Rosa Rio
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 6
There weren’t many people in the mess that evening. The place had that familiar echo of cutlery against stainless steel, the murmur of half-hearted conversations, and the faint hum of a ceiling fan that seemed to have been installed in the previous century. The smell of overcooked rice and industrial-strength disinfectant hung in the air, reminding me where we were — far away from linen-covered tables and wine lists.
Nisreen and I took our usual spot, a table near the corner where the light was good and we had a decent view of the room. It had become a kind of ritual, almost like staking out territory. We carried our varkpanne — stainless steel trays that clattered onto the table as we sat. Her tray was colourful and orderly: grilled chicken breasts, rice, bright vegetables, a bit of salad, and wedges of fresh fruit lined neatly to one side. Mine was a soldier’s plate — lamb stew ladled over rice, thick with gravy, vegetables thrown in without much ceremony. They say a colourful plate is a healthy plate. They don’t mention taste. Tonight though, the cook had worked some kind of miracle. The lamb stew was rich, spiced just right, and for a moment, I almost forgot where I was.
We were halfway through the meal when I noticed movement at the edge of my vision. Two men in crisp SAAF fatigues approached the table, boots clicking on the concrete floor. Both had pilot wings pinned to their chests. One, with silver at his temples and the lean look of a man who lived in cockpits, wore the insignia of a lieutenant-colonel. The other, younger, darker-skinned — a Cape Malayan by his features — carried the rank of captain.
They stopped beside me. The whole mess seemed to pause as the lieutenant-colonel snapped to attention and saluted. His co-pilot mirrored the motion, rigid, formal. A ripple of unease ran through me — I wasn’t used to being saluted anymore. I touched my fingers to my right eyebrow, returning the gesture with a mix of embarrassment and old muscle memory. These were SAAF boys. My name must have crossed their desks.
The lieutenant-colonel spoke, his Afrikaans accent clipped but respectful.
“Colonel ‘Spoon’ Van Reenen?” He extended his hand. “I’m sorry to disturb your meal, Sir, but a moment of your time.”
His name tag read Botha.
“You’re going back a long time now,” I said, shaking his hand firmly. “Colonel Botha, what can I do for you? And for the record, can we switch to English for the sake of my co-pilot, please.”
“I’m Reinier Botha, and this is my co-pilot, Captain Ismail Abrahams,” he said, nodding to the younger man and switching to English. “We hear you’re tasked to escort our birds while the Rooivalke are grounded?”
“That’s what we were told,” I replied evenly, gesturing toward the empty seats across from us. “Don’t you boys want to sit down?”
“Thank you, Sir.” Botha slid into the chair, but I noticed immediately that Abrahams didn’t greet Nisreen. He didn’t even look at her. His eyes stayed on me, respectful but cautious.
I leaned back and gave them half a grin. “No need to call me ‘sir.’ I’m out of the service.”
Botha shook his head. “You’ll always be ‘Colonel’ and ‘Sir’ to us. We know who you are — full Colonel ‘Spoon’ Van Reenen, 85 Combat Flying School at AFB Makhado, 87 Helicopter Flying School at AFB Bloemspruit.” His grin widened, genuine. “You trained half the youngsters who could fly an Impala, an Alouette III, or a Puma.”
I caught the flicker of light in Nisreen’s eyes. She hadn’t heard this part of me before. She leaned forward slightly, studying me in a way that made me feel exposed.
“So you’ve heard some stories then,” I chuckled, trying to brush it off.
“Only the best ones, Sir,” Botha said, polite, almost deferential.
I stabbed another piece of lamb with my fork. “So, you planning on whipping up the air soon?”
“As soon as you’re ready, Sir. We believe your bird arrives tomorrow, maybe the day after.”
I glanced at Nisreen. She kept her face composed, but I knew her well enough by now to sense the tension in her shoulders. She wasn’t used to this kind of spotlight.
“Meet my co-pilot for the job,” I said, deliberately. “Miss Nisreen Al-Kuwari. She flies A350s for Qatar Airways — long haul, heavy birds. Now she’s been relegated to something slower and smaller.”
Botha and Abrahams’ faces shifted — a mix of astonishment and disbelief. Nisreen blushed, nodded, and said nothing, letting silence speak for her.
I carried on: “We were promised the EMB A29B tomorrow. First priority is getting Miss Al-Kuwari up to speed. But let’s say, day after tomorrow, we’ll be ready to make some holes in the sky.”
Botha leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. “We’ve got a run on Friday. A milk run to Mwenga, south of here. Two birds. Briefing at 05:00, wheels up at 06:00. You’re welcome to sit in on the briefing, Sir. Both of you.”
“We’ll be there,” I said. “As long as the bird’s serviceable.”
“If it’s one of the Kinshasa birds, she’ll be good to go, Sir.”
“Then we’ll see you at briefing, Colonel Botha.”
Both men rose. Chairs scraped against the floor. As they prepared to leave, Nisreen spoke up, breaking her silence.
“Before you go ... what do you call these trays we eat out of?” She tapped the stainless steel pan with her fork.
Botha hesitated. “I ... can’t say, Madam.”
“Dolf calls it a ffaarrkpan,” she said with mock seriousness.
Botha lowered his head, sheepish. “It is so, Madam. It’s called a varkpan.”
Nisreen laughed, light and unrestrained.
“Checking up on me?” I asked her.
“Just checking the facts,” she replied, winking.
Abrahams frowned, muttering just loud enough for me to hear. “I thought she was Muslim?” Still observing the protocol by not addressing Nisreen directly.
Nisreen straightened, her voice clear, eyes fixed on him.
“I am,” she said, and then, with a mischievous smile, “but in Rome, do like the Romans do.” She giggled like a schoolgirl, and for a moment, the hard lines of the mess hall softened.
Abrahams just smiled. This time looking straight at Nisreen.
I thought that indeed, when in Rome, do like the Romans do, and call me Vitalstatistix ... for that matter.
After we finished our meal, Nisreen and I pushed back our trays, the sound of metal against metal echoing through the half-empty mess. Outside, the air was thick and sultry, the kind of African night that clings to your skin. The walkway had been swept clean after the day’s dust storms, and the faint gleam of overhead bulbs reflected off the wet patches left by a mop.
The smell of Goma drifted in the air — that strange, constant cocktail of burned aviation fuel, woodsmoke, and damp earth. Somewhere not far off, a generator coughed to life, grumbling like an old man before settling into a steady drone. Overhead, the stars burned sharp and brilliant, undimmed by city lights, while the night insects launched into a full orchestra of clicks, chirps, and whines.
We walked side by side, her arm brushing mine once in a while, though whether by accident or design I couldn’t tell.
“You did not tell me you were a full colonel in the SAAF?” Nisreen asked at last, her voice cutting through the night chorus.
I shrugged. “It didn’t come up. And you didn’t ask.”
“This changes the relationship between us,” she said matter-of-factly.
I glanced sideways at her. “What relationship, and how?”
“You’re not just a bush pilot. You’ve been a commander of men.”
“And women,” I corrected. “Don’t underestimate the professionalism that some women bring to the table. I’ve seen more than a few outperform their male counterparts.”
She was quiet after that, her heels clicking softly against the walkway tiles. The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable — just thoughtful.
“If you taught cadets to fly Aermacchi MB-326s, Allouette IIIs, and Pumas,” she said finally, “then you can teach me to fly the Tucano.”
I chuckled. “I intend to. But I’m only type-rated on it. My instructor license is for the Pilatus PC-7 Astra. I can’t certify you on the Tucano.”
“But it’s more or less the same aircraft, isn’t it?”
“Similar, yes,” I admitted. “But there are differences that matter when you’re pulling Gs or dropping ordnance.”
She stopped briefly under a floodlight, looking straight at me. “This is Africa. This is the bush — a war zone. Your words, not mine. You can teach me, and someone else can do my check ride. Who’s going to blab about it? Out here, rules don’t apply the way they do in Doha or Geneva ... or the UK.”
Her fire made me laugh, but missed the significance of the added UK reference. “Are you sure you’re not moonlighting as a tomboy?”
“I’ve been called that before,” she said with a sly smile.
“Well then, little princess tomboy,” I said, drawing out the words, “if the bird arrives tomorrow, you’d better be ready to strap into a G-suit.”
Her eyes sparkled, and she giggled — a sound I was beginning to enjoy far too much. “Will there be one in my size?”
“There will be one,” I said, grinning. “And if there isn’t one, then better one size too big than one size too small.”
“Thanks ... Colonel,” she teased, bumping her thigh against mine as we walked. It was playful, almost girlish, a far cry from the polished corporate aviator I had first met.
And in that moment I knew — the corporate ice princess had melted. What walked beside me now was warm, mischievous, and maybe just a little reckless.
“Okay, Captain of the A350,” I said, giving her a mock salute. “You’re on.”
She chuckled, eyes narrowing playfully. “So, who’s going to win this one?”
“We both,” I replied softly. The words slipped out before I could stop them, and for a heartbeat, neither of us said anything more. We just walked on, the night around us alive with the hum of insects and the distant growl of a generator.
When we reached her door, I slowed, letting the gentleman in me take over. “Good night, Nissie. Sleep well.”
She turned to face me, her features softened by the dim yellow light above the doorway. Then, in a voice low and melodic, she spoke in Arabic:
“Tisbah ala khair, Dolf. Wa anta aydan, atamanna laka nawman hanee’an.”(May you wake up to goodness, Dolf. And you also I wish you a restful/blissful sleep.)
I didn’t understand the words, but I didn’t need to. Her eyes carried the meaning — a wish for peace, for rest, for something good waiting in the morning.
I gave her a nod, half-smile tugging at the corner of my mouth, and turned away toward my own room.
What I didn’t see, as my boots tapped down the walkway, was Nisreen lingering in her doorway, her hand pressed lightly over her mouth as she watched me go, before she slipped inside and closed the door with a soft click.
What is Nisreen thinking?
When Dolf said goodnight, I thought of an old traditional blessing my mother used to say. The words rose to my lips before I could stop them. In Arabic I whispered:
Tisbah ala khair, Dolf. Wa anta aydan, atamanna laka nawman hanee’an. (May you wake up to goodness, Dolf. And you also, I wish you a restful, blissful sleep.)
He blinked at me, confused for a heartbeat, and then those grey-green eyes softened, lit with understanding. He didn’t know the language, but he caught the meaning. He always did. His crooked smile — that half-smile of his — warmed something deep inside me.
I watched him walk away, his stride purposeful, shoulders squared the way only military men seem to manage. I wanted to call him back, to tell him I would be ready tomorrow, that I wanted to feel the raw power of that aircraft at my fingertips. But instead, I pressed my hand over my mouth before the words could betray me.
What am I doing?
Why are there butterflies in my stomach like a girl at school? Why does this man, with his rough humour and weathered face, have such an impact on me?
We are worlds apart. He is from South Africa, with his history, his scars, his stories of war. And me ... I am Nisreen bint Khalid Al-Kuwari. A Qatari woman. Born into a world where family name carries weight, where tradition is not just culture but obligation. A world I love, with its poetry, its faith, and its sense of belonging — yet one that also binds me tighter than I sometimes can bear.
On paper, I am Qatari. I am Muslim. My family moves in the old ways — honour, reputation, duty. I wear the abaya always, when I am home, or in London, or wherever I happen to be. I bow to the traditions when I must. To the world, I am the dutiful daughter, the accomplished pilot who makes her father proud.
But in secret, in the quiet places of my heart, I have already stepped across a line no one must ever know. I have taken another faith as my own — not with words spoken out loud, but with the conviction I carry silently. Even my mother and father do not know. No one knows.
And here is the contradiction that gnaws at me: I am both. The Qatari woman, bound to my heritage. And the hidden believer, carrying a truth that would shatter everything if revealed.
And now there is Dolf. The man who shouldn’t matter. The man who sees me not as “the daughter of” or “the A350 captain from Qatar” but simply as ... me.
But reality crashes back in. My father. His endless schemes. He has already chosen my future without asking me. Already struck his bargain — my hand for influence, my life for his sphere of power. He didn’t even wait for my consent. The venue has been booked, the guest list whispered through the family, as though I were nothing more than a pawn moved across a chess board.
My blood burns when I think of it. How dare he? How dare he take the right to my own life and hand it to another man for politics and prestige? I love my father — I do — but his love for me is tangled with duty, and sometimes I fear he sees only the family’s honour, not his daughter’s heart.
And yet, here I am, in Goma, whispering blessings to a man I shouldn’t even be near, feeling a pull in my heart that no culture, no contract, no carefully arranged marriage can extinguish.
Maybe that is why I cannot breathe when I look at him. The “Afrikaner Boer”. And now I found more layers to him.
Oh! What must I do?
The morning dawned bright and hot over the city of Goma. By the time I set out across the apron, the sun was already punishing, burning the back of my neck and warping the air into waves that blurred the horizon. Nyiragongo brooded in the distance, black and sharp against a sky too blue to look at for long. You never forget it’s there — it reminds you every day that all of this could be swallowed in ash without warning. The air was thick with the smell of kerosene, dust, and that faint sulphur tang that clings to this place.
The airport moved like a restless beast. From the UN side came the thump-thump-thump of helicopter rotors turning over lazily, their crews sweating under the weight of cargo nets and crates marked with faded blue stencils. Mechanics shouted over one another as they pushed tool carts, voices cut by the metallic clang of wrenches on steel. An Antonov groaned on the far strip, coughing black smoke as its engines spooled down, like an old drunk fighting for breath.
I passed the “Dead Apron” on my way — where the ghosts of aircraft sat with their wings clipped and their windows clouded. Old Antonovs, a burned-out Let, and the skeletal frame of a Fokker that hadn’t flown in years. Their paint had blistered and peeled under the equatorial sun, metal bones sinking into weeds that cracked through the tarmac. Every time I glanced that way, I thought about the men who’d flown them and never came back.
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