Leaving Francistown
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 13
I double-checked the time. Just after eight. The air outside was cooling, slipping down from the heat of the day, and the camp had gone quiet except for a few murmurs near the mess tent. I stepped into my own, zipped the flap behind me, and settled onto the canvas cot with my phone in hand.
She’d be waiting.
I tapped the video call icon and listened to the soft buzz of the ring. A knot of anticipation persisted in my stomach—absurd, really. I’d seen her just a few days ago. We’d hugged. We’d talked. We’d shared more than we ever had before. But this ... this was new territory.
The screen lit up.
“Hi,” Bliss said, her voice gentle, her smile immediate. Her background was dim—soft light on a canvas wall behind her, the shape of her cot visible just behind one shoulder. She was already in a T-shirt, her hair pulled back, face relaxed.
“Hey,” I said. “You look ... tired.”
“I am,” she laughed softly. “Today was prep and paperwork. Nothing glamorous. We leave at sunrise tomorrow.”
“You ready?”
She tilted her head, considering. “I think so. Kele’s all packed and organized. I’m ... half-packed and pretending that counts.”
I chuckled. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”
She rolled her eyes. “And what about you? First week back in the rhythm?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Nothing too intense. A lot of data entry and helping the new group get their bearings. I had to stop myself from looking around for your group a couple of times.”
“You miss us already?”
“I miss you,” I said, then blinked at my own boldness. She froze slightly, then smiled—quietly, shyly.
“I miss you too,” she said.
We let that hang for a few seconds before I shifted the mood a little. “So ... tell me something totally unimportant. Something dumb.”
She grinned. “Kele and I decided we’re going to keep a snack stash hidden from the others. I’m not proud of it, but we bought way too many biscuits.”
“That’s not dumb. That’s survival strategy.”
“Oh, and we saw a stray goat walking past the compound this morning. Just ... trotted right on by like it owned the place.”
“Power move.”
We laughed and eased into the call. Twenty minutes slipped by like five. We traded stories, compared random little things—the heat, the mosquitoes, the state of our boots. I told her about a water monitor that had wandered too close to the kitchen tent. She told me her brother had texted her “just to make sure I hadn’t died during graduation week.”
We didn’t talk much about the future. Not tonight. It didn’t feel like we needed to.
As the call wound down, Bliss leaned a little closer to the screen. “This was good,” she said. “Really good.”
“Agreed. Same time tomorrow?”
“Yes. Please.”
“Goodnight, Bliss.”
“Goodnight, Ben.”
She lingered just a moment longer before the screen went dark.
I sat there a while, letting the silence of the tent settle around me. Outside, the Delta murmured—distant insects, the low rhythm of night birds, a hyena far off.
I lay back on the cot, phone on my chest.
Thirty minutes.
Every night.
Yeah. I could get used to that.
Those thirty-minute daily calls quickly grew longer. One evening, about a week later, I wandered into the tent, sore and exhausted from a full day of inspecting water pumps with Arthur. I tapped the screen on my phone, and Bliss’s face popped up instantly, her warm smile chasing away the last of the day’s fatigue. Her hair was wrapped in a scarf, and she sat cross-legged on a narrow camp bed in her tent. I could hear the faint buzz of the Delta night outside her screen.
“Hey, stranger,” she said with a playful lilt. “You look tired.”
“Long day,” I admitted, sinking back into my camp chair. “One of the water pumps started acting up and Arthur decided that meant we needed to do a full inspection of every other one, just to be safe.”
“Classic Arthur,” she said with a grin. “At least you’re back in one piece.”
“Barely.” I rubbed my shoulder dramatically. “So how was your day? Don’t tell me Kele talked you into another mosquito net dance-off.”
Bliss laughed. “No, not today. We were out surveying woodland tracks near the floodplain. Kele thinks she found leopard scat, but I think it was just hyena.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried that your casual conversation includes poop identification?”
“Nature doesn’t sanitize itself for you, Ben,” she said with mock seriousness.
We chatted like that for a while, drifting from work stories to random anecdotes. I told her about a vervet monkey that had tried to steal a granola bar right out of Joseph’s hand. She told me about the terrifying experience of nearly stepping on a puff adder — and then, laughing, admitted it was just a stick.
The conversation slowed a little, softened. I watched her in the low lamplight of her tent, the way her eyes moved when she was thinking.
“So,” she said finally, voice quieter now, “I’ve been thinking about next term. It’s going to feel strange not being a student anymore.”
“I remember that feeling,” I said. “It’s like you’re supposed to have everything figured out, but you’re still just ... sorting through it.”
She nodded. “It’s easier knowing you’ll still be here. Somewhere in Botswana.”
“That goes both ways,” I said. “Even if we’re not in the same place, knowing you’re out there makes things better.”
Her gaze softened. “It helps. A lot.”
We were quiet for a moment, not uncomfortably. Just the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.
“Remember that morning walk?” she said suddenly, smiling.
I chuckled. “How could I forget? Me falling into that hole like a complete idiot, and you dragging me back like a soldier on a battlefield.”
“You were very heroic about it,” she teased. “Wincing all the way like a tough guy.”
“I was trying to impress you.”
Her smile paused, then returned. “You didn’t need to try that hard.”
I swallowed, the warmth of her words settling in my chest. “I miss walking with you.”
“I miss that too.”
The call stretched past an hour, and neither of us seemed to notice. Eventually, we both yawned, and Bliss said, “Okay. We really should try to get some sleep tonight.”
“Same time tomorrow?” I asked.
“You better.”
“Goodnight, Bliss.”
“Goodnight, Ben.”
The screen went dark, but the connection lingered in the air around me, as real as the stars above the Delta. I closed my eyes and rolled over on the bed. Sleep was coming much, much easier these days.
I was halfway through jotting notes in my field journal when I heard the telltale scuff of boots outside my tent. Joseph didn’t knock—he never knocked. He just ducked his head in and grinned like he already had something on me.
“Still talking to your friend every night?” he asked, drawing out the word.
I looked up, deadpan. “Which friend are you referring to, Joseph? Because if you mean the hyena that visits camp, we haven’t spoken since he stole my sock.”
He laughed and stepped inside, shaking his head. “Come on, man. We all know you’ve been on the phone with Bliss until the battery dies. You talk to her more than I talk to Kele. And I talk to Kele a lot.”
“I didn’t know you were counting,” I said, smirking.
“Oh, I’m not the only one. Thandiwe made a joke this morning about how your tent’s been glowing like a lantern every night.”
Great.
I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t help smiling. “Thanks for the update, gossip committee.”
“Just saying,” Joseph said, turning toward the flap. “If she starts sending care packages, I call dibs on any chocolate.”
Once he was gone, I sat back, letting the silence settle over me for a moment—until my phone buzzed. Bessie.
I answered quickly. “Hey.”
“Hi, Ben,” she said, her voice brisk but upbeat. “Quick check-in—and some news.”
My pulse ticked up.
“There’s a potential opening at a conservation NGO based here in Botswana. Field-based, leadership role, still connected to the Delta. They’re looking for someone experienced, who already knows the region and the academic fieldwork side.”
I sat forward. “Sounds almost too perfect.”
“I thought the same. It wouldn’t start until next year, so you could finish your current contract. But if you’re interested—and I assume you are—you should apply right away. I’ve already spoken to someone on the inside.”
I blinked. “You really don’t sleep, do you?”
“I have my moments,” she said with a smile in her voice. “I’ll send you the link. The rest is up to you.”
“Thank you, Bessie. Honestly.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “Just make sure you tell Bliss. She deserves to hear it from you.”
The screen flickered, and there she was—curled up in her tent, her scarf already off, hair braided back for the night.
“You look suspiciously well-rested,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes. “Is that your way of saying I look nice?”
“It’s my way of easing into it. You look nice,” I said more directly.
She smiled, then tilted her head. “You sound like you’ve had a big day.”
“I have.” I told her everything—Joseph teasing me, Thandiwe’s raised eyebrows, and then, finally, Bessie’s news.
Bliss straightened a little. “A job? Here?”
“Potentially,” I said. “Nothing guaranteed, but ... it fits. And it would mean I could stay. After this contract ends.”
I watched her closely. She didn’t say anything at first, but I could see her cheeks lift slightly, her eyes softening.
“That makes me really happy,” she said. “I didn’t think I was letting myself hope for that. Not yet.”
“I wasn’t either. But it’s starting to feel ... possible.”
She leaned in closer to her camera. “Ben, I want you to stay. I just didn’t want to say that first.”
My chest tightened in the best way. “You just did.”
We sat there in silence for a beat, smiling at each other.
“So,” she said finally, “when do we get to celebrate this new maybe-job?”
“Well,” I said, “I might know a certain someone who’d be willing to schedule a longer-than-usual phone call tomorrow night.”
She laughed. “You better. And for the record, I do send care packages.”
“Oh, I know,” I said, holding up the half-empty jar of peanut butter she’d slipped into my pack before she left. “The real question is whether I have to share it with Joseph.”
“Only if you want to lose a friend.”
We ended the call reluctantly, as always, and I set the phone down beside my bed, the flicker of its screen fading into the Delta night.
I hit “submit” on the job application with a strange mix of calm and adrenaline. Eight months. That’s how long I had left on my current contract. But now there was a thread stretched out beyond it, a shape forming at the edge of what had once been fog. A reason to stay.
It was late in the afternoon when I zipped up my tent and stepped outside. I didn’t even make it to the kettle before Joseph materialized with that look—half mischief, half pitch.
“I have an idea,” he said.
“That’s rarely comforting.”
He grinned. “Weekend’s almost here. I was thinking about taking a quick trip to visit Kele’s camp. Surprise her.”
I raised a brow. “You trying to get in good with her supervisor, or make her faint?”
“Both,” he said, then added, “But here’s the thing—I want to borrow a vehicle. I figure the odds of getting the keys are way higher if a senior researcher—say, you—comes along.”
I didn’t even pretend to hesitate. “I’m in.”
He laughed. “Didn’t even have to bribe you with coffee.”
We secured permission without much resistance. By the next morning, the plan was set: a two-day trip, just the two of us, keeping it quiet so we could surprise them properly.
That night, back in my tent, I tried to read, but my thoughts kept drifting.
I was going to see Bliss again.
The version of her that had emerged over these past few weeks—quietly confident, curious, warm—was beginning to lodge deeper into the corners of my mind. She asked me how my day was, every single night. Even when hers had been hard, even when she was tired. Brianna, my ex-wife, had never really done that. She had asked about my schedule, sometimes. Logistics. But not my day.
It wasn’t just that Bliss was thoughtful. She was grounded. At twenty-one, she already carried herself with more maturity than Brianna ever had. And when we talked about the future—conservation, education, the work we both cared about—I never felt like I was talking to someone younger. We were just ... in sync.
I didn’t feel the age difference. I didn’t feel like I was mentoring her, or tiptoeing. I felt like I was falling.
Hopelessly. Madly.
And I was going to tell her. Not everything, maybe, but enough. She deserved to hear it from me.
The soft ring of the incoming video call jolted me back. I tapped to answer, and her face filled the screen—tired, content, luminous in the soft glow of her tent lamp.
“You look like you’re somewhere else,” she said, smiling.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
I hesitated. How amazing and wonderful you are, I thought.
“About ... the next few days,” was what actually came from my mouth. I remembered not to say anything about the surprise visit. “And the next few months. And ... how good it is to hear your voice at the end of every day.”
She smiled at that, her eyes narrowing slightly in that way they always did when she was touched but trying not to show it.
“I like hearing yours too,” she said. “So don’t start missing any calls.”
I grinned. “Never.”
She tilted her head. “Still feel like you’re dreaming?”
“A little,” I said. “But I don’t want to wake up.”