Leaving Francistown
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 11
The hum of the engine was the first sign. A low, steady vibration that broke the stillness of the Delta afternoon. I stood by the edge of the clearing, just outside the tent complex, one hand shading my eyes as the transport truck pulled into view. Dust trailed behind it, catching the sun in a golden plume. Joseph was already heading toward it, grin wide, arms ready to welcome Kele and the others.
I stayed back, half by instinct, half by design.
They began piling out — familiar faces, full of energy despite the hours on the road. Naledi, outgoing and bubbly, always loud and laughing. Simmy, a quiet young man who was a crack photographer, with his camera already out and slung around his neck. A few waved when they saw me, and I returned it with a nod and smile. Then, after most of the group had emerged, she stepped down.
Bliss.
She wore a plain T-shirt and jeans, hair pulled back in a loose tie, and yet something about her still managed to catch the light. She looked around for a moment — searching, I thought — and then her eyes found mine.
We didn’t wave. We didn’t need to.
She smiled. And I knew I was in trouble all over again.
The bustle of reentry swallowed the moment. Joseph was directing students toward their tents, Kele was already teasing Naledi about who brought what, and Thandiwe had emerged with a clipboard and the kind of presence that cut through noise like a blade. I stayed rooted, watching from a distance as the group dissolved into its old rhythms — unpacking, stretching, talking over each other.
Bliss was helping Naledi with a bag when she glanced my way again, gave me the smallest tilt of her head, a “later” kind of look.
I nodded.
We were good at this — the coded language of looks and silences.
By the time evening approached, the group was reoriented and back in field mode. I joined Thandiwe and Arthur for a quick debrief. Arthur had returned the day before, fresh off another muddy hydrology survey, and was already cracking jokes about “the city kids coming back to ruin his peace and quiet.” But even he looked pleased.
“They’ve grown,” Thandiwe said quietly, watching from a distance as the students set up gear. “In just a few months. You can see it.”
“They have,” I agreed, my gaze drifting toward Bliss.
And so have I, I thought.
The sun had gone down an hour ago, and the camp had quieted into the usual evening lull. Dinner was long finished. Most of the students were clustered near the central canopy, some still chatting, others drifting away to their tents. I sat a short distance away on a low camp stool near the edge of the firelight, nursing a tin mug of rooibos tea that had long gone cold.
From where I sat, I could just make out Bliss at the far side of the fire circle. She was talking with Naledi and Simmy, her posture relaxed, laugh easy. And yet every so often, her eyes wandered — not obviously, not often, but enough that I caught it.
She was looking for me.
Or maybe just at me.
I didn’t move. We hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words since her arrival earlier that day. A shared look here, a quick greeting there. Intentional distance. Professional caution. Still, there was something about being in the same space again, sharing the same dust and dusk, that unsettled the quiet equilibrium I’d managed to build in her absence.
Eventually, the fire circle began to thin. Naledi stood and stretched, Simmy followed. Bliss lingered for a moment before rising too. As she turned to go, her gaze slid toward me — just briefly, just enough.
Then, to my surprise, she changed course.
She walked slowly over, the sound of her steps on the dry earth barely louder than the wind. She stopped a few feet away from where I sat.
“Hi,” she said softly.
“Hi,” I replied, my voice just as low.
“I heard from Naledi that you didn’t know about the return trip until a couple of nights ago.”
“Correct,” I said, offering a small smile. “It was a well-kept surprise.”
She shifted her weight, folded her arms across her chest. “Were you ... okay with it?”
“More than okay.”
She glanced at the mug in my hands, then back at me. “Are you ever going to drink that?”
“Probably not.”
That earned a little smile from her, but there was something else behind it. Tiredness, maybe. Or hesitation. The night air between us felt charged, like it always seemed to in these rare, unguarded moments.
“I wasn’t sure if I should say anything,” she said after a pause. “But ... I’m glad we’re back. I’m glad we got one more trip.”
“So am I,” I said, and meant it more than I could safely explain.
She nodded once, then looked out toward the dark edge of camp. A student’s voice called in the distance. The crackle of the fire filled the space between us.
“I should get some sleep,” she said quietly. “Big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Field teams are headed out at sunrise.”
“Of course they are,” she said with a smirk. “You haven’t changed.”
She turned to go, then hesitated. “Goodnight, Ben.”
“Goodnight, Bliss.”
She walked away slowly, not looking back. I watched until she disappeared into the shadows beyond the tents.
And then I sat there a while longer, holding the cold mug in my hands, feeling every second of her absence like a weight I wasn’t sure how to carry.
The morning sun had only just crested the trees when the first vehicle rolled out. Dew still clung to the tall grass, and the air carried that fleeting crispness unique to the early hours before the Delta heat began its steady climb.
I stood with Joseph near the lead vehicle, clipboard in hand, double-checking gear assignments and location maps. The students buzzed with energy — it was the first full day of their return visit, and they were eager to get moving.
Bliss was with Naledi and Simmy in Vehicle Two, assigned to survey a floodplain system we hadn’t visited since the last group’s trip. She was already loading water bottles and field kits into the back when I caught a glimpse of her. She didn’t look over, but I didn’t need her to. Just knowing she was there — here — was enough to tilt the morning on its axis.
Joseph elbowed me lightly as I handed him a printout. “You’re fidgeting,” he said in a low voice, eyes forward. “You only fidget when she’s around.”
I gave him a dry look. “You know I’m still your supervisor, right?”
“Mm-hmm,” he said with a grin. “You’re a supervisor with a very obvious tell.”
Before I could respond, Thandiwe’s voice rang out, corralling the final students into their respective teams. The briefings were finished. Engines started. Within minutes, the convoy of vehicles began to split off into the bush, raising small clouds of dust in their wake.
I stayed back with Thandiwe and two other students assigned to camp-based data processing. It was a quieter assignment, but it gave me time to think. Too much time.
Around midday, I found myself reviewing data logs under the shade of the admin tent when Thandiwe approached, her arms folded.
“They seem focused,” she said, nodding toward the departing teams.
“They are,” I replied. “Bliss’s team will be back just after three.”
She made a quiet sound in her throat, half-approval, half-thoughtfulness. “Good.”
There was a pause before she added, “You’ve done well to maintain professional boundaries.”
I looked at her, surprised by the comment. “I’m trying.”
“I know,” she said simply, then walked away to check on the others.
When Bliss’s team returned that afternoon, the field vehicles were coated in a fine film of dust. She stepped out of the back, face flushed with sun and movement, laughing at something Simmy said. She caught sight of me near the admin tent and gave a nod — subtle, but not distant.
“Smooth day?” I asked when they approached to unload.
“No surprises,” she said, then added with a smirk, “unless you count a vervet monkey stealing Naledi’s apple.”
“I’ll check the footage,” I said, amused. “Might need to identify the suspect.”
A short exchange. Nothing more. But her eyes lingered on mine just a moment longer than necessary, and that was enough to carry me through the rest of the day.
Hours later, the Delta had taken on its evening hush, the way it always did just after dinner, when bellies were full and the fire had settled into a bed of coals. The students had gathered near the circle of camp chairs beneath the canopy, talking in pairs and small groups, the hum of conversation soft and uneven. Kele and Joseph had slipped away toward the edge of the clearing, their silhouettes visible under the half-moon. Laughter rolled now and then from Naledi and Simmy, sitting cross-legged with mugs of tea, deep in some story or gossip.
I stayed a few steps removed, leaning against a post near the equipment shed, sipping a tin mug of rooibos. The night was warm, the sky brilliantly clear. No wind. Just the gentle rhythm of crickets, the occasional hoot of a distant owl, and the low murmurs of human voices.
Bliss emerged from the shadows near the kitchen tent, carrying a flask and two empty mugs. She moved slowly, glancing over the group as if searching for someone, until her gaze settled on me. She gave a small smile and a shrug, as if to say, Why not? Then she made her way over.
“Hot water,” she said, lifting the flask. “Thandiwe left it out for anyone still awake.”
“Thandiwe always thinks ahead,” I replied, stepping aside to give her room on the bench nearby.
She poured tea into one mug, then paused. “Want one?”
I hesitated only a second. “Sure.”
We sat without talking for a while, side by side, our eyes on the fire where the students continued to mingle. Every now and then, someone would glance our way — not with suspicion, not with any real intensity, but enough to remind me of the lines we’d both been careful not to cross.
Still, it felt good to be near her. There was something steady about her presence, something that had become quietly essential.
She broke the silence first. “Today was good,” she said, keeping her voice low.
“It was,” I agreed. “Your team worked well together. You ran it efficiently.”
“I’ve had good mentors,” she said. Then, before I could answer, she added, “I don’t take that for granted.”
I looked over, but she didn’t return the gaze. Her eyes stayed on the fire, thoughtful. Her tone was more serious than casual.
“I know this isn’t easy,” she continued. “The ... attention. The speculation.”
“It’ll pass,” I said. “We’re doing everything right.”
She nodded. “I think so too.” Then, after a pause, “But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get to me sometimes.”
I could have said more, but I didn’t. We both knew there was no use in stirring what didn’t need stirring. Not now.
We sipped our tea and sat in companionable silence for a while longer, watching the last of the embers crackle into ash. Eventually, Bliss stood.
“Early day tomorrow,” she said, not quite meeting my eyes. “Goodnight, Ben.”
“Goodnight, Bliss.”
She walked away quietly, her steps soft on the sand. I watched her go, then stood a moment longer, holding my empty mug and listening to the quiet around me — the kind of quiet that says everything even when nothing’s spoken.
The sun crept up over the edge of the floodplain, casting its light across the reeds and scrub, setting everything aglow. It was the kind of morning that always seemed to promise something — clarity, maybe, or closure — though it never said what kind.
I stood beside Joseph, watching the students assemble their gear for the last round of data collection. There was a hum of energy in the air. The last day always carried a mix of fatigue and pride. You could see it in the way they moved, confident now in the rhythm of their tasks, the way they spoke to each other in the shorthand of shared purpose.
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