fiction

Motlalepula (meaning the one who comes with the rain) was the greatest rainmaker in all of Botswana and the neighboring countries. She was the great great grand daughter of Mmapula (meaning woman of the rain), the first of the Kololo missionaries. Mmapula had taken the truth of Ngwale to Europe and parts of North America back when African countries had benevolently established colonies in the west. She was the High Priest and as was tradition in the matriarchy, had passed the calling to her daughter, who then passed it down until it was Motlalepula's turn. Motlalepula had just returned from the symposium on Spirit Transcendence featuring all of Africa's medicine men and women when she saw the vision.

Mmapula died long before Motlalepula was born, back before the cameras were invented, but when the old lady appeared in her dream she knew instantly who she was. It was as though they were two ends of the same spirit. She was draped in the skin of a black goat, wearing a crown made of ostrich feathers and lion fangs. Her face was covered in the red soils found only on top of the sacred Tsodilo Hills. Motlalepula bowed down and recited the poem that the matriarch was often praised with:

"Mmapula, woman of the rain. The soother of dry lands and friend of the beasts of the earth!" she concluded the praise and waited silently, with her eyes glued to the ground and body weight shifted to the right side, to hear what the old woman had traveled across spiritual plains for.

"You may lift your gaze my child for I bring news from Ngwale, the maker of the earth and the seven heavens," the old woman spoke ever so gracefully.

"All hail our maker Ngwale, may Her mercies fall upon us and fill our rivers and oceans," Motlalepula answered.

"Ngwale's people are parched out in the golden state, they have not had rain in over seven years," Mmapula began. "You must travel across the Atlantic, past the Rocky Mountains and the Sierras to bring the good news of Ngwale's love and salvation."

Motlalepula did not waste any time. Before the night was done, she had enlisted the help of the most skilled medicine women --whom in western media they called witches--to deliver the message to all the corners of the great nation of Botswana. Racing to beat the rising sun, they flew in their brooms and needles to deliver the messages to each region's High Priest. Only women could be trusted with this important task. The first part was the easy part: collecting funds for their mission trip. There were still a few followers of Ngwale in California from when California was a colony of the great kingdom of Zimbabwe. But they had lost their way. They had thought they could use Ngwale's magic to enrich themselves at the expense of their congregants and without a care to the earth. So Ngwale had closed Her coffers to them and cursed them with the harshest drought. But She was showing them mercy by sending Motlalepula and her delegation on this mission trip.

"We give to Ngwale's work what belongs to Ngwale," praised the Herero High Priest after she handed over bushels of corn, some sour milk, and bricks of gold.

"The Herero hails our maker Ngwale, may Her mercies fall upon us and fill our rivers and oceans," echoed the delegation from the Northwestern part of Botswana.

The Kololo and all followers of Ngwale never had to worry about fundraising. They simply collected and all the twenty tribes in the great nation of Botswana provided with joyful hearts. They knew that everything belonged to Ngwale and they were mere custodians for the time being. So when Motlalepula had sent out the message, all twenty tribes had contributed what they could for her mission trip. From the diamond miners in the south and the fishers of the north to the cattle ranchers of the west and the gold farmers of the east, each gave generously to Ngwale's work.

"I bow in gratitude before you, and my heart beams with joy knowing that the people of California are about to know the goodness of our maker, Ngwale, may Her mercies fall upon us and fill our rivers and oceans!" remarked Motlalepula as everyone got ready to dance, feast on all the beasts that were slaughtered for the occasion, and get drunk on the finest wine from the Central region.

They flew in saucers from the potters of Gabane and took all of eight hours to reach San Francisco. It was an easy trip as they were riding on the tail of sunset. They were hosted by their friends in the Castro, the safe haven for those who understood that Ngwale created a world with so much diversity that there were a myriad of ways people could find companionship and pleasure. They had found their path back to Ngwale because they had love at the core of their community. Wasn't love one of the many faces of Ngwale?

"Do you know that Ngwale loves you and has provided this earth to sustain you while you wait to reunite with your ancestors and with Her in the seventh heaven," Motlalepula asked the woman she was massaging.

For their mission work, they gave free 5 star spa experiences at all of the malls in the San Francisco Bay Area.

"Jesus loves me and God is against ancestor worshipping," The woman said. She added, "I don't believe in witchcraft."

"Who told you that honoring ancestors is witchcraft?" Motlalepula asked calmly.

"My pastor did and I read about it in one of Ellen G White's texts," the woman answered.

"Don't you love how these spa treatments have been on your skin," Motlalepula asked, as though to change the topic.

"These African herbs, soils, and creams have done wonders to my skin," the woman admitted.

"We give these to you for free because Ngwale provided them to you for free," Motlalepula explained. "Her herbs are not witchcraft, they nourish. All She asks is that you treat Her earth with kindness. You don't even need to praise Her because She is a self-loving deity who does not need your love."

"So how do I grow this plant that you mix into the lotion for the deep massage?" the woman inquired, intrigued.

"We can show you after this session and you can help us bring Ngwale's goodness to more people," Motlalepula responded.

"If there will still be people left. Everyone is leaving California because the drought is unbearable and the tech people have made it impossible to afford living here," the woman lamented.

"Don't you worry about that, in a week Ngwale will open the skies and it will rain. If you just repent and live in harmony with Her earth, you shall lack nothing." Motlalepula remarked.

For the rainmaking ceremony, Motlalepula went to Mount Tamalpais where she offered ten bulls and some palm wine to Ngwale as a sacrifice. Ngwale smiled upon the sacrifice by sending targeted lightning to start the fire for the bulls to be braaied. All the meat and wine were consumed by the missionaries and their converts on behalf of Ngwale. They had mushrooms for those converts who were not yet warmed up to the idea of eating meat and fish, as Ngwale had intended. They ate and they danced. When the food was done, and there was not a bone in sight, the skies opened and finally it rained in California.

"Where will you go when you die?" shouts the man at the corner of the street with flyers of a white Jesus. I chuckle. I wonder how much he believes the message he is broadcasting. But seriously, where will I go when I die? Will I go to some void where I shall supposedly rest in peace until the day of judgment when the all merciful judge shall descend down from the heavens and try me for my crimes of disbelief? It is a trial for not believing, is it not? Because by faith we are set free, so says the man at the corner of the street. Such bullshit! I wait for the traffic light to permit my passage across to the other side of the street. I am now very aware of my mortality. I look left, look right, and look left again before crossing. I am not ready to die yet. Hell sounds painful. But would I want to go to heaven? I am not sure how I feel about spending eternity with a self-centered, allegedly powerful being who allows the world to stay violent and full of suffering. Is it hot? I remember my Christian friend telling me that the world is violent because of man's sinful nature. But if man is created in the likeness of God, then it all makes sense. Is it not written that David defeated armies by the strength of God? Yes it is hot. No, I am angry!

Why is this person walking so close to me? She is not even wearing her mask. Do I have permission to speak to her about her reckless behavior? Or is she also using her divinely gifted free will, with a flavor of white privilege? She can do all things through Him who strengthens her. I am mad. God's chosen people get to walk around the earth defeating the rest of us with their God given strength and it is all in His glory. I remember how when I would accompany my mother to church in my childhood, the preacher would emphasize how the Philistines were demolished by the Israelites. How did the Philistines feel to have their empires wiped out by His almighty power? The very same power that wiped my history and robbed me of my heritage. If His strength had not reached my part of the world, I would have known without an ounce of doubt that when I died I was going to the ancestral plain. Where I would act as an intermediary between humans and the amoral God. I trust an amoral God than a moral and powerful God who permits violence because it is a part of His perfect plan. A plan to make me prosper? No silly, a plan to make His chosen ones prosper. He works for the good of those who believe in Him.

I nearly trip over a homeless man sleeping near the entrance of the supermarket. I suppose He is not one of the chosen ones, is He? I should be grateful. I live a blessed life. How do they say it again? Oh yes! My cup runneth over! No, I am still furious. How can I feel blessed to be relatively well off in a world I did not ask to be a part of? First they came to my land and disrupted my way of life. Then they planted in my heart the desire to lust after their world. So when I am doing relatively well in their world, I ought to be thankful? It is like creating me out of nothing with a perfect plan that involves me committing a fatal sin and then begging Him for salvation. Oh right, they were created in His likeness. Can someone tell me why I have to pay this much just for a tiny piece of meat? I always imagine that if they had never come to my land, I would probably have a couple hundred cows and small stock. I would probably not have Robertson's Spices, but I would definitely have salt and chillies. No, she did not send me to buy meat. I am here to buy some frozen berries. It is for dessert. I guess since we are on the topic, I also lament the fact that I am only married to one woman. If they had never come to my land, I would probably have at least two wives.

The homeless man asks me if I have some spare change. It is all part of His perfect plan to eliminate cash, now I never even have any money left to give to the less privileged. I am probably going too far now by blaming our cashless society on His plan. Who am I kidding? Even if I had the money, I probably would not have given it. If an all powerful being can choose not to act, then why would I - in His image - act any different? As I walk away, I feel guilty for not helping out the homeless man. He and I are the same, we are both homeless. Yes, I have a spacious house with the mortgage fully paid off. But at the core of it, I will always be homeless. In this foreign land where I have chosen to plant my roots, I can never feel at home. Each time I walk these streets, I fear His strength and perfect plan will guide the police to shoot me dead for the mere fact that I am black. In the land of my fathers, I no longer feel at home because they treat me like I am better just because I have lived in the white man's land. I want a simple life, where I can just blend into the background and be left alone. Where will I go when I die? How about, where will I go as I live?

I take a deep breath and let my rage fly away, just as the sun dipped over the horizon. Talk about perfect timing! Is it not said in these circles to never let the sun go down on your anger? I open the door and my youngest daughter comes running towards me. She loves my ice cream with berries dessert. My heart melts. I suppose I am not as homeless because I have such beautiful daughters. Their mother is raising us in the Christian way, but that aside, they are my world. The table is all set for dinner. I go and wash my hands because I am not trying to contract Covid-36. Then - and only then - do I lift young Bofelo up. She is at home when I carry her. But what will she do when I die? No, we are not going back to that rabbit hole. We all take our seats at the dinner table. It is my wife's turn to make dinner tonight and I can tell that she has outdone herself. "Will you lead us in prayer, my love?" she asks me with those dazzling eyes of hers. I swear she is the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on. I guess I can see how I am married to one woman. But do I really have to pray to Him? I smile - my "rolling my eyes" smile. I guess given His strength, I was statistically more likely to get married to a Christian woman than not. We all hold hands. I clear my throat and begin, "Heavenly Father, all glory to you for another abundant day..."

Well! Where do I begin? The past 5 days have been so eventful I regret not updating my diary throughout. But the past few hours carried in them a kind of magic I cannot even put down in words. I cannot stop giggling silly as I write this here at the Gaborone bus rank, where I am waiting for my bus to Molepolole to hit the road. Even though I should be mad that T.J. Motlogelwa Express made me go through one more security screening, I am not. I have enough joy in my heart to rise above the inconvenience. I am sure they are making him go through more security checks than I. He will be leaving on a bus to Maun, where he will connect onward to Gumare. He is crazy, to come all the way from Gumare to Ramotswa for a 5 day conference. I have never understood why buses to the northern cities were afforded a higher security requirement. I wonder if my cigarettes got mixed up with some of his stuff. It is a good thing I did not go see my dealer with him last night. That might have caused him some trouble. Instead, we only went out briefly to buy some cigarettes from the tuckshop across the street. It was a fun excursion, especially with a soft drizzle descending from the skies. Almost like the universe blessing our hangout. Such a good omen!

I arrived in Boatle in the morning, long before him. He told me his bus dropped him off a bit after noon. It had arrived earlier than scheduled, and so he was able to catch the 1230hrs shuttle to our hotel in Ramotswa. We were staying at the fancy Lentswe-La-Baratani hotel, named after the hill that was to the east of the hotel. He was delighted to not have to wait for 2 hours since he was exhausted. I must admit as much as I like him, I find him rather entitled. "Permit, health, and customs checks were all a breeze. I guess a Kanye pass is not entirely bad. I did not need to get a Gamalete Visitor Permit and since I was coming from the Okavango where the Tsetse Disease has not made its way, I cruised through," he would tell me later, a satisfied smile frozen on his - as much as I hate to admit - cute face. I do not understand why we need Visitor Permits to visit different towns in the same country! I mean do not get me started on my struggles to get the Gamalete Visitor Permit from Molepolole. It was amusing to watch the smile on his face fade a bit when he reflected on a possible exposure to the novel Tsetse Disease (TSD-19), "The only concern I had was that a sizeable group of passengers self-identified as being from Francistown. I was appalled at the thought that I had shared a bus with people from the epicenter for the spread of the TSD-19." It did not help that he was feeling a bit under the weather when he arrived at the hotel.

I do not remember much from my own drive from the bus station in Boatle to Ramotswa. After all, Gamalete is no different from Kweneng. But he found the trip amazing. How can anyone be impressed by Motšhotlho and Mmupudu? Well he was. You should have seen the joy in his eyes when he described how it felt to see herdboys seated under the shade of a Mohudiri tree while their livestock grazed peacefully along the stream. Living in Okavango, one of the so-called first world regions, poor thing rarely sees livestock. These highly industrialized regions with their mass production of everything are quite sad. I know because I was raised in one of them: Chobe. But I decided to leave Kasane to come to Molepolole because I felt I could make more of a difference there. After all, that is where my ancestry is rooted. I spent that first afternoon working on my assignments because it is not easy being a woman in medical school when it is still a men's world in 2020. So although I had traveled to Ramotswa for the Tswana Medium Schools of Botswana (TMSB) South Regional Meeting, my med school assignments did not wait for me. I missed all the optional events that afternoon. Turns out so did he, he was knocked out cold. We both attended the welcome dinner that evening, although I have no recollection of meeting him or seeing him.

The morning sessions felt like information overload. Perhaps because I had studied for most of the night. Or maybe I just needed a cigarette. That was when I first saw him. He looked worse than I felt; almost as though he would fall asleep at any minute and fall off his chair. There was something off about him. He wore a silverish blue suit with a white shirt, and black shoes. The outfit looked good on his frame, and perhaps in another set of circumstances I could describe him as almost handsome. But there was something about his rigid posture that did not sit well with me. He barely moved his neck, and his smile felt detached from his face. He made no comment: not in the session, and barely at lunch. We sat at the same table with people from other regions. In fact, he barely touched his food even though he had piled his plate with meat. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but his personality seemed cold. He disappeared after lunch and I did not seem him until the following day. He wore a golden brown suit, with a purplish shirt, and brown shoes. Yes, I guess I could say he is not bad looking. Yes, handsome! Was there something different about him or was I imagining things?

As the day progressed, it felt as though he was becoming more and more alive. Or was I paying him more attention than I should? Or maybe I was seeing him with fresh eyes, having found a place across the road from the hotel where I was able to buy some cigarettes. He would tell me later that he looked more alive because he was recovering from the illness that had overpowered him since his arrival. I was relieved that at least I was not hallucinating because, perhaps, I had a crush on him. What if he had TSD-19? I wanted to sit with him over lunch but he came in late and sat with people from his TMSB school. He went to the one in Ghanzi, the wildest of the TMSB schools. I could not help but wonder if he was involved in any of the wild stories I have heard of TMSB Ghanzi. Did he smuggle insane amounts of alcohol onto the campus? Or had relations with people from every region to complete the TMSB challenge? Actually, he is handsome. As I sat at my table with the others, my attention was focused on him across the room. I definitely preferred him with the smile on his face. It gave me butterflies in the tummy was cute.

Was he going to skip the sessions after lunch on the second day as well? My eyes scanned the room for him. I wanted to go sit close to him so we can be on the same bus to the dinner in the evening. He was nowhere to be found. He tried to sneak in an hour later, but we were in the middle of a session. I concealed a smile, watching him do the walk of shame. He had an air of confidence about him. You should have seen him place one foot in front of another so firmly as though that was his father's land. He sat at my table. Did he notice me? Notice my beauty and long-preserved virginity? Yep! He was so much better with his smile. He made intelligent contributions to the discussion at our table, and laughed every so often. The more he spoke, the more it made sense why he would make the lengthy trip from Gumare in the Okavango region to represent the Ngwaketse region. He was passionate about making a TMSB education accessible to disadvantaged communities. That was his motivation for joining the Ngwaketse Regional Committee. Were those butterflies again? I was more impressed by him now. We shared a similar passion, it was what drove me to single handedly work on the Kweneng Regional Committee. All the other members of my Regional Committee are based in the Northern Regions. I hoped to talk to him at the dinner. I was intrigued.

Our bus reached the restaurant a little later than the first bus. He was not on my bus and I hoped he was on that other bus because it would be nice to get to know him. He was talking with Katlego, the woman on the Kgatleng Regional Committee, when I walked into the garden where we were to have our dinner. They were laughing. I walked over to join them. Then we were joined by Thabo, the guy from the Borolong Regional Committee. The four of us found a table in a secluded part of the garden. We took our food and drinks to our table. Katlego was vegan and did not drink alcohol. Thabo had a Tsodilo Beer, I went for white wine, and he had a glass of red wine. He sat to my right, Thabo to my left, and Katlego directly across. It was a fun table. We exchanged stories from our lives. I shared with them a story of a recent run in with the police in Molepolole. I told them a modified version of it. One about how they had wrongfully suspected I had the now illicit Ntsu Snuff Tobacco just because I had a stained orange handkerchief. I do not remember what stories he told, perhaps because the way his lips moved when he spoke and the sound of his voice captivated me. It was a fun dinner.

There was an optional session after dinner that Katlego and Thabo opted to attend. He and I decided to go work on our assignments. He is also a student like me. Well, the original plan was not to work together. He went to his room and I went to mine. I tried to get some work done but I could not get him off my mind. I texted him that I was in my room and had told Katlego to let me know when their session was over so the 4 of us could hang out. He texted back, and there was a flirtatious energy to our exchange. The butterflies in my tummy were now flying in formation. Before I knew it, I was waiting for him to come down to my room. He said he would be there in 10 minutes. I started to tidy my room to prepare for his visit. I wondered what his expectation were about this hangout. I started packing my stuff into my suitcase since we were heading back the following day. There was a knock at my door. He had his laptop, laptop charger, and some writing tools. I guess he really was going to work! He settled in on one of the chairs, and I offered him some water. I continued packing up since I had already started. We talked all this while. There was something comforting about talking to him. So much I told him the true version of my run-in with the police in Molepolole: I actually had some Ntsu Snuff Tobacco but they just could not find it. I craved a cigarette, and he was down to come with me to get it. I put on my perfume and he asked to go to his room to put away his stuff. I guess he would not have an excuse for the both of us to return to my room afterwards. I realized when he returned that he had gone to put on his cologne. That scent...

A drizzle fell down as we walked towards the hotel gate. How romantic! I always loved walking with good looking men under the rain. As soon as we exited the hotel, the taxi men raced one another to find out if we were going somewhere far. They startled me. I wondered if he could tell. Perhaps sensing my hesitation, he held my hand as we crossed the road. Crossing the road in new towns makes me nervous. I do not know if the drivers in Gamalete drive the same way as the drivers in Kweneng. What a perfect moment: crossing the road holding hands, with some drops of rain falling down on us! I bought my cigarettes. I had thought of going to see the old woman who sells Ntsu but I changed my mind. In part because he does not seem like he consumes the magical black powder. We went back to the hotel, where the optional session had just ended. There was a group forming by the bar, we joined them. He seemed a bit tired. I got lost into a conversation and when I eventually looked up, the circle of friends had grown except he was nowhere to be found. It felt just a tiny bit emptier without him. Perhaps he had gone to bed. I elected to continue hanging out with the rest of the guys than to go looking for him. Besides, I know I am a fine woman. So it would not look right if I abandoned a chill hangout just for a man I did not even know if he saw me at all.

I was delighted to learn that he and I would be on the same bus. We continued our flirtatious texts throughout the closing sessions in the morning, and spent the rest of the time at the hotel together. There was an energy to us but I could not quite put a finger on it, except to know that there was no other place in the universe I would rather be than right there. But of course, I do not care for places, but the people that occupy the space in those places. Kagiso, of the Otse Regional Committee, joined us. He was also traveling with us to the bus station. On his way to Boatle he had to catch a bus past Boatle to Gaborone, wait there for a whole day, and then take a bus to Boatle. Yet Otse and Boatle are neighboring towns. It is not just the Visitor Permits issue that makes me mad, but also this inefficient transportation network. Like how? Was I mad about the transportation network? Or was I annoyed that Kagiso was interrupting my conversation with him. I was asking him for advice on an issue with one of my friends back home. He does not smoke and I appreciated him accompanying me on my last cigarette break before we left for the bus station. One of the things I look forward to in finding my person is little moments like that, of him accompanying me to do something he does not get but still have fun because it is time spent with me. It needs not be cigarettes, it can also be make-up shopping or attending music concerts.

He snapped a few photos of me the same way I had been immortalizing the memories of him since we started getting close. You should have seen me smiling, it felt good to be seen. There is a beauty to being seen. I took some last shots of Lentswe-La-Baratani - which had been partially covered by clouds until then - before we left. It was beautiful. But I was sad to have come to Gamalete and leave without seeing the tallest peak in the country, Tsodilo Hill. It is the real attraction of the region. The drive to the bus station in Boatle from Ramotswa was almost ordinary except for the sighting of Tsodilo Hill. Our hotel in Ramotswa overlooked Lentswe-La-Baratani and it was spectacular. But seeing Tsodilo Hill was similar to seeing Victoria Falls or Matsieng's Footprints. I did not just believe, I knew there was a God somewhere that made this planet. Our driver was generous enough to stop for us to take pictures. Tsodilo awakaned my spirit to the presence of a God but seeing him with that infectious smile of his stirred my soul. Was he going to make a move on me before this trip was over? He had a ring on his finger, but had not mentioned the presence of a wife. I could not tell if he was single or not. But a girl can still hope, right?

The bus station was not as busy as I had imagined it would be. We went through security and into the check-in hall. I wanted to smoke one more cigarette before we cleared security, but he had promised we would be able to leave after we checked-in for our ride for me to go smoke. He asked to be seated next to me on the bus to Gaborone. Kagiso was going to Otse via Mogobane, but his bus to Mogobane was delayed by 4 hours. Since our bus would not start boarding for an hour or so, we decided to go out for a bit. Kagiso and I wanted to smoke. The security guard would not let us leave, and then Kagiso said "our" bus was delayed by 4 hours. We left then. I did not look back as the metal detector beeped when we left the secure area of the bus terminal. Is this what it feels like to be Botswana's elite? We chilled outside in some area that we later found out was also a restricted area. We chatted and smoked - well he just stood there anxious for us to return inside. He was worried we would miss our bus. A security agent approached us and spoke to him in Selete. People in Gamalete kept confusing him for a Molete but he is a Mongwaketse. The security agent did not speak any Setswana and he only spoke Sengwaketse and Setswana. Moments later, a Setswana speaking agent came over and told us to leave from where we were standing. I gave Kagiso my pack of cigarettes - after taking a few for the wait in Gaborone - and we went inside. It was almost time for us to board our bus anyway.

We cleared security in a hurry. Well we almost got in trouble because him being so entitled, he showed the security agent that we had already been inside the secure area. Fortunately, nobody knew what the rules were and they let us through. Our zone had already boarded but there was a long queue of the other zones. In as much as I find his confidence cute, his entitlement makes me cringe. He took me to the front of the queue and presented our tickets to the bus conductor. I felt guilty because the man at the front of the line gave us a judgmental look. He could not be bothered. Did the Okavango instill in him a deep sense of entitlement? Or is it because he grew up in a poor family, so he is making up for lost time. I hope he finds a partner like me who can help him reflect on his sense of entitlement. We settled into our seats and took our shoes off. I had the window seat and he the aisle seat. The bus looked older and I thought he had said T.J. Motlogelwa Express would use a new bus for this trip. Did he say a Marcopolo? Or was it a Scania? I do not know much about models of buses. This bus was falling apart, but he was with me - what else could I need?

We continued to exchange stories from our lives. I even told him about my friend, may his soul rest in peace. I could not believe I felt that comfortable with him. I shared with him some of my personal writings and he showed me some of his artwork. Vulnerability that does not try hard to look like vulnerability is so attractive. In the brief time we had spent, it felt like we had lived lifetimes together. It was because of the snapshots of his soul that he exposed to me. How could we talk so openly to one another about such deeply personal things when we barely knew each other? He told me of his mother and of his wild family dynamics. He was handsome is beautiful. When they brought the snacks, I decided today was the first day I was going to drink on a bus ride. I asked for a glass of the finest khadi from Gammathipadibogale in Mochudi. I heard it was the finest. He also had the same. Great minds think alike. After the bus conductor had cleared away the trash from the snacks, the lights in the bus were turned off. As the khadi made its way into my blood, I could not help but wonder if he would make a move. I guess since it is 2020, if a girl wants something she has to get it herself!

He said yes! I had been shy when I asked, and fearing rejection had emphasized that he should not overthink it because at the end of the trip we would go our separate ways: him to Gumare and me to Molepolole. Two cities that were literally worlds apart. It did not have to mean much. We had neither world enough nor time, except the two seats on the bus and the time until Gaborone. Fortunately for us, the bus was less than half full and so we had some relative privacy. So while we still had the youthful hue on our skins like morning dew, we made our sun run. When our lips touched, it was magical imperfectly perfect. I mean he did kiss like a boy from Kanye: as though he was being chased by a crocodile. I guided him to slow down a bit, and he was unreasonably apologetic. I wondered if he could taste the khadi I had drank or the cigarettes I had smoked earlier. He readjusted his seat belt and the kisses got progressively better. We would try to talk in between, but we would end up kissing over and over again. Our willing souls were transpiring. Although, time's winged chariot hurried near and we reached Gaborone.

With him time froze. Those hours with him carried in them a kind of magic I cannot put down in words. It felt as though we had lived a thousand lifetimes in one. Who is this man? At the Gaborone Bus Rank, we did our homework alongside one another. I was sad when I had to leave, but even more glad that our paths crossed and we lived our million lifetimes in one. I have been blessed with a good life. Perhaps we could be so open with one another when we barely knew each other because we knew we were going to go our separate ways. Or maybe, we were just destined to meet and for our souls to connect. After all my special watch stopped working months ago at a 12.35, and his bus to Maun was set to depart at 0035hrs. Was that a sign from the universe? Or was the real meaning that time stops with him? Isn't that what life is? A collection of moments that feel like lifetimes. Moments we often miss waiting on some idea of a lifetime that has been impressed upon us by our culture. When the truth of the matter is lifetimes look like journeys with strangers whose souls can speak to yours. When I was done writing him a note in his notebook, I picked up my belongings.

I put on my glasses, especially since he thought I was still beautiful in them. I was tired of wearing contact lenses. A woman seated close to us sneezed with a refrain. We exchanged looks and cracked laughter at this moment. Lifetimes are moments with inside jokes. How did we even have so many inside jokes in such a short period of time? With all of my belongings accounted for, I went in to hug him. As all of my 1.7m and 58kg sunk into his 1.8m and 70kg frame, I knew I did not want to part ways with him. Have you ever hugged someone and they hugged you back in a way that communicated to your whole being that they are present? A hug that is firm but not tight. Now that I think of it, that was our first hug ever, and yet it had felt like a homecoming. A return to something familiar, something known. Perhaps we have lived multiple lifetimes together. I asked him to keep me posted at every point of his journey. I walked towards my bus to Molepolole, with a confidence in my step. How could I not feel like a million bucks after living a thousand lifetimes these past two days? I did not look back, at least not until after I had disappeared behind a corner.

She looked one more time to see if her outfit was on-point. She would have loved to wear the floor-length navy blue dress that her aunt had bought for her 25th birthday, but it showed too much of her shoulders. She was certain he would not like that. Instead, she settled for the "more modest" black dress that he bought for her for one celebration or another. Having received a text that he was waiting downstairs, she picked up her handbag, turned off the lights, and locked the door. She inhaled a deep breath before walking downstairs to the waiting car. She could not help but wonder what his complaint about her would be today. Who could possibly complain about her? Seeing her come down the stairs you would think she was a flawless angel who had descended from the heavens to brighten the world. The black dress, although it barely showed any of her golden skin, could not hide her African figure. She was after all a descendant of the Bangwato tribe and full figures were their specialty. He did not leave the car to meet her or open the door, but that was fine. She was a strong, independent, black woman who did not need a man to open her door. He barely received the kiss she planted on his lips.

"I didn't bring my make-up kit and can't afford to have your lipstick on my lips," he joked. She smiled and responded, "Of course!" Then she silently put on her seatbelt before he went on his usual lecture about how seatbelts were not optional in his car. Silence. Awkward Silence? "You look good in your uniform," he said to break the silence. She was growing increasingly tired of his hurtful words and actions covered up as some form of humor or feedback. She was perhaps on the verge of rage, but she had to collect herself because he was kind enough to accompany her to the end of year office party that she was dreading. "Thank you. You look handsome yourself," she responded. "But I have not worn this suit since my college graduation," he said. "You know I have worn this dress to more events than I would like because it is the only one that seems to please you, " She thought to herself, but did not share her thoughts. The drive to the Radisson Blu hotel, in the center of Kigali, was uneventful. They spoke about the recent Easter bombings in Sri Lanka and a shooting in his hometown back in the United States. They debated about the difference between free speech and hate speech. As with most of their intellectual discussions, it ended with him driving his point without pausing to listen to hers. They rode in silence for the remainder of their drive.

A photographer was hired to snap photos of all the dashing individuals and couples who showed up for the party. He asked that they should be photographed individually in addition to as a couple. She found that a bit puzzling but was not opposed to it. She was used to them taking photos together. He asked for the photos and posted one of himself alone to his Instagram with the caption, "Pretending to be a slave to the 9-to-5 life". She felt grateful not to be a part of these social media platforms. She was not even bothered by the caption, she was used to him making remarks to undermine her dedication to her career. It was as if being a successful entrepreneur made him infinitely better than her. They met up with two of her colleagues who had come with their long term boyfriends. She felt a bit insecure about the relatively shorter duration of their relationship in comparison. The three couples agreed to grab some drinks and some food before reuniting at a table in the back of the room. "Do you want to walk around and say hi to a few people, or maybe check out the dance floor?" she asked him. "I don't care, it's your event, you do whatever you want to do," he responded as he downed a cheese slider. "In that case, let's head back to the table to sit with the others," she was fed up. "Okay, let's get some drinks first," he said with some strange smile. She asked for a glass of wine and he mocked her for not picking a "grown-up" drink. She did not respond. She was over his never-ending critique of her actions.

It was funny for her to watch her worlds collide: her hotshot boyfriend, her work friend Gladys, her work acquaintance Elizabeth, and their partners. This was the first time Gladys had finally met this stranger of a man she had heard so many good things about. She is a very private person and had not shared much beyond implying that he was an amazing boyfriend, so naturally Gladys was curious to learn about him. She sat back watching their interaction. She did not want to be there. She felt like an imposter. Both Elizabeth and Gladys thought they looked good together. She wondered if they could see that she was unhappy. Could they tell just how lonely she was in that moment? Of course not! They were enchanted by him. She was beginning to accept that this charming man has some very toxic traits. She recalled reading All About Love by Bell Hooks and how she had written about Romantic Terrorism. He was a romantic terrorist. He never cared to ask how she was doing, except absentmindedly when half answering her question of how he was doing because on days that he responds attentively he keeps the spotlight on himself the entire time. She looked at their conversation. He was telling them about how his startup was helping villagers in rural Sri Lanka have access to clean drinking water. Gladys' boyfriend had questions for him because he was thinking of joining a non-profit in Sri Lanka to work on a similar issue. She was glad that at least he was having fun, and enjoying the attention of her friends. She wondered if anyone noticed that she was especially quiet. Of course not!

It felt like the event would never end for her. The couples had returned to the photo booth to take more photos. Then they had had more drinks and visited the dance floor although the couple did not stay there for long. While dancing to Marc Anthony's Vivir Mi Vida he had criticized her underdeveloped salsa skills. In that moment she had collapsed under the weight of the inadequacy. She knew she would never be good enough for him no matter what she did. The drive back was awfully quiet. She tried to hold his hand and he took it away. "I do not like being distracted while I drive." "Of course!"

* * *

"Are you home?" he texted her. "Yes" "May I come over briefly?" "Would you like to join me for dinner?" "No, there is something I want to tell you." She knew it was over. Two nights ago after the event he had dropped her off, barely kissed her goodnight, and had not responded to any of her texts since. It was not even 5 minutes and he had arrived. There was no hug or kiss exchanged. Just two insincere greetings exchanged. "I know you value honesty and I am going to get straight to the point, I cannot imagine how I would have made it through the stress of securing the last round of funding for my start-up without you. You have been a great source of support and encouragement for me. I truly value you and everything you have done for me. But I realized that I value you as a friend and nothing more. I do not feel the chemistry between us anymore. I hope this won't be awkward and we can be friends," he paused and looked at her. She was curled up in the single-seater sofa in her living room without saying a single word. Silence. Awkward silence? "It is okay, I understand," she responded finally. He sighed with relief and said, "That is all, I will take my leave now." As he was about to leave, she asked him for a hug and he was generous enough to agree to hug her. She did not keep it long and he left.

* * *

In her tradition, 40 days after a death they split the property of the departed loved one. She decided she was going to treat this breakup like a death. So long before the sun rose on the 40th day since the breakup, she built a fire and dumped into it every single piece of memory of him that remained. The journal full of vivid descriptions of their happier times, the other one filled with the tears of her heartbreak, and all the photos of them that they ever printed. You should have seen the smile on her face as she burned that black dress that he used to love when she wore. "I will never again wear some black dress because some weak-ass man cannot stand to share the shine with me in my other fire dresses!" She had said as she tossed the dress into the blaze. In that moment, all the feelings of inadequacy that had befriended her when she was with him were also burning in the fire. She was a strong, independent, black woman who did not need a man to be validated. She knew she was an angel who had descended from the heavens to brighten the world the same was as the sun that was beginning to rise. It was a new day!