Leaving Francistown
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 17
The road grew quieter as we left the bustle of Gaborone’s city center behind. Bliss was giving me last-minute reminders, her voice calm, but I could hear the slight edge of nerves underneath. It made me feel better—I wasn’t the only one with butterflies.
Her parents’ neighborhood was neat and leafy, with wide streets and brick houses shaded by mopane and jacaranda trees. The air felt different here—less hurried, more settled. Bliss pointed out a familiar corner store, yet another school she used to attend, the shortcut her mom still swears by.
“This is it,” she said finally, her tone softening as she motioned toward a house with a tidy garden and white walls trimmed in pale blue.
It was modest but well-kept. A short brick path led from the gate to a wooden front door, flanked by rose bushes that were somehow thriving in the heat. The lawn was freshly trimmed, and I could see a wind chime swaying lazily on the porch.
We climbed out of the car, and I did a quick check—shirt tucked, hands dry, breath not funky. Bliss came around to stand beside me and reached down to subtly straighten the hem of my shirt. Then she smiled at me—one of those warm, soothing smiles that reminded me why I was here in the first place.
“You ready?” she asked.
I gave a dry laugh. “Define ready.”
She rolled her eyes affectionately as we arrived on the doorstep.
The door opened a moment later, and I was hit by a wave of smells—something savory and spiced was cooking, and it made me instantly hungry. Bliss’s mother stood in the doorway, tall and graceful, with silver streaks in her braided hair and the kind of gaze that pinned you politely but thoroughly.
“Mama,” Bliss said, stepping forward to hug her.
Her mother hugged her back tightly, then turned to me with a small smile. Addressing me in English, she said, “Nice to see you again, Ben.” It turned out that both of Bliss’s parents spoke excellent English. They had told Bliss beforehand that they preferred to converse with me in my native language, since they didn’t have many opportunities to do so. I was more than happy to go along with that.
I nodded respectfully, extending my hand. “Yes, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She took my hand, firm but warm. “How was the trip?”
“We managed. It was my first time flying commercial here, instead of charter flights for business,” I said, trying to keep it light.
She let out a short, agreeable hum that didn’t really confirm or deny anything, then stepped aside to let us in. “Come, come. Your father is in the sitting room.”
The house was cozy and full of personal touches—framed photos on every wall, doilies on the side tables, a vase of fresh flowers in the center of the dining table. The air smelled like chicken stew and something sweet baking in the oven.
Bliss’s father stood as we entered the room. He was short but solidly built, with a face that looked like it rarely gave much away. Still, when he shook my hand, his grip was steady, and there was something open behind his eyes—like he was reserving judgment but willing to listen.
“Welcome,” he said. “We’re glad to have you.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I really appreciate you letting me be here.”
He motioned to the couch. “Sit. You’ll have to tell us how you’ve survived our daughter in the wild.”
I chuckled as I sat beside Bliss. “Very carefully.”
That earned me a raised eyebrow and the ghost of a smile from her dad, and a quiet laugh from her mom in the doorway.
Bliss leaned close and whispered, “You’re doing great.”
And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of her childhood home, the smells of dinner in the air, and her hand just brushing mine on the couch cushion, I started to believe her.
Dinner was served just after sunset. Bliss’s younger brother arrived—he’d been out with friends, and we were introduced. We all gathered around a polished wooden table under a warm light that cast soft shadows across the room. Bliss’s mom brought out bowls of chicken stew, pap, sautéed greens, and chakalaka, and the smells alone nearly knocked me over with gratitude. Bliss caught my eye as we sat down, and I could tell she was watching me with curiosity—not for my reactions to the food, but to everything else. She was watching how I’d carry myself at this table, with the people who raised her.
I thought back to her graduation, months ago now. I’d met her parents then—briefly. Just a handshake and a polite greeting in a crowd. Things were different now. Everything meant more.
Her mom led with gentle conversation, asking about the Delta and our work there. I told a few stories—nothing too heavy—just enough to paint a picture of the camp, the students, the wildlife. She smiled, especially when I mentioned Bliss’s role in helping organize the student fieldwork.
But it was her father who eventually shifted gears. He put down his fork and studied me with quiet interest, like a man lining up a shot he didn’t take often, but rarely missed.
“Ben,” he said, “I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but I’m curious—what have you learned about our country since you’ve been here?”
I straightened a little, not out of nervousness, but respect. “That’s a fair question, sir. I’ve learned that Botswana is a place where community means everything. I’ve seen how people take care of each other, even strangers. I’ve learned to slow down and listen more. To greet people properly. I’m still learning the language—slowly—but I’ve made some friends who are patient with me.”
He nodded once, still unreadable. “And culture?” he asked. “You’re with a Motswana woman now. Our ways may not always be familiar.”
I met his gaze. “That’s true. And I know I’ll never fully understand what it means to grow up here, not in the way Bliss has. But I respect it. I want to learn it. I’ve been fortunate to work closely with people like Thandiwe and Joseph, and others in the community. They’ve been generous with their time and their trust. I’ve made mistakes, but I try to ask questions, to listen. And Bliss ... she’s been a patient teacher, too.”
There was a long pause. Then he looked at his wife, then at Bliss, then back at me.
“That’s a good answer,” he said simply. “I can’t ask for more than that.”
Relief settled like a gentle wind in my chest, but I kept my expression measured. I wasn’t there to win a debate—I was there because I loved their daughter. Every word I’d spoken had come from that place.
The rest of dinner unfolded more easily. Bliss’s mom teased her about how little she used to eat as a kid. Her dad even cracked a joke about the time she tried to keep a stray goat in the backyard. Bliss groaned and buried her face in her hands, but I could see the love in her eyes. This was her foundation. These were the people who shaped her.
Later, as the table cleared and conversation turned to politics and gossip and a neighbor’s unruly mango tree, Bliss reached under the table and gently took my hand.
She didn’t need to say a word. We belonged at that table. Together.
They put me up for the night in a small guest bedroom. The next morning began with the sound of doves cooing outside the window and sunlight pouring in through thin curtains. Bliss was already awake, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, scrolling through her phone. She looked peaceful. When she noticed me watching her, she smiled—soft and slow, the kind of smile that makes time lose its footing.
We spent the morning helping her mom in the garden—well, helping is generous. Bliss and her mom actually knew what they were doing. I mostly moved things around and tried not to trample anything. Her dad gave us a tour of his workshop, where he tinkered with everything from old radios to homemade tools. I could see where Bliss got her curiosity, her hands-on energy. He wasn’t a man of many words, but his pride in his daughter was visible in every gesture.
That afternoon, we visited her grandparents. They lived just a few blocks away, in a modest home surrounded by lemon trees and shade. Her grandmother was sharp and full of stories—many of them clearly embellished for our amusement. Bliss translated some of the faster Setswana for me when things got ahead of my comprehension, but I didn’t mind being slightly adrift. It felt like I was watching a vibrant tapestry come to life.
At one point, her grandfather leaned close to me and said quietly, “Don’t try too hard. Just be kind. The rest follows.” Then he patted my shoulder and handed me a piece of dried meat.
In the evening, we all sat around the small fire pit in the backyard. Bliss’s mother had cooked enough to feed a small army—grilled meat, samp, beetroot salad, and sweet dumplings. Laughter bubbled up often—mostly stories of Bliss’s childhood, some of which I’d never heard. She was a shy kid, apparently. A quiet observer. It struck me how much of that still lived in her, just beneath the surface.
When the stars came out, Bliss and I sat on a blanket in the yard while her parents cleaned up the kitchen. We leaned against each other, heads touching, saying very little. I looked up at the sky—clear and infinite—and realized I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Settled.
Not stuck. Not stationary. Just ... rooted, in a way I didn’t think I ever would be again.
The next morning came quickly. We packed up, said our goodbyes with a few extra hugs, and caught a cab to the airport. Bliss was quiet on the flight back—tired, I think, but also thoughtful. I didn’t press. I just held her hand.
When we touched down in Maun, Joseph and Kele were waiting near the baggage claim. Kele grinned as she waved us over.
“How was it?” she asked.
“Better than I could have imagined,” Bliss said.
And she looked at me like she meant it.
The camp was quiet again.
That kind of deep, settled quiet that only comes after travel and reunion, after long stretches on the road and the warmth of being back in familiar space. Bliss and I had dinner with Joseph and Kele at our usual table—nothing fancy, just leftovers and laughter. Afterward, we took a slow walk beneath the stars, along one of the sandy footpaths that cut behind the tents.
It felt good to stretch my legs, to breathe in that earthy scent of Delta air again. Not that Gaborone hadn’t been good—honestly, it had been better than good. Bliss’s family welcomed me more warmly than I ever could’ve hoped for. But this place ... this wild, untamed patch of earth? It felt like ours.
Bliss walked beside me in easy silence, her fingers brushing against mine now and then.
“I’m really glad we went,” she said finally.
“Me too,” I replied. “They’re good people. Your parents. Your whole family.”
She smiled at that, a private kind of smile that seemed to contain layers I didn’t fully understand. “They liked you.”
“You think?”
She bumped her shoulder against mine. “They did. Trust me. My dad’s questions were a test. You passed.”
I laughed quietly. “You sure? Because I think I was sweating through my shirt when he asked about cultural traditions.”
“He respects that you didn’t try to fake anything. He’ll never say it out loud, but he respects that.”
I glanced sideways at her. “You’ve been ... amazing. All the ways you’ve helped me learn this place. Navigate it. It’s not lost on me.”
She took my hand this time, fully, her fingers lacing with mine. “You’ve been open to it. That’s all I ever hoped for.”
We reached the edge of the staff tents. Her path veered left, mine right. We stood there, suspended in the soft night.
“I’ll see you in the morning?” she said.
“Yeah. But I kinda wish it was still morning now. That we had the whole day ahead.”
She rose on her toes and kissed me—just once, warm and unhurried. “Goodnight, Ben.”
“Night, Bliss.”
I watched her walk away until she disappeared into the darkness. Then I turned, crossed over the wooden step, and ducked into my tent.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of canvas and dust, and the familiar creak of my cot felt strangely comforting. I sat for a while before crawling under the sheet, staring at the ripple of mosquito net above my head.
I thought about her parents, about the way her mom laughed during stories, and the way her dad handed me a cold bottle of ginger beer without saying a word, like a silent invitation. I thought about Bessie’s little wink across the lunch table, and Naledi’s quick embrace at the office. These weren’t just people I was trying to impress. These were people who might one day become part of something bigger in my life.
And then there was everyone here—Joseph, with his easy humor and big heart. Kele, clever and perceptive. Arthur, loud and unfiltered but deeply loyal. Thandiwe, guarded but fair. Even Tiro, who’d already proven to be a steady hand. The Delta camp felt less like a workplace these days and more like something else. A chosen tribe. A patchwork family.
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