Leaving Francistown
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 5
The camp didn’t stay empty for long.
Two days after Bliss and the others left, the next group of students rolled in—bright-eyed, loud, eager. They were younger on average, a little less serious, a little more prone to treating the Delta like a grand adventure rather than the living, breathing system it was.
I threw myself into the work.
Organizing gear. Running safety drills. Lecturing by the firelight. Leading them out into the bush, hour after hour, tracking wildlife and testing water and cataloguing plant life. It felt good to stay busy. Necessary.
Because when the adrenaline faded, when the stars took over the sky and the campfire died down to glowing coals, I thought of her.
Bliss.
Not constantly, not like some lovesick teenager. It came in flashes. I would recall the quiet way she moved through the grass. The tilt of her head when she was thinking. That rare, careful smile she gave when something genuinely amused her.
I shook it off every time. I had to. That whole student/instructor thing, which for all of my good intentions, seemed to exist just to taunt me.
Joseph didn’t have those worries. I saw him laughing by the fire with some of the newer staff one evening, easy and unburdened. I continued to keep my mouth shut about his expressed interest in Kele. At the same time, there was a storm brewing quietly inside me. Although I liked Joseph, I couldn’t help but envy him a little. He could just follow his heart wherever it led.
Not me. I couldn’t.
So, I showed up early every morning. I stayed late every night. I worked the students hard, kept the program sharp, made sure Thandiwe and the university had nothing to complain about. I filled my days so full there wasn’t room for anything else.
At least, that was the idea.
But sometimes, when I was reviewing lecture notes or planning the next field survey, I’d catch myself wondering...
When I stepped off that plane in Gaborone in a few weeks to teach those in-person classes, would Bliss be there? Would she be sitting near the back, notebook ready, eyes steady and sharp the way I remembered?
Would it feel different, seeing her away from the dust and sweat and wild honesty of the Delta?
I leaned back in my chair one night, staring up at the wide, slow-turning sky, and let out a long breath.
Four weeks. I had four weeks to get my head on straight. But deep down, I already knew—it wasn’t going to be that easy.
The days blurred together. Between the rotating student groups, the endless fieldwork, and the early prep for my upcoming in-person lectures, I barely noticed the passage of time until I realized the date—two weeks out from my trip to Gaborone. Halfway there.
It hit me then: this was real. It was happening. I’d be standing at the front of a university lecture hall soon, not a camp clearing or a field tent. Students in chairs, pens clicking against notebooks, watching me expectantly. No dusty trails underfoot. No acacia trees overhead. Just fluorescent lights, four walls, and expectations.
The thought left a tight knot in my chest. I was excited, sure—but I was nervous, too. I hadn’t taught in a formal setting since my early twenties, and even then, it was a high school classroom, not a university filled with sharp, ambitious students. Students like Bliss.
Her name passed through my mind before I could stop it.
I shoved the thought away, focusing instead on the comforting rhythms of camp life: sunrises streaking the sky orange and gold, the distant grumble of hippos at night, the busy hum of the camp settling in for the evening.
Arthur’s return a few days later gave me another distraction. I spotted him just after breakfast, stepping off the supply truck with his usual lazy grin and a cloud of dust in his wake.
“Thought you’d gotten eaten by a croc,” I called as he approached.
Arthur laughed, clapping me on the shoulder. “Would’ve been more exciting than the endless water sampling I’ve been doing.”
It was good to have him back. The camp always felt a little lighter when Arthur was around—less like work and more like something we were all in together.
Later that afternoon, Arthur, Dr. Ellington, and I found ourselves gathered under the main canvas awning, beers in hand, the heat of the day finally starting to ease. Dr. Ellington had stopped through the Delta camp again on his way to another consultancy gig farther north.
We talked shop first—student progress, logistics, the usual—but inevitably the conversation shifted to my upcoming lectures.
“Big man now,” Arthur teased, nudging me with his elbow. “Professor Ben.”
Dr. Ellington chuckled, his deep voice rolling like distant thunder. “It’s a good move, though. Teaching forces you to look at things differently. Forces you to stay sharp.”
I nodded, fiddling with the label on my beer bottle. “I’m looking forward to it. Mostly. Just ... adjusting to the idea.”
Dr. Ellington leaned back in his chair, studying me for a moment. “You’ll be fine. Just remember—the students aren’t the only ones learning. You are too. About them. About this place.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Cultural crash course, you mean?”
“Exactly,” Dr. Ellington said. “Botswana’s changing fast. Globalization, modern education, technology. But there are still old currents running under everything. Traditions. Expectations. You miss those ... you miss the real story.”
I sipped my beer, feeling the weight of his words settle over me.
Because I knew—instinctively—that he wasn’t just talking about classroom dynamics. He was talking about life here. About people. About relationships.
About those lines I wasn’t supposed to cross.
I kept my face neutral, listening as Dr. Ellington shared a few anecdotes from his decades working across Africa—stories about misread signals, about good intentions gone wrong, about the deep importance of respect and patience in a place that didn’t always operate by Western rules.
All the while, the image of Bliss hovered at the edge of my mind. Her quick smile. Her steady, curious eyes.
I said nothing, of course. Arthur didn’t know about her, and I wasn’t about to open that door—not now. Maybe not ever.
Still, a quiet understanding settled in my gut.
Whatever this thing was between Bliss and me—whatever it might become someday—it couldn’t be rushed. It couldn’t be careless. It had to be handled with more care than anything else I’d ever undertaken.
Later, as the sun contacted the horizon and the bush began to sing with the night, Arthur mentioned he’d be heading south again soon.
“Actually,” he said, cracking open another beer, “I’ll be in Gaborone for a week or two while you’re down there teaching. Catching up with some old mates, maybe doing a little consulting.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What are the odds?”
Arthur grinned. “Better odds than you think, mate. This country’s big on the map, but the circles are small.”
I chuckled, but inside, a strange mixture of anticipation and apprehension twisted in my chest. Gaborone wasn’t just another assignment anymore. It was a crossroads. I could feel it.
The day before I was due to fly south, I found myself walking the perimeter of the camp, doing nothing and everything at once. I checked the generator. I checked the fuel drums. I checked on the supply tent, even though I knew Joseph had already inventoried it that morning.
Really, I was just trying to outrun my nerves.
Gaborone. Two weeks of lectures. Two weeks standing in front of students, pretending I was just their instructor and not ... whatever strange thing I had become around Bliss.
I pushed the thought away, but it kept coming back like a stubborn weed.
She would be there. Sitting in the rows, notebook open, eyes bright with focus. Close enough to speak to, far enough to feel untouchable.
That shouldn’t have mattered. I should have been worried about my syllabus, or my public speaking skills, or the endless administrative tasks waiting for me at the university. And I was, technically. But layered underneath it all was something deeper, something I didn’t want to name yet.
Anticipation. Curiosity. Fear, too.
Out here in the Delta, it had been easy to build walls. Instructor. Field guide. Mentor. All roles that came with clear, safe boundaries. But down there—on a campus buzzing with youth, freedom, ideas—it would be different. It would feel different.
I wasn’t naive enough to think I was immune to that kind of energy. Hey, I’d been a college student once. I remembered what it was like to be twenty-one. The excitement. The hunger to change the world. The way everything felt possible and immediate.
And Bliss ... she embodied all of that in a way that was almost painfully magnetic.
I found myself standing at the edge of the floodplain without remembering how I got there. The water gleamed in the late afternoon sun, broken only by the occasional ripple of a fish or the silent glide of a heron.
I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the coming weeks settle on my shoulders.
I wasn’t just nervous about the teaching. I was nervous about myself.
About whether I could maintain the distance I knew I had to maintain. About whether I could be the man I needed to be.
Honor. Professionalism. Patience. Those were the words I repeated to myself like a mantra.
Still, the image of her crept back into my mind—standing next to the old Land Cruiser, her hair caught by the breeze, her notebook clutched tightly in one hand, that earnest light in her eyes.
I turned away from the water, forcing myself back toward camp. One step at a time. One day at a time.
That night, after dinner, Arthur cornered me outside the mess tent, two mugs of rooibos tea in hand.
“You ready for the big city, mate?” he asked, handing me a mug.
“Define ready,” I said, taking a sip.
Arthur grinned. “You’ll do fine. Gabs isn’t half as chaotic as Jo-burg. You’ll fit right in with the university crowd.”
I chuckled, though the sound felt tight in my throat. “Just hoping I remember how to lecture without sounding like an idiot.”
Arthur clapped me on the back. “Just talk to them like you talk to me. Minus the swearing.”
That got a real laugh out of me, but as the humor faded, a more serious thought settled between us.
“You’ll be seeing some familiar faces too,” Arthur pointed out, his tone casual. “You’ll see the students who came up here for the field training, right?”
I nodded, keeping my face neutral. “Yeah. Should be good to see how they’re progressing.”
Arthur studied me for a second longer than was comfortable, then shrugged and sipped his tea. He didn’t push, and I didn’t offer anything.
Because there wasn’t anything to offer yet. Not really.
Tomorrow I would board the charter plane, and the next chapter would begin.
And somewhere in the crowds of Gaborone—between dusty sidewalks and gleaming lecture halls—she would be waiting.
Waiting for what, exactly, I didn’t dare let myself imagine.
The plane touched down on the tarmac with a slight jolt, the wheels skimming over the sunbaked runway. “I’m becoming your personal pilot,” Tanya had joked earlier. Gaborone’s small airport was busy but orderly, a steady hum of travelers and taxi drivers moving under the glare of the midday sun.
I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and made my way outside, feeling the heat wrap itself around me like a heavy coat. A few minutes later, I found a taxi, an older Toyota with cracked upholstery and a driver who grinned broadly as he helped me load my gear into the trunk.
“Where to, boss?” he asked.
I gave him the address of the university’s guest lodgings—basic accommodations arranged for visiting lecturers. Nothing fancy, but comfortable enough.
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