He smiles widely at me, the gaps between his teeth both prominent and unmistakably appropriate. He is a gentle giant, well over 6 feet tall, and his body sturdy and solid and constructed of a lifetime of strenuous hard labor, as though his muscles were spun from not muscle fiber but perhaps something much firmer, yet still softer than the cliché of steel.
When I hug him hello after one of us has been away for a while it’s as though I’m walking into the embrace of a huge tame grizzly bear, he could easily flatten me but has not the inclination, nor the desire. His hands alone are similar to paws in their expansiveness, and it is clear that they have been used to work very hard throughout his life. They are calloused and yet soft, and they envelope my hand completely as we shake hands before we hug. His complexion is very dark, but smooth, and it seems there is nearly always a glow of sweat around where his hairline would be, if it hadn’t receded back to a white ring around the back of his head and to his ears- he calls the sparse areas of hair on top the “short hair” and states that he never needs to cut those ones. He wears a lilac uniform to work at the clinic to identify him in his job as a nurse orderly, which corresponds beautifully with his dark skin.
We have a greeting of “ey hey” (which seems to be the Batswana way of showing recognition- their version of eureka! if you will) expelled from deep in our diaphragms that we loudly and jubilantly exclaim (repeatedly) upon meeting, it has become part of out routine, and is the reason he is convinced I will learn Setswana. In this practice he is one of my most consistent and patient teachers, on car rides from Gumare to Sepopa smooshed into the single bucket seat (really I’m nearly more on his lap than in the seat with him) in the front of an ambulance he teaches me to say things I should have learned at training. His English is very good when he is speaking, his comprehension when I am speaking is less, but he often complains of my funny accent (I’ve gathered that he learned English from South Africans and English descendents and my inability to say “wa-tah” (water) often confuses him as it seems when I say it it becomes more, as he describes it “ward-ar”) so I am more than partially at fault. Unlike some of my other coworkers he rarely asks me for anything, and is more than thrilled to trade vegetables for pens when he is in need, which is a form of commerce that works for both of us.
We have long talks at the clinic, or on drives, or as we walk home together along the bank of the floodplain. He tells me about his culture, his family, his past, and what is important. The descriptions are refreshingly simple. There is little ambivalence, and what uncertainty there is is quickly displaced by his willingness to learn, and possibly rework his understanding to include new information. He invites me to his “old plot” and gives me the grand tour of it’s one room, telling me how this is where he comes to eat the meal his wife prepared for him that morning and rest at lunch as it is much nearer to the clinic than his “new plot”. He shows me how he leaves his clinic uniform there and changes into his other clothes to travel the rest of the way home. He walks me around the yard, describing how he will replace the roof, or chop down this tree or that one, and which ones are “girl” trees (fruit producing) and which are boy trees. He walks me “halfway” (really the entire way) to the gate as I leave, for I am a friend, as opposed to an unwanted guest, who would have to find their way to the gate on their own.
He calls me his daughter and reminds me that I must come to visit my “mother” (his wife) as it is more appropriate for her to learn English from her daughter than from him. He himself learned English after his mother sold traditional beer and saved the money to send him to school. His father didn’t want him to go. His mother sent him anyway and she died shortly after, his father again forbids him to go. He got himself a job working for a teacher who in turn sponsored him at school, which he attended until grade 4. This was the end of his formal education. He then spent time working in the mines in South Africa where he improved his English, and moved back to Seronga to work at the Seronga clinic which opened somewhere in the late 70’s or early 80’s.
He tells me the year he got married to his wife, as well as the years they were born, and we each carefully do the math in our own heads, me waiting patiently for him to declare their respective ages and the length of their marriage. He is often off by a year or so depending on the actual date he is calculating, but I seldom correct him as a sign of respect, although he never seems offended when I correct him on something. For a man of 58 he is remarkably willing to accept the corrections of a young white girl. Each time he exclaims his own age, it’s as though it’s new or recently discovered information, he then moves on to the years his children were born, as well as which year he went to work in the mines in South Africa, when he’ll retire and let his children take care of him in Seronga. This is how he defines his life, by a series of important dates, never worrying about comparing himself to others, or whether it is enough, or if he has been happy. He does not define himself by what he has done necessarily, but what he has learned and who is in his life. I’m increasingly believing there’s something to his line of thinking.
He often gives me advice on how to live my life, and why I should so this or that, and one of my favorite topics (although this is funny as it’s growing to be one of my least favorite topics in speaking with anyone else) is why I must get married. He often tells me about how he loves his wife, and how he’s never had another wife or small house since he’s been married (and due to his earnestness, I believe him). He tells me that I must marry (and preferably a Motswana) so that I will have someone who knows how to take care of me, and which foods I like and how they should be prepared. When I protest that I am quite happy on my own (at least for the here and now) he just shakes his head and says “No Lorato, let me explain you”. And launches again into the way that his wife does his laundry and he goes to the store to buy her the sweets she likes. He speaks about how he knows white people, and although white ladies think they know how to take care of themselves and can be fine alone they are wrong. About this he is certain. His descriptions are so charming and sincere that I want to lean back into the fairy tale he presents and squeeze my eyes closed as though I am five and he is waxing poetic about fairies.
There are many lessons about life, and relationships, family, friends, Africa and…. Economics (?) from T
Here’s a funny lesson of late:
So in addition to working at the clinic he runs a garden on his land, and has several plots around town. He is quite the saavy businessman when he explains to me the prices of his produce depend on if people come to pick them up at his garden, or if he has to deliver them to town.
“Why T, I had no idea you had a car.” I said.
He looks as surprised as I do, briefly considering the fact that wait, did he perhaps have a car he had previously forgotten about? Having searched his memory and decided that no, indeed he doesn’t have a car, he slowly shakes his head and says, “No Lorato, I have no car.”
“But then why are people being charged for the fuel price of bringing the fruits and vegetables into town?”
“Because the donkeys, they need fu-el, Lorato. They are eating to get big and strong so as to pull the cart to town.” Satisfied with his answer he smiles and crosses his hands in his lap.
Touché, T.
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