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Shona calls Banga, who comes with sagging shoulders. The visit isn’t as exciting for him as it is for me. He seems to prefer crunching numbers in the coolness of the lodge office instead of trudging behind me over grass polls in the hot sun.
Instead of heading to the lodge, Shona tells him to go back to the village. We arrive just as a bell rings and children run from the school building, screaming excitedly. Shona waves a boy of around ten years over. I recognize his face. He’s one of the boys who were hiding in the reeds the day I arrived.
When he sees me, he comes hesitantly.
“This is Vimbo,” Shona says. “Hop on,” she tells the boy. “We’ll give you a lift.”
The boy dumps his school bag in the back of the Jeep and climbs inside. We drive to a hut standing a short distance away from the others.
When we park, Shona says to Vimbo, “Tell your mother I brought a guest for lunch.”
He runs to execute the command.
Shona goes ahead to greet a pretty woman in her thirties who exits from the hut. She’s dressed in a long, blue, tie-dyed dress and leather sandals.
“Welcome. I’m Lesedi.” She offers me a kind smile. “Shona says you speak Tswana, but we’ll speak English if you don’t mind.” She brushes a hand over Vimbo’s head. “My son has to practice.”
Vimbo rolls his eyes and ducks to escape the caress.
“I’m sorry for imposing,” I say.
“There’s always plenty to eat.” She takes my arm and leads me around the side of the hut to a table under a tree with tree stumps arranged around it for chairs. “We’ll sit here in the shade.”
When Shona, Banga, and I have each taken a seat, Vimbo sits down cross-legged on the ground next to me. Lesedi disappears around the hut.
A moment later, she returns, carrying two black iron pots. She places both on cork plates on the table and sends Vimbo with a brusque command to fetch plates and cutlery. The boy runs back to the hut and reappears with a tray laid with wooden bowls and carved spoons. He sets the table while Lesedi fetches metal mugs and a jug of ginger beer. She serves each of us a big helping of maize porridge, but when she digs the spoon into the meat stew, I decline.
“Cas doesn’t eat meat,” Shona explains.
She smiles prettily. “Do you eat dairy or are you vegan?”
“Vegetarian, but please don’t put yourself out for me. I haven’t had maize porridge in ages, so this is a feast.”
She clicks her tongue like she finds the statement ridiculous and goes to a small shed adjoining a chicken coop at the back. Shona and Banga wait politely until she returns with a basket filled with apples, a jar of preserved corn, and eggs before they start eating. Vimbo digs into his food, shoving big spoonfuls into his mouth.
While Lesedi makes a small fire and fries two eggs in a pan over the coals, Vimbo studies me between bites.
“Are you going to be Ian’s first wife?” he asks.
“First wife?” I ask, taken aback.
“My father has five, but my mother is his first, so she’s his favorite. If you’re first, you can be Ian’s favorite.”
I stifle a laugh, even if either notion—being Ian’s wife and not being his only wife—is humorous. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Vimbo,” Lesedi chides. “You have to excuse him. He can be very forward.”
“Ian gives me books,” he says.
I study his cherub face. “He does?”
“In English,” he says, pushing out his chest, and then he makes a face. “He tests me on them.”
“You should be thankful for his kindness,” his mother says, mixing corn and butter into my porridge and serving two fried eggs on top.
“Thank you,” I say. “That’s very kind of you.”
She beams. “It’s not every day we have guests.”
While we eat, the conversation is amiable. Lesedi tells me about her family who are migrant workers in South Africa and asks where I’m from. Shona teases Banga about never taking a wife because he understands numbers better than women. When Vimbo says he’s good with numbers in school and asks if that means he won’t have a wife, Shona says children should be seen and not heard.
After lunch, Lesedi makes coffee over the fire by boiling the grounds. We sip the brew while they talk about the animals and what species will need culling during winter. When the adults clear the table, I get up to help, but Lesedi tells me guests aren’t allowed to work. I stay behind with Vimbo as they carry the dishes and pots to the hut.
When everyone is out of earshot, Vimbo winks at me. “Don’t tell Ian I came to his bungalow.” He adds in a conspiratorial tone, “It’ll be our secret.”
“Only if you promise to never do it again. It’s dangerous walking across the land alone.”
