always waited in eager
expectation. But Wilmon was nearly seventy. Had he forgotten to
turn it on? Had it malfunctioned? Or could the power outages in the
Mochudi area the previous weekend be to blame? It would not occur
to Wilmon to charge it on a weekday.
The traffic had been unusually light and, having time to spare,
Kubu decided to check on his parents on the way to Goodluck’s
school. He turned off the highway toward Mochudi and drove through
the higgledy-piggledy patchwork of houses on small plots along the
road. He drove down the main street and turned right into Kgafela
Drive, passing the Linchwe II Junior and the Molefe Senior
Secondary Schools. Just after the Hungry Tummies Take Away and the
Taliban Haircut and Car Wash, he turned right into his parents’
street.
Driving toward their small house, Kubu saw his parents sitting
on the veranda. Aha, he thought. There’s time for a quick cup of
tea. As he stopped in front of the house, his mother, Amantle,
stood up and waved. Wilmon took longer to stand. He did not wave,
but awaited Kubu’s arrival at the top of the steps. Kubu extended
his right hand, touching his right arm with his left hand in the
traditional, respectful way.
“Father,” he said. “You are looking well.”
“David, you are welcome at my house,” Wilmon greeted him in
Setswana. It was the same dignified greeting Wilmon always
used.
Kubu turned to Amantle and kissed her on the cheek. “Mother,” he
said. “You too look well.” He hesitated, then continued. “I can
only stay a few minutes and would love a cup of tea and, perhaps, a
biscuit. I’ve had a really busy day.”
While his mother bustled off to boil water, Kubu decided to
investigate the case of the unanswered cell phone.
“Father,” he said quietly, “I tried phoning you several times
today, but you didn’t answer. I was worried. Is the phone
okay?”
Wilmon shrugged. “I decided to leave it off. It uses
electricity, which is very expensive. And it is a lot of
trouble.”
“But, Father, it is useful to keep in touch.” Kubu did not
mention that he paid for the electricity in any case.
“We see you quite often. We do not need it,” Wilmon said
stubbornly.
Kubu knew his father, and how he treasured the phone. He thought
for a while, then said, “It’s broken, isn’t it?”
Wilmon was clearly embarrassed by the question and looked about
as if trying to find somewhere to hide on the small veranda. Kubu
sat silent, unrelenting. At last Wilmon grimaced and said, “You
know I always charge it on Saturday evenings.” Kubu nodded.
“Last Saturday, we were cleaning the floor, and at six o’clock
the sofa was in front of the plug – that is the time I charge the
phone. I decided to use the plug in the bathroom instead. I put the
phone on the windowsill above the toilet while I plugged the cord
into the wall.” He frowned. “Before I fixed the cord to the phone,
your mother asked me to help move a table. When I finished, I had
forgotten about the phone.” His embarrassment became acute, but he
sat taller in his chair and continued. “Your mother had need of the
bathroom and closed the curtains of the window. The curtains
knocked the phone into the toilet!”
Wilmon shook his head. “It was my fault. I took the phone out of
the water and dried it, but I was scared to plug it in again. You
cannot use electricity near water, you know.” He was not looking at
Kubu.
Kubu managed a straight face. “Father, you made the right
decision. It could’ve been very dangerous. I’ll look at it and
advise you.”
He stood up, leaving Wilmon to his discomfort.
A few minutes later he returned and said, “Father, you did a
very good job of drying the phone. I turned it on, and it still
works. I also plugged it in – very carefully – and it’s charging
now. Everything is fine.”
Wilmon broke out in a smile the likes of which Kubu rarely saw
from his father.
Twenty minutes later, Kubu had drained two cups of tea
expectation. But Wilmon was nearly seventy. Had he forgotten to
turn it on? Had it malfunctioned? Or could the power outages in the
Mochudi area the previous weekend be to blame? It would not occur
to Wilmon to charge it on a weekday.
The traffic had been unusually light and, having time to spare,
Kubu decided to check on his parents on the way to Goodluck’s
school. He turned off the highway toward Mochudi and drove through
the higgledy-piggledy patchwork of houses on small plots along the
road. He drove down the main street and turned right into Kgafela
Drive, passing the Linchwe II Junior and the Molefe Senior
Secondary Schools. Just after the Hungry Tummies Take Away and the
Taliban Haircut and Car Wash, he turned right into his parents’
street.
Driving toward their small house, Kubu saw his parents sitting
on the veranda. Aha, he thought. There’s time for a quick cup of
tea. As he stopped in front of the house, his mother, Amantle,
stood up and waved. Wilmon took longer to stand. He did not wave,
but awaited Kubu’s arrival at the top of the steps. Kubu extended
his right hand, touching his right arm with his left hand in the
traditional, respectful way.
“Father,” he said. “You are looking well.”
“David, you are welcome at my house,” Wilmon greeted him in
Setswana. It was the same dignified greeting Wilmon always
used.
Kubu turned to Amantle and kissed her on the cheek. “Mother,” he
said. “You too look well.” He hesitated, then continued. “I can
only stay a few minutes and would love a cup of tea and, perhaps, a
biscuit. I’ve had a really busy day.”
While his mother bustled off to boil water, Kubu decided to
investigate the case of the unanswered cell phone.
“Father,” he said quietly, “I tried phoning you several times
today, but you didn’t answer. I was worried. Is the phone
okay?”
Wilmon shrugged. “I decided to leave it off. It uses
electricity, which is very expensive. And it is a lot of
trouble.”
“But, Father, it is useful to keep in touch.” Kubu did not
mention that he paid for the electricity in any case.
“We see you quite often. We do not need it,” Wilmon said
stubbornly.
Kubu knew his father, and how he treasured the phone. He thought
for a while, then said, “It’s broken, isn’t it?”
Wilmon was clearly embarrassed by the question and looked about
as if trying to find somewhere to hide on the small veranda. Kubu
sat silent, unrelenting. At last Wilmon grimaced and said, “You
know I always charge it on Saturday evenings.” Kubu nodded.
“Last Saturday, we were cleaning the floor, and at six o’clock
the sofa was in front of the plug – that is the time I charge the
phone. I decided to use the plug in the bathroom instead. I put the
phone on the windowsill above the toilet while I plugged the cord
into the wall.” He frowned. “Before I fixed the cord to the phone,
your mother asked me to help move a table. When I finished, I had
forgotten about the phone.” His embarrassment became acute, but he
sat taller in his chair and continued. “Your mother had need of the
bathroom and closed the curtains of the window. The curtains
knocked the phone into the toilet!”
Wilmon shook his head. “It was my fault. I took the phone out of
the water and dried it, but I was scared to plug it in again. You
cannot use electricity near water, you know.” He was not looking at
Kubu.
Kubu managed a straight face. “Father, you made the right
decision. It could’ve been very dangerous. I’ll look at it and
advise you.”
He stood up, leaving Wilmon to his discomfort.
A few minutes later he returned and said, “Father, you did a
very good job of drying the phone. I turned it on, and it still
works. I also plugged it in – very carefully – and it’s charging
now. Everything is fine.”
Wilmon broke out in a smile the likes of which Kubu rarely saw
from his father.
Twenty minutes later, Kubu had drained two cups of tea
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