jumps out of bed happily, looking forward to a period of no embarrassing crushes. This opportunity was a godsend, the perfect chance to escape stupid relationships with the likes of Lwazi. After the economic crisis her only other option was to stay in Joburg and deplete her savings by financing her blossoming fashion business while still hustling for art direction jobs in ads and TV shows. As someone who watched her parents struggle to develop her into who she became, she found this alternative very unappealing. So she decided she would rather take her money and take a much-needed holiday after five years of city life.
Anyone who has been to the North West Province, especially the Lehurutshe district, knows how sleepy life is there. It’s the perfect place to go and vegetate. The thought of waking up to the sound of hadedahs, pigeons and weaverbird song is surprisingly exciting for File, who now considers herself a city girl. She imagines herself taking a real break, as she used to do when she was at varsity.
Orefile imagines herself in her cut-offs, lying on her mom’s couch as the cool breeze blows through the lace curtains over her prone body after a heavy lunch of pap and vleis, listening to the crickets and the villagers going about their business, and the sound of an occasional car driving past their house on the dirt road. She imagines herself musing on the difficulties of life and jotting down some thoughts in the fancy notebook she bought especially for that purpose. One day her memoirs will make her world-famous.
File smiles happily and heads for the shower. The sudden thought of Lwazi calling her again makes her grimace. She hopes not to hear from him until she is safely ensconced in the bundu.
* * *
With her car packed and her elaborately decorated notebook on the passenger seat, a carefree File flies down the N4 highway through the North West Province. Her radio is blasting out an eclectic mix ranging from the house drums of Rhythmic Elements to classic UB40 and she is singing along at the top of her voice.
The stress she’s been feeling of late, brought on by Lwazi’s behaviour and by being jobless, seems to fade away the further away from Joburg she goes. She muses about how important it has been to her to be someone and have something to do in the big city, and how difficult the last few months have been with people asking her what she’s up to and with her flashing a fake smile, saying she was kind of looking for work. Orefile remembers the concerned looks she’d get and how people’s concern would bring on a flash of crippling fear as she wondered whether she was finished in this town.
What a relief for her to go home now, back to where people are more concerned with whether you behave like a good girl and there’s enough rain for the crops, and of course the latest village gossip. Orefile switches off the air conditioning and opens the window, allowing the wind to riffle through her hair and blow away the worry of the past few months. She glances in the mirror and sees her carefully combed Afro is falling to pieces, but who cares, the windswept look and the Jackie O sunglasses just scream decadent sun-filled holiday . . . Her face breaks into a massive smile.
She pulls in at the garage just off the main street in Zeerust to fill up her car with petrol. Spotting a small shopping complex next to the garage, she decides that she wants to turn her rather plain room at home into a bohemian paradise. She goes into one shop after another and purchases a rug, some lamps and colourful tulle curtains, wind chimes and a massive gilt-framed mirror, then packs everything into her already stuffed Baby Rav4.
She leaves the town and takes the road that leads to Gaborone on her way to Tswenyane, a small village in Lehurutshe, in the rural heart of the North West Province.
A while later, when she turns off into the dirt road, it finally hits her that she is coming back to her parents for a while and that this is not just a weekend visit. Orefile wonders whether she is ready to be a child in her mother’s house again, and whether her mother will let her be an adult. There is an old Setswana saying that claims two bulls never low in the same kraal. And their home kraal is definitely her mother’s.
File hopes she will be able to cope, and that her mother won’t be shocked at the hours she keeps these days. After five years of getting up at three in the morning to be on set by five, she is looking forward to waking when the sun is long up.
Chapter 2
2
Odirile Mokgatlha – Odi to his friends – has just stepped out of a cooling bath in the dry and scorching North West heat. He rubs his clean-shaven square jaw and walks from his room shirtless, exposing mocha-coloured skin that stretches over an amazing six-pack, rippling arms and bulging pecs.
The cicadas’ song is oddly comforting; Odirile tilts his head and his dark-brown eyes become pensive as he listens to the sounds of rural Tswenyane. Over the past four years or so he has come to find the slow pace of country living, the gentle drone of insects and the braying, lowing, clucking sounds that mark rural life very soothing. Having arrived home with frazzled nerves brought on by a massive humiliation which became an oppressive force bearing down on him, living in Tswenyane and helping his father has given Odirile a sense of purpose that was about more than just self-serving interests. Here he learnt to care about the future of his people.
Odirile draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly to shake off the ever-present niggling doubt that resides at the back of his mind. He enters the kitchen and reaches into the belly of the deepfreeze, finding the blast of ice-cold air refreshing. He pulls out a bottle of almost frozen water and takes a long swig.
Startled by a gasp, Odirile whirls around to find Sandra staring at him gaga-eyed. She always hangs around here, helping out his mother, and has consequently become a fixture in their home.
Any normal person would have smiled to set her at ease over her undisguised drooling, but not the reserved and down-to-earth Odirile. He is deeply embarrassed by her admiration and just stares at her.
“Dumela, Kgosi,” she greets him respectfully, to which he simply nods. He can see that she is slightly embarrassed by his blank look but regards that as her problem. “There are some men who’d like to speak to you. They’re waiting under the marula tree.”
“Ao, where is Rre Kante?” he asks, a little panicky. With his father getting older and not being very well, people expect him as the next in line to start taking over the running of the village. It makes sense to learn about this from the king while he is still alive. But the thought of having to deal with politicians and businessmen and bureaucracy is just . . . unpleasant is the only word Odirile can think of right now.
He tries not to think of his traumatic past, but still worries that it will rear its ugly head as soon as his former politico “buddies” find out that he has taken over as the ruler of Tswenyane. And the fact that this place is in the process of being declared a World Heritage Site, coupled with the current turf battle between the Bahurutshe of Tswenyane and the last farmer left on their tribal land, means that they could be hitting the news soon.
Odirile is hoping against hope that he won’t be dragged into a shady political situation once more. He walks over to the cupboard by the kitchen door and gets some antacid to calm his nerves. Odirile has begged his father to take care of this process and make sure that he completes the project before his son takes over the reins. But his father’s health isn’t good at all; he often catches the king rubbing his left arm and flexing it.
After his father suffered a mild heart attack last year, Odirile has realised that he may have to step in to save the ageing king the stress of dealing with this complex situation. His elder sisters left home long ago and gave his parents six grandchildren, whom they thoroughly enjoy. But Odirile hopes that he will be able to provide his father and the tribe with a mojaboswa, an heir, before the old man passes on, so that he can die
