mari-Jane, handing her a bottle of spring water.
The door swung inward, and before I could properly take in the room, Kensi was already airborne. She practically vaulted off the couch, her red hair flying as she bounded across the suite, and then she was on me — arms wrapping tight around my middle, squeezing with the kind of energy only she possesses.
“Oh, Dolf!” she cried, her voice half laughter, half sheer delight. “What a surprise!” She hugged me so hard I had to brace my stance, then tipped up on her toes to plant a quick kiss against my cheek. Her words tumbled out in one unbroken stream: “You just made my day! I thought I’d have to book a performance in the DRC just to see you again...”
By the time she finished, she was nearly out of breath, cheeks flushed, but her eyes sparkled like stage lights.
I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. “It’s good to see you too, Sis.”
Kensi loosened her grip just enough to lean back, though one arm stayed comfortably hooked around my waist as if she didn’t trust me not to vanish again. That was Kensi — always afraid to let go too quickly. Standing there with her pressed against me, I was reminded just how small she really was. On stage, she looked larger than life, her presence filling every corner of the arena. But up close? She barely came up to my shoulder — a whirlwind of energy bundled into a deceptively small frame.
“And who are these nice people with you?” she asked, finally turning her bright gaze to the others, her arm still locked around me like I was her anchor.
I gestured to each in turn. “This is Andy — my boss, and a very devoted fan of yours.”
Andy looked like he’d been struck dumb. His mouth opened, but no words came out, only a kind of stunned, reverent grin.
“Then Ricky, our aircraft technician,” I went on, “and Charlotte—his abducted French girl.”
Charlotte laughed, nudging Ricky playfully, while Ricky tried to look casual but couldn’t quite hide the way his eyes widened.
“And finally,” I said, with a little extra warmth, “this is Rose, my co-pilot—and the only one who shares the cockpit with me.”
Rose gave a polite smile, but I could feel her hesitation. She wasn’t used to this world, the spotlight, the effortless glow of someone like Kensi. Still, she held her ground gracefully.
“Hi, all!” Kensi beamed, releasing me at last and opening her arms to the group. “Please, sit down, make yourselves at home. Grab something to drink.” She gestured toward the low glass table, neatly set with bottles of water. “Sorry, the best I can offer is bottled water. No champagne in here, I’m afraid!”
Her sentences flew one after another, as if she were afraid silence might catch up with her if she paused. She had the kind of energy that made the whole room brighter, and I could see Andy still staring at her like a schoolboy who’d just been noticed by his crush.
Kensi continued without missing a beat. “Anyway, I’ve only got a few minutes before I have to go out for autographs. But don’t go away—” she dropped her voice suddenly into a deep, gravelly growl, almost masculine, “—I’ll be back!”
She posed dramatically for just a beat, then burst out laughing at her own joke. Mary-Jane, her ever-loyal shadow, gave an indulgent shake of the head as Kensi floated out the door, still radiating that irresistible energy.
The suite seemed quieter the moment she left, like someone had just turned down the brightness on a stage light.
Ricky was the first to break the silence. He leaned toward me, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Does she always talk so fast — and so much?”
I chuckled, leaning back in my chair. “A mile a minute, Ricky. That’s Kensi for you. She lives at Mach Two.”
Andy just exhaled slowly, as though he’d been holding his breath the entire time, and finally managed, “She ... she hugged you. I can’t believe she hugged you.”
Charlotte laughed at him, Rose smiled shyly, and I just shook my head. For me, that was just Kensi. For everyone else — it was like watching a comet pass close enough to touch.
One of the background artists peeked into the dressing room with the kind of tentative confidence only the truly polite can pull off. She cleared her throat, smiled, and announced that she’d been tasked to “see to our comfort” since we were apparently on the VIP list for the evening. Coffee, tea, and snacks were offered — the full treatment — and I accepted on behalf of the group, doing my best to sound like someone who deserved it.
Andy, of course, was grinning like a Cheshire cat. He’d recognized our gracious host immediately — “Camilla!” he exclaimed — the same Camilla who had a couple of her own tracks climbing the Spotify charts. She blushed at the recognition, and Andy looked like a kid who’d just found a golden ticket.
About forty minutes later, the door burst open and Kensi swept in, all energy and laughter, her presence lighting up the room like the first sunrise after a long night. The dressing room, which had been humming quietly with our low chatter and half-finished coffees, erupted into a riot of voices.
“So, are you back for a while, or just visiting for the weekend?” she asked, tossing her bag onto a chair. Without missing a beat, she kept going, “It’ll be good if you’re around for a bit — Tomorrow is break-down of the sound stage, so a full day for me. Next week I’ll be up in Jo’burg doing some cameo spots and promo work before I hit the road for my summer tour.”
“That’s great!” I said, leaning forward with a grin. “Maybe you could fit in a cameo appearance at Little Eden for a spit-braai?”
Her eyes went wide, and she clasped her hands together. “Ooo! A sheep on the spit over an open fire!” she squealed, her voice rising in a pitch-perfect mixture of delight and nostalgia. “Count me in! A spit-braai at Little Eden is like the event of the year!”
“Good!” I said, pleased.
“Are you all going to be there?” she asked, scanning the room with that razor-sharp memory of hers. “Andy, Ricky, Charlotte, Rose — please tell me you’ll all be there?”
Andy, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet since Kensi’s arrival, finally found his voice. “I’ll be there! And if the rest aren’t — they’re all fired!”
“Andy!” I shot back. “You can’t fire Charlotte — she doesn’t even work for you! Besides, you can’t fire us — slaves have to be sold!”
That got the room laughing again. Rose tried to chime in between giggles. “Yeah, Andy, Dolfie has to do the braai, and I need to make sure he doesn’t burn the meat.” Her voice faltered just slightly, and a blush crept up her neck.
Kensi caught it immediately, of course. “A-ha! Dolfie!” she teased, eyes dancing with mischief. “Seems like you’ve caught yourself a raven-haired pretty pilot! Good for you, bro!” She winked at Rose. “Rose, we have to talk. I’ll give you the full Dolf-101 — what you’re getting into, how to survive him, maybe a few tips from experience...”
The whole room cracked up. Poor Rose’s cheeks went crimson, and she hid behind her cup, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.
The banter rolled on well past midnight — laughter bouncing off the walls, the air thick with the easy warmth of friendship and old memories rekindled. But eventually, I had to call time. The night was on the verge of becoming morning, and even the best parties have to wind down.
Before we left, though, the important part was settled: Wednesday afternoon, Little Eden. A spit-braai, good friends, and the promise of another riotous chapter in our collective story.
Saturday morning dawned with a bright open sky.
The old volcanic rim to the north of Pilanesberg International still cast the airfield in its cool shadow. The apron shimmered faintly with dew, each metallic surface reflecting a hint of dawn gold. The air was crisp, carrying that dry Highveld scent of grass, jet fuel, and the promise of flight.
Three pilots, three aircraft. Lucky for us, the Porter, Otter, and Tucano were all certified for single-pilot operation — though each carried the kind of personality that demanded respect. Charlotte had decided to ride with Rose in the Otter, leaving Ricky looking faintly wounded but trying hard not to show it.
“Enjoy the Otter,” he told her with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Rose just chuckled, tightening a tie-down. “You can’t keep holding her hand twenty-four seven,” she winked at Charlotte while speaking over her shoulder to Ricky.
“But I am going to miss the Ricky too, yes,” Charlotte said, her accent lilting through the early quiet.
“Damn! It’s only thirty minutes to Wonderboom!” I interjected, trying to keep things light.
At 08:23, our wheels unstuck and we were away on the final leg of the journey. The takeoff was smooth — the sort that lifts you before you’re quite ready. The world fell away beneath us, and the rising sun poured over the volcanic rim like liquid fire. Andy’s voice crackled over the intercom: he suggested we fly 128 degrees magnetic, picking up the N4 near Akasia, past Hartbeeshoek and Rosslyn. I, in the Tucano, would lead the way.
I eased the stick over and brought her onto heading 128. The Tucano purred, the prop a steady blur ahead of me. She felt alive — straining a little, wanting to be unleashed. I kept her trimmed at 148 knots indicated, letting the others settle in formation behind. From up here, the world was crisp, laid out like a topographical map painted in ochre and green.
Approaching Wonderboom brought us a moment of comic relief — it was “Weekend Warrior” day, and the circuit was thick with Cessnas, Pipers, Slings, and RVs. Every flying club on Wonderboom seemed to have shown up for the same patch of sky.