Leaving Francistown
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 4
A light breeze stirred the dry grass, carrying with it the faint smell of earth and water and the musky undertone of nearby wildlife. The late afternoon sun slanted low across the open veldt, painting everything in dusty gold. It had been a long day of track surveys, and the students were scattered across the clearing, packing up measuring tapes, plaster molds, and notebooks.
The work was tedious but necessary—identifying, cataloging, interpreting. The details mattered out here. Tracks could tell you a hundred things if you knew how to look: what passed by, when, how healthy it was, what it was after.
I walked slowly toward the old Land Cruiser, rolling my shoulders to shake off the fatigue. Joseph and a few of the students were still joking quietly near the far edge of the clearing, and I could see Naledi photographing a set of kudu tracks half-submerged in the soft soil.
Bliss was farther back, almost at the treeline, head bent low over her field notebook. She’d been quiet today, even more than usual, and I’d caught myself watching her more than once—noticing the way she moved, the focus in her eyes.
I leaned against the sun-warmed hood of the Cruiser, just for a moment, just to breathe in the late light. Bliss was at the back of the group, her long braids pulled back into a ponytail, eyes scanning a field notebook. She’d been quiet for most of the day, and despite the heat and dust, I couldn’t help but notice how focused and calm she seemed. There was something about the way she moved, the way she observed the world with intent, that made it hard for me to look away.
“Bliss,” I called, pushing myself off the truck. She turned, startled for a second, then smiled when she saw it was just me. I couldn’t help but feel a little tug in my chest at that smile—genuine, warm, a little shy, but not entirely unaware of its effect.
“Hey, Professor Ben,” she said, her voice light and playful, but still with the same touch of formality. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to ask about your observations today. You’ve been pretty quiet.” I gestured toward her notebook. “You see anything interesting?”
Bliss hesitated for a moment, glancing down at her notes before meeting my eyes. There was a fleeting moment of vulnerability in her expression, as though she were deciding how much to share. “Well,” she said softly, “there’s a track back there that doesn’t match anything we were expecting—could be an older leopard, or even something else. I think it might have been wandering off the reserve.”
I raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You’re a lot more observant than most of the students I’ve worked with.” I stepped closer, lowering my voice slightly. “That’s a good sign for your research.”
She smiled, but there was something more in her eyes now, a hint of something I couldn’t quite name. “I’m serious about this stuff. I mean, I’m studying conservation because I believe in it—not just because it looks good on paper.”
I nodded slowly. “I can tell. It’s not easy, this line of work. There are days when it feels like you’re fighting an uphill battle.” I paused, watching her. “But you don’t seem discouraged. That’s rare.”
Bliss shifted, her expression softening. “It’s hard not to get discouraged sometimes. But I guess the longer I’m in this, the more I realize it’s about the little wins. It’s about learning and adapting, not just the end results.”
There was something in her voice, a quiet strength that matched her calm demeanor. It made me admire her more than I already had. “That’s exactly how I feel about conservation,” I said, leaning back against the truck. “It’s easy to focus on the big picture, but sometimes you have to appreciate the smaller victories—the ones that keep you going.”
Bliss was quiet for a moment, her eyes drifting to the horizon as if searching for something. She gave a slight nod. “I think you’re right. It’s easy to forget that.”
I studied her face, her focus on something just beyond the landscape. There was something about her that made me want to dig deeper—understand her better, beyond just the bright, ambitious student who came to class every day.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here, Bliss,” I said, my voice more sincere than I’d intended. “We need people like you in this field.”
Her eyes met mine again, and for a second, I thought I saw something flicker in her expression. A recognition, maybe. Or curiosity. “Thanks, Ben,” she said quietly, then added with a slight smile, “That means a lot coming from you.” I noted that for the first time, she’d dropped the “Professor” title when addressing me.
I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the space between us. I could feel the heat of the afternoon sun, but it wasn’t the sun that made my skin feel warm.
“Okay then,” I said, clearing my throat. “We should probably get back to the group before they leave us behind.”
“Right,” she said with a small laugh, and we both turned toward the others, but the air between us felt different now. A little heavier, charged in a way I couldn’t explain.
By the time we caught up with the others, the last of the gear was loaded, and Joseph was herding the students back toward camp with an easy wave of his hand. I climbed into the driver’s seat, grateful for the distraction of the road ahead, but my mind stayed stubbornly tangled.
I told myself once again ... this was a line I couldn’t afford to cross. Instructor. Student. It was a simple boundary, and in a place like this—isolated, close-quartered, far from the buffers and norms of a city—it was even more critical.
It wasn’t just the professional ethics. There were cultural nuances too—layers of expectation and meaning woven into every glance, every word. I knew enough by now to be careful. Relationships in this part of Africa could be complicated, tied deeply into family, community, honor. A misstep here wouldn’t just embarrass me—it could hurt Bliss’s reputation, and maybe even her future.
I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to shove those thoughts away.
She’s young, I reminded myself. Twenty-one years old. Bright, promising, on the cusp of her real career. She deserves someone her age, someone who isn’t dragging around a whole suitcase of personal baggage from another life.
And yet, there was something there—something undeniable that pulled at the corners of my mind. That quick, thoughtful smile. That fierce, stubborn spark when she talked about conservation like it was a sacred duty. I hadn’t felt this kind of quiet draw toward someone in years. Maybe not ever.
The engine rumbled beneath me, and the road opened up in front of the truck, rutted and dusty and infinite.
Focus on the work, Ben.
I clenched the steering wheel a little tighter and kept my eyes on the path ahead, willing myself to remember who I was—and who I needed to be—out here.
The next morning broke cool and clear, with a thin mist rising off the wetlands before the sun burned it away. We were deep into the northern reaches now, well past the last scattering of villages, in a land that belonged more to the herds and the hunters than to any people.
Today’s assignment was a hands-on mapping exercise—charting water sources, animal pathways, and vegetation zones. Thandiwe had suggested it, saying it would give the students a better grasp of how critical small changes in the environment could be out here. How a new channel or a clogged one could reroute an entire ecosystem’s worth of life.
We broke the students into teams, handing each group a battered map, a compass, and a GPS unit that I wasn’t entirely sure would hold a charge through the whole day. Joseph trailed after one group, while I worked closer with another, keeping an eye on everyone as they fanned out across the landscape.
By early afternoon, the sun was overhead, and the heat pressed against us like a heavy hand. I found myself walking alongside Bliss’s group without really meaning to.
She wasn’t leading her team—that wasn’t the assignment—but she moved naturally at the center of them, quietly guiding without pushing, suggesting without demanding. It was leadership, the real kind, the kind you couldn’t fake.
At one point, as we paused near a cluster of acacia trees, Bliss approached me, notebook in hand.
“Ben,” she said, her brow furrowed slightly. “Can I run something by you?”
“Of course,” I said, motioning her into the thin shade.
She showed me the sketch she’d made—a rough field map annotated with careful notations about animal tracks, scat, and grazing patterns. She’d noticed something the others hadn’t: that a waterhole they were mapping was actually being fed by a subtle, seasonal seep she’d traced farther back into the reeds.
“You’re saying it’s not just rainfall collecting here?” I asked, studying her notes.
“Exactly,” she said, tapping the page with a chewed-up pencil. “There’s a feeder source. It could mean that this spot stays viable longer into the dry season than we thought.”
I gave a low whistle, genuinely impressed. “That’s good work, Bliss. Real good. You just made the assignment about ten times more valuable.”
She smiled, a little shy but proud too, and I felt that same small tug in my chest again—an admiration that ran deeper than it should have.
I kept it professional, nodding as I handed the notebook back. “When we get back to camp, I want you to help present your findings to the others. Could be a good case study for how water movement affects animal migration.”
Her eyes lit up, a flash of excitement that reminded me just how young she was—and how much potential she had.
“Really?” she asked, almost disbelieving.
“Really,” I said with a small smile. “You earned it.”
Bliss ducked her head, hiding a grin, and turned to rejoin her team. As she walked away, I exhaled slowly, feeling the warm wind lift the brim of my hat.
Professional. Encouraging. Appropriate. That’s what today had been.
But even as I turned back to my own work, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed—something small but steady, like the underground seep Bliss had discovered. Not a flood, not yet. But there, flowing beneath the surface, inevitable.
The sun descended behind the trees, setting the sky on fire with streaks of orange and pink. By the time we made it back to camp, the air had cooled, and a soft breeze stirred the dust from the paths between the tents.
Dinner was simple tonight—grilled fish, pap, and a stew that smelled spicy enough to clear your sinuses. The students gathered near the central fire pit, plates balanced on their knees, laughing and swapping stories about the day’s mishaps: someone falling into a marsh, another getting their boots half-swallowed by mud.
I sat off to one side, my own plate resting on my thigh, half-listening while I picked at the fish. Joseph wandered over with a beer in hand and dropped into the chair beside me, grinning like he’d just discovered fire himself.
“Students are doing well,” he said, nodding toward the group.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Better than I expected, honestly.”
Joseph chuckled. “Credit to the instructor, maybe?”
I shrugged it off, but part of me warmed at the compliment.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Bliss. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground with Naledi and Kele, laughing over something Naledi was acting out—some ridiculous misstep involving a startled warthog earlier that afternoon.
Bliss’s face was lit up in the firelight, her long braids catching the glow as she tipped her head back and laughed. It wasn’t the careful, composed student I saw in class; this was her—unguarded, full of life, real.
Something tightened in my chest—not desire, not yet—but something more dangerous. Affection. Admiration.
And maybe a little bit of longing, the kind that came with remembering what it felt like to connect with someone without walls between you.
I tore my gaze away and focused back on my plate, shoving a mouthful of fish in like it could silence the thoughts crowding in.
She’s a student, Ben. You’re her instructor. This is not the time. This is not the place.
The words repeated in my head like a mantra. I had too much to lose—not just my reputation, but everything I was rebuilding here. My fresh start. My peace.
Besides, there were other layers to consider—cultural ones. I was still a foreigner here, no matter how long I stayed. Bliss was young, bright, at the very beginning of her life, while I’d already lived through enough mistakes to fill a book.
Be smart, I told myself. Be patient.
If something was meant to happen—someday, far down the road—it would have to come the right way. Clean. Honest. No compromises.
For now, she was my student. And that was the only truth that mattered.
Across the fire, Bliss caught me looking and gave a small, polite smile—the kind a student gives a teacher. Respectful. Friendly. No different from the one she’d give Joseph or Thandiwe.
I nodded back, just as polite, and forced myself to stay rooted where I was, feet firmly planted in the here and now.
The fire crackled between us, and I sat back in my chair, letting the night settle around me like a blanket.
Tomorrow was another day. Another assignment. Another chance to keep doing the right thing.
And if there was a little ache under my ribs as I finished my beer and watched the stars come out, well—that was my burden to carry.
Morning in the Delta always came quietly, like a secret being whispered through the mopane trees.
I was up before first light, standing outside my tent, coffee in hand, breathing in the cool, damp air. Somewhere in the distance, a francolin called out—sharp and urgent, like an alarm clock you couldn’t snooze.
Today was important.
The students had done well so far—adapted quickly, worked hard—but now it was time to start stretching them a little, nudging them toward the kind of real-world experience they couldn’t get from lectures alone.