Leaving Francistown
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 14
The morning came softly, its low light spilling across the Delta like a promise. Camp was already beginning to stir—someone stoked the fire, a kettle hissed faintly, and birds called overhead as if reminding us that time was still moving, whether we liked it or not.
I was already awake, sitting on the edge of my cot, tying my boots slowly, like somehow I could delay the inevitable. I heard a quiet knock on the tent pole just outside the flap. Not loud. Not urgent. Just ... there.
When I opened the flap, Bliss stood there. Barefaced, sweatshirt pulled over her head, eyes still carrying traces of sleep.
“Can we take a short walk?” she asked.
I nodded, and we slipped away from the tents, keeping close to the path but far enough that we wouldn’t be interrupted. We didn’t go far—just to the place near the tall marula tree where the brush opened up, letting us see a slice of water and sky.
We stood there for a moment, side by side. The breeze was cool, but her arm brushed mine, and I didn’t feel it.
“I wish you didn’t have to go so soon,” she said quietly.
“Me too,” I replied. “But ... it’s not like before. I’m only a few hours away now. And we’ll talk tonight. Just like we always do.”
She nodded but didn’t answer right away. I could see her chewing on her thoughts, and I didn’t rush her.
“I’m glad you said what you said last night,” she said at last. “Because I think I’ve been feeling all of it too. Just ... scared to admit it to myself.”
I reached for her hand, lacing our fingers together. “I get that. But you don’t have to be scared with me. We’ll figure it out—step by step, however long it takes.”
She gave a little smile, then stood on her toes to kiss me. Not as tentative as before. Not as nervous.
“Go,” she said gently, tugging back. “Before I get all dramatic.”
I grinned. “You? Dramatic? Never.”
She gave me a playful shove, but her eyes shimmered.
We walked back hand in hand, the camp now fully awake. Joseph was already loading the vehicle. Kele stood with her arms crossed, pretending not to notice us but clearly smiling.
Bliss stepped back as I tossed my bag into the truck. I turned to her one last time.
“I’ll call you tonight,” I said.
“You better.”
Another quick kiss, and then I climbed into the passenger seat. As we pulled away, I turned around once in my seat. Bliss was still standing there, one hand lifted in a small wave. That image—sunlight catching in her hair, that little wave, that steady look—lodged itself in my chest, and my mind as well.
We didn’t say goodbye. Not really. Just, see you soon.
The dust hadn’t even settled behind us before Joseph gave me that look. One hand on the steering wheel, the other resting out the window, he glanced sideways and smirked.
“So ... good visit?”
I knew better than to take the bait too easily. “Pleasant,” I said, keeping my voice neutral, eyes forward like we were discussing tire pressure or fuel efficiency.
Joseph chuckled. “Uh-huh. You disappeared for a walk twice. And let’s not pretend I didn’t see that little, um, moment at the truck before we left.”
I felt the corner of my mouth twitch despite myself. “Subtle, wasn’t it?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Like an elephant tiptoeing across a tin roof.”
I gave a soft laugh, then turned to look at him. “You’re not going to make this unbearable, are you?”
“Not at all. I’m happy for you, man,” Joseph said sincerely, eyes still on the road. “Seriously. You two looked ... good. Natural.”
I leaned back against the seat, watching the landscape stretch past. “It felt that way. Like we crossed some invisible threshold and everything’s different now, but in the best way.”
Joseph grinned. “Well, someone noticed. Kele said Bliss was acting floaty all evening. And get this—last night, I went to grab something from the truck around midnight and passed their tent...”
He glanced over at me, waiting for dramatic effect. I raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And,” he continued, “the giggling coming out of there? Loud enough to scare the jackals. They were on a video call with Naledi. I didn’t listen in, but come on ... I know girl talk when I hear it.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh no...”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Animated, excited, all three of them talking over each other. I swear I heard Naledi shout something like, ‘He said that? Did he really say that?’”
I groaned and put my head back against the seat. “Yeah, that tracks.”
Joseph was grinning like a kid with a secret. “You know they were breaking it all down. Word by word. Facial expressions. Hand gestures. Probably even background lighting.”
“They’ll need a full analysis team,” I muttered.
“Bliss is clearly into you, Ben,” Joseph said more seriously after a moment. “Not that there was any question about that before. And Kele’s on board. You’re doing something right.”
I didn’t answer right away. I just stared out at the trees blurring past and let that sink in.
“Thanks,” I said finally. “That means a lot.”
He nodded, then flashed another grin. “Just be careful. If the giggling gets any louder, we’re going to have to relocate the whole camp.”
I laughed again, deeply and genuinely.
The rest of the ride passed in easy, companionable silence, both of us content in the lingering glow of a weekend well spent and something real, something meaningful, beginning to take shape.
I had just zipped the tent flap closed when the call came through. Bliss. Right on schedule.
I answered immediately.
There she was — framed in the soft light of a bedside lamp, hair loose, eyes a little tired but glowing. She smiled, and everything inside me softened.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” she replied, her voice gentle. “Made it back okay?”
“Yeah. Smooth ride. Joseph talked the whole time.”
Bliss grinned knowingly. “He’s good at that.”
I shifted, propping my phone against the small pack beside me, and sat back. “He may have mentioned hearing some lively conversation outside a certain tent last night.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh no. He heard that?”
“Just the laughter. Said it could wake the jackals.”
She laughed — an unfiltered, unselfconscious sound. “Okay, maybe we got a little carried away. Naledi was very ... enthusiastic.”
“Yeah? What did she say?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Nice try.”
I smiled and leaned toward the camera. “You know I’m dying to know.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, then shook her head. “Not happening. But you should know ... everyone approves.”
I paused, letting that sink in. “That’s ... good to hear.”
“It is,” she said quietly, the mood turning slightly more serious. “I wasn’t expecting any of this, Ben. Not when we met. Not even after the Delta assignment. But now...”
She didn’t finish the sentence, and she didn’t have to.
“I wasn’t expecting it either,” I said. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.”
She looked down for a moment, and when she looked back up, there was something softer in her expression. “When you told me why you loved me ... I’ve never had anyone talk to me like that before. It’s going to live in my head forever.”
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. “Good. Because I meant every word.”
There was a moment of silence between us — warm, full, unhurried. She shifted on her bed and curled slightly to one side. “So, what did you do after you got back?”
“Told Joseph I’d never hear the end of it. Unpacked. Thought about you a lot.”
Her smile deepened. “Same.”
We talked for a while after that — about work, the upcoming week, what she and Kele were eating, what the sky looked like on her side of the Delta. The conversation, like so many now, stretched well past our original thirty-minute habit. Time bent with her.
Near the end, she said, “You’re still dreamy.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Joseph said you were acting dreamy yesterday. You were still like that on our walk.”
I laughed. “Maybe I was just stunned by the view.”
She rolled her eyes — then smiled. “Good answer.”
When we finally said goodnight, I lay back in the quiet tent, the sound of frogs and insects humming beyond the canvas walls.
I hadn’t said it again tonight — I love you — but I didn’t have to. It was there. In the rhythm of our voices, in the ease of her smile. In the way she said goodnight.
We’d both feel it until the next call. And the one after that.
And the many more to come.
A few days passed. Everything settled into a warm, comfortable routine.
It had been a long day — hours in the field, heat heavy enough to flatten conversation, and an afternoon spent compiling field data. By the time I got back to camp, ate a quick dinner, and showered under the stars, all I wanted was to lie down and drift off.
But then my phone lit up.
Bliss. Right on time. I grinned and answered.
Her face appeared, upside down at first — she was lounging sideways on her cot, one bare foot propped up against the tent wall. Her hair was tied up, messy from the day, and she looked half-asleep already.
“Nice angle,” I said.
She yawned and turned the phone right-side up. “It’s my glamorous new aesthetic.”
“I dig it.”
She smirked. “You look beat.”
“I am. You?”
“Me as well. One of the students nearly walked straight into a warthog today.”
I blinked. “Please tell me you’re exaggerating.”
“Not even a little,” she said, giggling. “The poor thing just froze. I’m not sure if I mean the student or the warthog.”
We laughed together, and the fatigue loosened its grip.
Conversation flowed easily, meandering like the river outside camp — she told me about Kele’s tragic attempt at making instant pudding without enough water, I told her about Joseph trying to outsmart a baboon over a lunch container and losing spectacularly.
There was nothing monumental said that night — just stories, shared space, the comfort of knowing someone was on the other end of the line who got it. Who got me.
At one point, she went quiet, eyes soft as they watched me.
“What?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing. Just ... I like this. You. Us.”
My throat tightened.
“Yeah,” I said. “I like this too.”
We didn’t hang up right away. We never did. Even when the words ran out, we stayed connected — the quiet between us more intimate than conversation.
When we finally did say goodnight, I sat in the silence for a moment longer before turning out the light.
This had become the best part of my day.
Two months had passed, just like that.
The Delta had taken on its late-season tone—warmer evenings, heavier rains rolling in with less ceremony, and the kind of silence at night that made you feel like the world was holding its breath. My days were still long and filled with dirt and data, but now there was a rhythm to them I hadn’t had before. And the rhythm always ended with Bliss.
Every night, without fail, we talked. Sometimes for thirty minutes, sometimes for over an hour. Sometimes we talked about our workdays, about wildlife or weather or which students had impressed or annoyed us. Other nights were quieter, deeper. We’d talk about our childhoods, or our plans, or the strange and tentative thread we’d found in each other.
She was just weeks away from the end of her summer assignment. The idea that we’d be able to see each other in person again—soon—was something I tried not to dwell on too hard. It made the wait feel longer.
Plans had already been made. When her job wrapped up, we’d head to Gaborone together—her home turf. I was going to meet her parents again, this time not as the “university professor” from the Delta, but as someone closer. Someone who mattered. Someone she loved.
I hadn’t said the word out loud to her again, not since that sunset walk. But I thought it every time I saw her face on the screen.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. Meeting the extended family was next-level, and I didn’t want to mess it up. So, I’d been leaning on Joseph—asking him endless questions about Botswana etiquette—and quietly picking Bessie’s brain about Setswana customs. She’d been patient, and more than a little amused.
That afternoon, I was sitting in a folding chair outside my tent, brushing up on common Setswana phrases on my phone, when Arthur appeared beside me with two bottles of St. Louis and that unreadable expression he wore when he had something mildly interesting to say.
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