Rosa Rio
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 17
Little Eden, Limpopo Province, South Africa.
The midday sun had just decided it was too much work to shine. It slid sulkily behind a cloud, leaving behind a haze of light so lazy it might as well have taken a nap. Around me, drifting pockets of cloud loitered in the sky like teenagers with nowhere better to be. The air was so still that even the flies seemed to hang suspended mid-buzz, reconsidering their life choices. Not a single leaf stirred, not even the one I’d been staring at through the window for the last ten minutes while pretending to answer emails.
And the cicadas — dear heavens, the cicadas. Their screeching chorus of high-frequency insanity came from every acacia and camel thorn tree in the yard. It was the sound of nature’s torture chamber. If Dante had lived in the Bushveld, he’d have written about the Ninth Circle of Cicadas.
I was trying, in vain, to focus on a particularly dull email about tax documents when Lidia burst into my study like a tornado in sneakers.
“Come quickly!” she gasped, clutching the doorframe as though chased by wild dogs.
“What is it, Lidia?” I asked, only half-rising from my chair, fearing it was another spider crisis.
“Just come outside! AND hurry!”
Now, when someone tells you to hurry in that tone, you imagine one of two things: either the apocalypse has started or your house is on fire. My brain, always dramatic, went straight to meteorites — flaming, building-sized rocks hurtling toward the Earth while Lidia yells about it like a herald of doom.
But I followed her outside anyway, muttering under my breath about how I really didn’t have time for celestial catastrophes before lunch.
As I rounded the corner toward the fence, I saw Rose kneeling on the ground like some kind of chicken paramedic. Something brown and red flapped furiously beneath her — Leghorn, our resident rooster and undisputed ruler of the chicken yard.
“Get me a wire-cutter or pliers! NOW!” Rose bellowed, her voice cracking with both urgency and irritation.
That’s when I saw it. Leghorn’s majestic (if slightly deranged) head was wedged through one of the diamond-shaped gaps in the fence. His eyes bulged like marbles, his beak open in what could only be described as a chicken scream — a sound that can haunt a man’s soul. His wings were flapping like mad, his feet kicking up dust, and those spurs — dear mercy — those one-inch death daggers were swinging dangerously close to Rose’s legs.
If one of those spurs struck her, I was already mentally rehearsing the drive to the nearest hospital and how I’d explain that the injury came from a “combative poultry incident.”
I spun on my heel to sprint for the garage when — SLAP! — Lidia appeared beside me, triumphantly brandishing a wire-cutter like some kind of DIY angel.
“Here!” she huffed, red-faced but victorious.
“Good grief, woman, you move fast,” I muttered, taking it from her and kneeling beside Rose.
“Give it here, I’ve got this,” Rose said with the calm authority of someone who could tame Airbus A350 passenger airliners but had clearly not wrestled a rooster before. She slid the cutter between the wire and Leghorn’s neck with surgeon-like precision and snip! — the fence gave way.
Leghorn gave one final, dramatic twitch, then went limp. His beak was open as if drinking in the air. For a horrifying half-second, I thought we’d decapitated the poor bird. But then — movement! He wriggled free as Rose gently pulled him back, cradling him like a feathery infant against her chest.
“There you go, sweetheart,” she cooed, stroking his head. Then, in a complete tone shift worthy of a Hollywood villain, she scolded, “Back to your harem of hens — and stay away from the fence!”
Leghorn blinked, tilted his head, and made a sound that I swear was a sarcastic chuckle. Then, with all the dignity of a slightly dazed monarch, he strutted away. About ten paces later he stopped, turned, and let out another low cluck — as if to say, ‘You peasants may go now.’ Then off he went, rejoining his gaggle of hens who had been watching in stunned silence, probably taking notes for their own escape attempts.
“Well,” I said, brushing the dust off my knees. “You saved him from certain death.”
Rose sighed and looked down at Leghorn’s retreating form. “I think I made a friend.”
“So ... roast rooster is off the Sunday lunch menu?” I asked, deadpan.
“Yes,” she replied, smiling up at me. “One does not eat something that’s got a name, and surely not something that flies.”
I helped her to her feet, chuckling. “Chickens don’t fly.”
“On the contrary, my dear Dolfie, chickens do fly. And I can prove it!”
“I knew somehow you two would make peace. Beauty and the Beak.” I back tracked. I know that chickens can fly – not very far – but they do fly. So did the Wright Brothers. Not far, but they did fly.
She laughed softly. “His eyes are so soulful and his feathers are so soft.”
“Careful,” I warned. “That’s how it starts. Next thing you know, he’s sleeping on the couch.”
“Would not! Come, let’s go get coffee,” she said, dusting herself off and walking toward the house.
And as we went inside, the cicadas started up again, louder than ever — as if mocking me. But I didn’t mind. After all, we’d just survived The Great Leghorn Fence Incident of the Afternoon Sun — and lived to tell the tale.
Silver Lakes Neighbourhood, Kensi’s home.
Kensi sat on the weathered bench beneath the broad canopy of an old acacia tree, its branches stretching wide like open arms offering shelter from the afternoon sun. Dappled light filtered through the feathery leaves, painting shifting patterns across her lap and the soft lawn beneath her bare feet. A gentle breeze whispered through the branches, carrying the faint scent of earth and wildflowers from her garden.
The world around her seemed to slow — time itself easing into the rhythm of the cicadas’ lazy song. In the distance, the low murmur of the Moreleta stream, winding through the Silver Lakes Golf Estate, added a gentle undercurrent to the moment — a melody of stillness and life intertwined. Kensi drew a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the day soften into calm anticipation as she waited for her guest to arrive.
There was something timeless about this spot, a quiet refuge where thoughts could drift freely. The acacia had stood for generations, its roots deep and sure, and sitting beneath it made Kensi feel grounded too — as though she were part of something enduring and serene. The soft rustle of leaves above mingled with the sound of her own steady breathing. She traced the edge of the bench with her fingertips, smiling faintly at the worn grooves that spoke of many who had sat on it before she rescued it from the second-hand shop and brought it here — to wait, to rest, in the same hush of peace. The moment stretched sweetly, and though she was waiting, it felt less like expecting and more like simply being.
Then she heard the car stop, followed by the muted thud of a door closing. Moments later, the engine started up again, and Kensi knew that Grace had directed Andy to park inside the garage. Rising from the bench, she slipped on her sandals, still smiling. Turning toward the side entrance that led to the garage, she felt a quiet flutter of anticipation as she went to meet him.
Coming through the side entrance, Kensi pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the cool dimness of the garage. The scent of oil, metal polish, and faint gasoline hung in the air — her kind of perfume. Andy was already there, standing in a shaft of light that sliced in from a small window, his hand hovering reverently over the deep blue Buick’s curved fender.
“You can touch it,” she said softly, amusement curling at the edge of her voice. “I don’t mind. And if you want, we can even take it out for a spin...”
Andy turned, a grin lighting up his face. “It’s beautiful,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the cars. “All three of them.”
“All three?” Kensi teased, cocking an eyebrow. “Have you missed the oldest of the four — and the tiniest of them?”
Andy frowned playfully, scanning the garage. The concrete floor gleamed faintly under the overhead light, and in the far corner, half swallowed by shadows, something winked at him — a flash of chrome. He stepped closer, squinting until the outline of the old motorcycle emerged from the gloom.
“Ah, there she is,” he murmured.
Kensi followed him, her voice warm with pride. “A 1934 Norton M30. Also known as the ‘Inter’,” she said, patting the seat affectionately. “Not the same one that Beatrice Shilling used when she broke the hundred-mile-an-hour lap at Brooklands, but from the same batch.”
Andy’s eyes widened. “Beatrice Shilling? Tilly Shilling? The engineer who saved the Merlin engines of the Spitfires and Hurricanes in World War Two?”
Kensi chuckled, her laugh bouncing lightly off the walls. “The very same. I wish I could get her Norton, but sadly, it’s been lost to history ... and probably to rust.”
Andy smirked. “You could always say it was her bike.”
“The serial numbers differ,” Kensi said with mock sternness.
Andy grinned wider. “Kensi, a petrol head with dignity. I’m impressed.”
She giggled — a sound like glass chimes in the quiet space. “Come on, let’s go get something refreshing. Later, we can take the Buick out. If you wish.”
“I wish...” Andy replied, eyes gleaming, his tone that of a schoolboy offered a new shiny toy.
“Or ... we could take the Lincoln and have Grace drive us while we sit in the back. You on the left and me on the right, puttering along with the top down...”
“And play we are John and Jackie?”
Giggle.
“No, first let’s try the Buick. The Lincoln at another time,” Andy replied. “I don’t like to be shot.”
“Kennedy’s Lincoln was black. This one is pale blue – so, you’re safe...” Kensi whispered.
“Thanks for the reassurance,” Andy laughed.
“Good,” Kensi said, smiling shyly as she turned toward the door. The garage light caught the edge of her cascading red hair, giving it a faint halo. She thought to herself, Looks like there’ll be a second date ... maybe a third. But Andy doesn’t know it yet.
So, what are Charlotte and Ricky up to?
The reservoir at Walkerspruit, originally excavated as a clay quarry for local brick making, now forms a tranquil centrepiece of the Austin Roberts Bird Sanctuary in Nieuw Muckleneuk, Pretoria. Overlooking this body of water is a well-positioned bird hide, offering visitors an excellent vantage point for observing the sanctuary’s diverse avian life.
The Austin Roberts Bird Sanctuary, covering 11.76 hectares (approximately 29 acres), lies within the Walkerspruit Open Space System — an important green corridor that provides refuge for urban wildlife amidst the surrounding cityscape.
Established in 1955, the sanctuary became Pretoria’s first dedicated bird refuge when it was officially opened on 27 October 1956 by the then Mayor of Pretoria, Mr. W. J. Seymore. It was later proclaimed a nature reserve on 26 February 1958, ensuring its legal protection and conservation status, and subsequently fenced in June 1970 to safeguard the area from encroachment and disturbance.
The reserve was named in honour of J. Austin Roberts (1883–1948), one of South Africa’s most distinguished ornithologists and mammalogists. Born in Pretoria and raised in Potchefstroom, Roberts developed a lifelong fascination with wildlife under the mentorship of the amateur ornithologist Thomas Ayres. Entirely self-taught, he went on to make significant contributions to the study of southern African fauna, authoring several authoritative works — including the standard reference books on South African birds and mammals that remain influential today.
In recognition of his pioneering research and dedication, the University of Pretoria awarded Roberts an honorary doctorate. The sanctuary bearing his name serves as a living tribute to his legacy, preserving a fragment of natural habitat within the urban environment.
On our way back from the French Embassy, I suddenly developed the urge for cream cake and coffee. It wasn’t hunger, not really — more the need for something simple and sweet after the tension of the morning. With nothing pressing at the apartment or waiting for us later in the day.
I turned to Charlotte and said, “How about we stop somewhere for coffee — somewhere with a bit of nature around, like the Austin Roberts Bird Sanctuary?”
Her eyes lit up immediately. “You have the sanctuaire d’oiseaux here in the city, yes?” she asked, almost bouncing in her seat. “I would love to see it. What birds do they have there? And are les oiseaux in cages, non?”
I smiled. “Some are in cages, and some aren’t. The free ones come and go as they please, but they know where the food is, so they don’t go far.”
By the time I finished explaining, we’d already parked near the Blue Crane restaurant, the air alive with the sound of water and bird calls from the sanctuary beyond. We made our way to the outside deck of the little coffee deli that overlooked the dam. The late afternoon light shimmered on the surface of the water, and a breeze stirred through the reeds, carrying that faint earthy smell of mud and lilies.
“After we have something to eat, we go see the birds, yes?” Charlotte asked eagerly.
“Yes, we will,” I said, amused. “Do you like birds that much?”
“Oui! I can watch them for hours,” she replied with a grin, glancing out over the dam where a pair of Egyptian geese paddled lazily near the bank.
“Then I’ve brought you to the right place,” I said, watching her face soften as she took in the view.
Charlotte was from Saint-Malo, in Brittany — a place where the wind never stopped moving and the sea taught you early how to endure. A city of stone ramparts and narrow streets, where gulls wheeled over the old harbour and the air always carried the tang of salt and seaweed. She’d told me once that as a girl she’d climb the old walls just to watch the storms rolling in from the Atlantic — the sea raging against the stones while she stood there, fearless, letting the spray sting her face.
Looking at her now, leaning on the railing and gazing at the dam, I realised how out of place she must feel here — so far from her element, surrounded by Pretoria’s dry, still air.
“Char,” I said softly, reaching for her hand. “Would you like to see how it looks in Cape Town, or maybe the Cape West Coast?”
She turned to me, eyes questioning. “Why do you ask such a thing, Ricky?”
“Because I see you looking at the water,” I said. “You’re longing for the sea again.”
Tears welled in her eyes, catching the light. She squeezed my hand. “The Ricky knows me too well,” she murmured. “Oui, to see the sea — the ocean — and to hear the gulls again ... it would be good.”
“Then we’ll go,” I said. “We’ll drive down to a place called Paternoster, on the West Coast. You’ll see the fishermen taking their bakkies out to sea, We’ll walk barefoot on the beach.”
She tilted her head. “What is ‘baakees’ you speak of?”
I chuckled. “Small fishing boats — not much bigger than a bathtub sometimes, but they brave the Atlantic every morning.”
A smile broke through the tears on her face, lighting her up completely. “Take me there...” she said softly.
“Tomorrow,” I promised. “We’ll drive down and find a guest house or a hotel. You’ll have the sea again.”
She squeezed my hand tighter, her voice barely above a whisper. “Remind me to kiss the Ricky when we get home, yes?”
Little Eden, Limpopo Province. Back to Dolf.
I’m no prophet, but sometimes I just knew things before they happened. A flicker in the gut, an instinct that whispered ahead of time. I was sitting in my study that afternoon, scrolling through a dull chain of emails — invoices, schedules, the usual tedium — when a thought tugged at me: Go check on Rose.
She’d been unusually quiet for the past hour or so. Normally, her presence is felt in the house — a soft clinking of cups, the faint tune of her humming some song, or the low rhythm of her footsteps. But now, silence.
A while ago she appeared at the door, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. She’d brewed it exactly the way I liked — dark roast, three sugar, a touch of cream, perfect temperature. I smiled, because that was Rose: observant to the smallest detail, patient in her curiosity.
She could have been a scientist at heart, whether she’d admit it or not. I’d once caught her peeking over my shoulder as I brewed coffee for us, taking mental notes like she was decoding an experiment. The next morning, she handed me a cup that tasted exactly the same — as if she’d run a controlled replication.
After she brought me the coffee and pecked my cheek, she drifted out again, leaving the faint trace of her perfume hanging in the doorway. Then, nothing. Quiet. Maybe she’d gone to take a nap, I thought.
But the feeling — that strange knowing — tugged at me again. So, I pushed away from my desk and stepped out of the study. As I walked down the hallway, afternoon light filtered through the windows, painting long, golden lines on the floorboards. When I reached the living room, I glanced through the window — and froze.
Maybe I should take up predicting the future.
There she was, out on the patio steps, sitting flat on her backside with her legs stretched out in front of her, feeding Leghorn the rooster and two hens. She was dropping corn kernels onto the third step of the stairs, and the birds were gobbling them up greedily, their feathers catching the sun in little flashes of bronze and white.
I stepped outside. The wooden deck was warm beneath my feet.
“I said he’ll be sleeping on the sofa’s backrest before long,” I called out, shaking my head at the rooster’s spoiled behaviour.
Rose looked up with a mischievous smile. “Ahhh, but he’s so cute...” Then she quickly changed the subject. “Are you missing me?”
“Just a little bit,” I teased.
“Only a little bit?” she said, glancing over her shoulder with mock offence.
“A little bit too much,” I finished, grinning.
She chuckled, that soft musical laugh that could melt the roughest day. “You’re so sweet. I missed you too, but I didn’t want to disturb you in the office.”
“You could’ve come and disturbed me. I like you disturbing me.”
“I will next time,” she said with another little laugh.
I lowered myself beside her on the deck, our shoulders brushing. “Are you up for an adventure?” I asked.
Her eyes lit up — they always did when I said that word.
“What adventure?”
“I got a request for a charter — day after tomorrow — to the Kruger National Park.”
“Oh?” she said, half-pretending to be casual. “And you want me along?”
“Could be fun. You’d finally get to see that part of South Africa.”
“So, what town are we going to?”
“We fly from here to Skukuza — about an hour and nine minutes. Drop the clients off so they can roam the park in a rental van. Then we head up to Punda Milia and park the plane. They’ll make their way there over the week, and we pick them up and fly back.”
“And what do we do in that week we’re stuck in Punda-whats-it-called?”
“Punda Milia,” I corrected with a grin. “We relax in the wild wilderness of Africa. I’ll show you how not to get eaten by all the creepy crawlies out there.”
She laughed; eyes sparkling. “Hmm ... sounds like fun and adventure.” Then she tilted her head curiously. “And what aircraft are we using?”
“The Beech King Air 350i.”
“Wow! Okay, I’m game. Count me in!”
“Good,” I said, giving her a mock-serious look. “Then tonight, you start taking your malaria pills again...”
She wrinkled her nose. “Yuck!”
I laughed. That was Rose — equal parts elegance and grit. Always ready to step into the unknown, even if it came with a bitter pill or two.
And as the hens and Leghorn clucked around her feet and the afternoon sun began to dip behind the trees, I had that feeling again — that quiet knowing. Whatever came next, it would be an adventure worth remembering.
I frowned. After the cat incident it was the first time Leghorn ventured back onto the patio stairs. Rose must have a good influence on him, and he was okay with the relationship. Damn! Now Rose has a relationship with the rooster?
Oh, boy!
Wonderboom Airport, Pretoria.
The next morning, the drive to Wonderboom was quiet — not the awkward kind, but the easy silence that grows between two people who no longer need to fill the space with words. Rose sat in the passenger seat of the bakkie, one leg tucked under her, watching the bushveld slide past in slow, familiar colours. The browns and golds of late-summer grass rippled in the wind, giving way, bit by bit, to the industrial edges of Pretoria North.
By the time we turned into the Global Charter Services hangar, the sun was already high enough to glare off the sheet metal roofs. Our aircraft for the day — a King Air 350i — sat waiting on the apron like a well-groomed racehorse, poised but patient. Sleeker than the Yeti I’d flown in Goma and less aggressive than the Tucano, she had a quiet dignity all her own. The tall T-tail cut a clean line against the blue sky, and her twin Pratt & Whitney PT6A-60A engines looked ready to run forever.
“So, this is our chariot for the Kruger run?” Rose asked as she stepped out, shielding her eyes with one hand while she took in the aircraft.
“That’s her,” I said, unlocking the cabin door. “Pressurised, fast, and with legs long enough to cross the continent if we let her. For the hop to Skukuza, she won’t even break a sweat.”
We fell into our usual rhythm — one that was becoming second nature after weeks of working side by side. I moved around the aircraft for the exterior walk-around, running my hands along the props, checking the oleo struts, pitot tubes, fuel caps, and control surfaces. The air smelled of warm tar, avgas, and the faint chemical tang of cleaning fluid.
Inside, Rose was already climbing into the cockpit to familiarise herself. She was type-rated on the King Air, but this one was kitted out differently — upgraded, modernised, and fitted with a full glass cockpit.
When I joined her, she was strapped into the right seat, her fingers gliding over the Rockwell Collins Pro Line 21 suite as if it were an instrument she’d played for years. The multi-function displays glowed to life, painting the cockpit in soft blues and greens as engine gauges, nav overlays, and system Synoptics came online.
“It’s different from the Airbus,” she murmured, tapping a key on the FMS. “More ... intimate. But the logic makes sense. I like the Pro Line system.”
“Wait until you feel her in the air,” I said, settling into the left seat. “She’s honest. No fly-by-wire, no layers of computers smoothing things out. If the air is bumpy, she tells you. If the trim’s off, you feel it right down your arm.”
Rose turned her head toward me, her face lit by the screens. “Dolf, do you realise this is the first time we’re flying together without a war, a crisis, or a secret chasing us? It’s just ... flying.”
I paused mid-check, watching the fuel flow indicators dance. She wasn’t wrong. Goma had been chaos. Our flight back to South Africa had been an escape. But this — this was work. A job. A life starting to settle into shape.
“It feels good,” I said quietly.
“It feels like breathing.” She gave a small smile. “I checked the passenger manifest. Six PAX. Three couples, German tourists. They want the ‘Out of Africa’ experience.”
“Well, we’ll give it to them. Smooth air, scenic leg over the escarpment, drop into the Low-veldt, and a landing in the middle of the bush. But first...” I pointed toward the throttle quadrant. “Let’s run the engine start cycle. I want to see whether battery two is still sluggish. Ricky said it was giving attitude last week.”
For the next hour, we were just two pilots, nothing more complicated than that. We ran the checklists, spooled the engines, checked the pressurisation outflow valves, updated the nav database. Switches clicked in satisfying rhythm. Gyros spinning softly. The cockpit’s conditioned air carried that warm leather-and-ozone smell that always made me feel like I was exactly where I belonged.
When the work was done and the King Air was set back to cold-and-dark, we climbed out and locked her up. Walking back to the bakkie, Rose bumped her shoulder lightly against mine.
“You know,” she said, “I could get used to this. The King Air. The farm. The rooster. Even the bakkie.”
“Careful,” I warned, grinning. “Next thing you know, you’ll be wearing khaki shorts and listening to Bok van Blerk.”
“Don’t push your luck, Colonel,” she laughed. “I’m still a British lady. I require tea, not brandy and Coke.”
“We’ll see,” I muttered. “Africa changes everyone.”
Chuckle. “What time we fly?”
“At ten twenty...” I replied.
“Then we have time for a hug and a kiss...”
Paternoster, West Coast, Western Cape.
(Let’s check in on Ricky and Charlotte)
The wind off the Atlantic didn’t just blow; it scoured. It barrelled over the cold, grey swells, tossing whitecaps like scraps of torn paper, and drove the sand into little stinging storms that hissed across the tidal flats. It slammed, unrestrained and unapologetic, against the whitewashed fishermen’s cottages that crouched along the curve of Paternoster’s Bay, their blue shutters rattling like loose laughter in a storm.
Ricky stood on the stoep of the guest cottage, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, watching Charlotte as if she were the only still point in all that wild motion. She was down near the water’s edge, her trousers rolled neatly to her knees, bare feet sinking into the dark, wet sand. The wind whipped her blonde hair across her face in bright, tangled ribbons, but she didn’t seem to notice. She stood with her arms wrapped around herself, chin lifted to the sea, simply breathing—slow, deliberate, like someone remembering something important.
He’d worried about bringing her here. Paternoster wasn’t Saint-Malo. It had none of that polished, postcard charm. It was rougher, saltier, a place where the wind ruled and the sea didn’t soften itself for anyone. The water remained freezing even in high summer, a cold that bit straight through flesh and bone.
But the moment they crested the last rise and the wide horizon unfurled before them in a wash of blue and silver, he’d seen her eyes change. A light had sparked in them, tentative but unmistakably alive. In that instant, he’d known he’d done the right thing.
She turned now and ran up the beach toward him, sand flying behind her, her cheeks flushed red from the cold, her eyes bright and brimming with something fierce and joyful.
“It smells right!” she shouted over the wind as she bounded up onto the stoep, breathless and laughing. “Salt and kelp and ... cold. It smells like home, Ricky!”
He wrapped a towel around her shoulders, pulling it snug as she stepped onto the wooden planks.
“You’re freezing, Char. Your lips are blue.”
“I don’t care,” she laughed, though her teeth chattered. “I needed this. The air in Pretoria ... it is too dry. It has no taste. This?” She inhaled, a long, reverent breath of salt-laden air. “This tastes like life.”
Ricky pulled her into his arms, rubbing warmth back into her through the towel. She felt small against him, slight, but solid — more solid than she’d been in months.
“I’m glad,” he murmured. “I didn’t want you fading away on me up there in the Bushveld.”
She tilted her face up to him, her expression softening, a seriousness threading through the moment. “I was fading, Ricky. After Goma ... I felt like a ghost. Like my body came back but the rest of me didn’t. But here, with the noise of the waves...” She hesitated, listening to the crash and retreat of the surf. “The ghosts are quiet.”