Leaving Francistown
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 12
I had just zipped my duffel shut when my phone buzzed on the crate-turned-nightstand beside my cot. I picked it up and saw Bessie’s name on the screen.
“Hey,” I said, answering with a smile. “You must have radar. I was just about to head out.”
“Well then I caught you in time,” she said, warm as ever. “I won’t keep you long. Just wanted to check in before you leave for Gaborone. How are you feeling?”
“Nervous,” I admitted. “And maybe a little stupid for that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s a graduation ceremony. I’ve been to dozens. But this one feels ... different.”
Bessie chuckled lightly. “You’re not stupid, Ben. You’re invested. And I think it’s good that you care. Just don’t let it paralyze you.”
There was a short pause, then her voice softened a notch.
“I’ve been working on a few possibilities for you, by the way. Nothing firm yet, but I’ve had some promising conversations — including one with a director at the Ministry of Environment. If all goes well, I’ll have something more concrete for you shortly after you’re back from Gaborone.”
I felt a quiet swell in my chest. “That’s incredible. Thank you, Bessie. Really.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said lightly. “But I have a good feeling.”
Another pause.
“And about Bliss...”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t go in with an agenda. You already know that, I think. Just be yourself. She’s smart. She knows what she wants — and what she doesn’t. You’ve respected that so far, and it’s worked. Keep doing that.”
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “I will.”
“And don’t overthink it if she’s distracted or tired. She’s just finished years of school. There’s a lot going on in her head right now.”
“Fair point,” I said.
“And Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“She’ll be glad you’re there.”
I swallowed. “Thanks.”
We said our goodbyes, and I tucked the phone into my pocket, feeling steadier than I had in days.
The flight was short, but the shift in atmosphere felt massive. Gaborone was buzzing today—heavier traffic, more people out and about. Maybe it was due to the university graduation. After weeks in the bush, the noise was jarring, the air somehow thicker.
I caught a cab to the guesthouse near the university — a modest place Bessie had helped arrange. Nothing fancy, but clean and comfortable. I dropped my duffel, kicked off my boots, and sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the muffled hum of city life outside the window.
A strange restlessness settled over me. I wasn’t sure if it was anticipation, nerves, or some stubborn mix of both. I thought of Bliss — where she might be right now, what her day looked like. I wasn’t going to look for her yet. I wanted the moment to be right.
Graduation was tomorrow. I’d been eyeing this day for a long time, and now, here it was, right in front of me.
I had no illusions. This trip might not change anything. But on the other hand, it might.
At the very least, I would see her again. And this time, there were no lines to fear crossing. Just a conversation I needed to have. A path that might be starting to clear.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to keep my expectations in check.
And trying to get some rest. I had a big day ahead.
The morning had a quiet kind of electricity about it — the kind that hums under your skin without asking permission. I had my nicest button-up shirt on, sleeves rolled neatly, collar pressed, and shoes cleaned up. The air in Gaborone was warmer than I remembered, and the courtyard outside the auditorium buzzed with students and proud families milling about, snapping photos, straightening gowns.
I had just stepped out of the cab and was orienting myself when I caught sight of three familiar figures clustered together under a jacaranda tree near the side of the building.
Bliss. Naledi. Kele.
They hadn’t seen me yet. They were deep in conversation, laughing about something, holding their caps in their hands. Bliss stood in the middle, her graduation gown neatly draped, the sun glinting off the tips of her braids. She looked — well, radiant.
I didn’t mean to hesitate, but I did.
Just long enough for Naledi to glance up and spot me.
Her eyes widened, and she gasped, practically bouncing on her heels. “Professor Ben!”
Before I could respond, she was jogging toward me in heels like it was second nature. She threw her arms around me in a full-force hug.
“You came! You actually came!”
I chuckled, hugging her back. “Hey, Naledi. Of course I did.”
“I didn’t think you would!” she said, pulling back. “You never said anything when we were at the camp!”
“I figured I’d let it be a surprise.”
Kele reached us next, her smile warm but slightly more reserved. She gave me a friendly hug of her own.
“Glad you made it,” she said. “Truly.”
And then Bliss was standing in front of me, eyes bright with unmistakable surprise.
For a second, she hesitated. But just a second.
Then she stepped in and hugged me, quick but full. I felt it — the tension in her body, the slight pressure in the way her arms closed around me. Like she meant it. Like she didn’t want to let go too quickly, even though she did.
“You didn’t say you were coming,” she said as she stepped back, brushing a braid behind her ear, her voice quiet but filled with something that warmed me through.
“Didn’t want to get your hopes up in case something came up,” I said. “But Bessie helped arrange a place for me — a guest house not far from here.”
She gave a small smile at the mention of Bessie. “Of course she did.”
“Figured it was time I saw you all finish what you started,” I added, glancing at the three of them. “You earned it.”
“We’re glad you’re here,” Bliss said, and I caught a flicker in her eyes. Relief, maybe. Or happiness. Or both.
“C’mon,” Naledi said, looping her arm through Bliss’s. “We better get inside before we’re officially late for our own graduation.”
“Right,” Bliss said, and then looked at me. “We’ll see you in there?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
As they turned toward the building, Bliss glanced back once more and gave me a small, real smile. No words. Just that.
And it was enough.
The graduation ceremony itself was a blend of formality and joy — and watching it unfold from the crowd, I felt like I was standing at the edge of something significant. I recognized a few of the names as they were called. Naledi practically danced across the stage. Kele was composed and graceful. And then Bliss — calm, poised, effortless. When her name echoed through the auditorium and she stepped forward to accept her degree, I felt an unexpected tightness in my chest.
She didn’t look in my direction. She didn’t need to. I was already proud.
After the ceremony, the courtyard outside the building filled quickly — families reuniting, friends posing for photos, voices and laughter rising in a bright cacophony. I slipped away down a shaded walkway, mostly in search of the restroom, but also for a breather.
That’s when I saw her.
Bliss was standing in a quieter corner just off the main thoroughfare. Her gown was unzipped now, fluttering slightly in the breeze. Beside her stood two older individuals — a man and a woman, both dressed in dignified attire that somehow managed to blend tradition and formality. The woman wore a soft patterned wrap. The man, a neat blazer. There was something about their stillness, their bearing, that immediately told me who they were.
Bliss’s parents.
I froze. Reflexively, I switched gears, summoning the same calm I’d use around a wild dog pack.
She spotted me almost instantly. Her spine straightened the slightest degree, and her eyes widened — not with fear, exactly, but ... alertness. Awareness.
“Professor Ben,” she said, stepping forward slightly.
I opened my mouth. “Hey—”
She cut me off gently. “This is my mother, Mrs. Mokgosi. And my father, Mr. Mokgosi.” Her voice was clear and careful, with a hint of strain underneath. “And this is Ben Carr. He’s a university professor. He organized the field program I participated in this year.”
Her eyes didn’t leave mine.
I knew instantly what she was asking without saying it.
Don’t screw this up.
My heart thudded, but my mind, mercifully, stayed steady.
I turned to her parents, offering a respectful nod. “Dumelang, rre le mme,” I said. “Ke itumelela go lo kopana.” *
Her father’s brow lifted slightly, and a small, approving smile formed on her mother’s face.
I pressed on, a little slower now, but determined. “Ke ithuta Setswana ... ka bonya,”** I added, grinning a little. “Very slowly.”
Mr. Mokgosi chuckled — just a low, brief sound. But it was warm.
Mrs. Mokgosi replied, “O dira sentle, rra. Re lebogela tirisano ya gago le baithuti.” ***
Bliss was absolutely still. But her eyes — there was something glowing in them, something I’d never seen before. Pride? Relief? Maybe both.
“I won’t keep you,” I said gently, backing off a step. “Just wanted to say congratulations again, Bliss. To all of you.”
They nodded politely. Bliss gave a small, carefully measured smile.
“Thank you, Ben,” she said. “For everything.”
Our eyes met one last time. Her expression was composed, courteous — but just beneath that, I caught it.
A flash of something else.
Gratitude, yes. But layered with something deeper. A silent message that needed no words.
As I turned and walked back toward the guest house, the knot of stress I’d expected to feel ... never really tightened. Maybe I should have been nervous, or flustered, or overwhelmed.
But I wasn’t.
I was buoyed, strangely. Not because anything had changed explicitly — it hadn’t. But because I’d been thrown into one of the most delicate situations imaginable, and somehow managed to keep my footing.
And because, for the first time, Bliss had let me glimpse a part of her world I hadn’t expected to see this soon.
Now I just had to figure out what to do with that.
*Hello, sir and madam. Nice to meet you.
**I am learning Setswana ... very slowly.
***Well done, sir. Thank you for your help with the students.
That evening, the guest house was silent. The kind of stillness that settles over a place once the excitement has drained away — not in disappointment, but in the natural exhale that follows something momentous. Graduation day was over. The sun had gone down, and with it, the tension I hadn’t even realized I’d been carrying since I saw Bliss standing beside her parents.
I didn’t turn on any lights. I just sat by the small table near the window, sipping a glass of water that had long gone warm, staring at the ceiling like it might offer a clue for what I was supposed to do next.
The encounter with her parents hadn’t gone poorly — quite the opposite, actually. I’d somehow kept my footing, even made a good impression if the small smiles were any indication. But that wasn’t the part looping in my head. It was Bliss. The way her eyes shifted when she saw me, the look she gave me as I walked away. That silent thank you, layered with something more complex. Trust, maybe. Or the beginnings of something close to it.
I stood, needing to get out of my own head. The air outside was cool and slightly damp, the smell of late-season jacaranda still hanging around from the trees nearby. I wandered the edge of the grounds, just enough to stretch my legs and let the night air recalibrate my thoughts.
Bessie’s voice came back to me, calm and clear from that phone call days earlier: Don’t go with an agenda. Just be present. That’s enough for now.
She’d been right, of course. If I’d gone in there with some kind of premeditated plan, it might have unraveled fast. Today had worked because I hadn’t expected anything. I was just ... there. And maybe that was what Bliss had needed. Not a declaration. Not a hint. Just presence.
Still, the reality was what it was. I had tomorrow. One day. Then I’d be back on the road, back north, back to the Delta. And we’d be back to whatever this thing was that lived in long pauses and unspoken words.
The tricky part was, Bliss and I had never exchanged contact info. No numbers. No texts. No calls. Every conversation we’d ever had took place face-to-face, rooted in the soil and sun of that field camp, or here, briefly, among a hundred other distractions.
So now, with just a single day left, I needed to find a way to connect without imposing. To open a door without making it feel like pressure. To talk, truly talk — about staying in Botswana, about the future, about where this thing between us might lead — without shattering the careful rhythm we’d somehow maintained.
But not tonight.
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