By Laone J. Mangwa
After receiving feedback on his fourth draft, Mokwadi feels invigorated and ready to prepare the story for final submission. He’s part of a continental virtual writing master-class being hosted from Uganda.
Mokwadi closes his laptop, pushes back his desk chair, stares momentarily at the framed certificate hanging on the wall above his head from the short fiction story writing competition he won in senior school before his mom passed, takes a deep breath, springs out of his chair and exits his room, almost levitated by the aroma that arrives with the sound of clinking kitchen utensils.
Mokwadi’s dad Mogaka arrived home from work around the same time Mokwadi’s one-hour session began and has whipped up a scrumptious meal for him and his son.
“Pops, I’d swear you were on your own cooking show with a million viewers watching. So much energy. Where do you get it from after your gig?”
“Passion itself is an igniter, my boy. How was your gig?”
“It was lit, Pops! I feel like the rest of the class and the coordinators get me. We vibe. Plus I’m stoked that I’m finally finding my story voice. But there’s something that’s still giving me a hard time.” Mokwadi grabs one of the kitchen stools and draws it towards the centre table. “Gatwe I have a dope plot but the protagonist lacks depth and development. We have like one more session left, then we submit our final drafts. They’re gonna be published in both their online and physical journal. So I need to pull my socks up. Ebile they said they want us to attend the launch live.”
Mogaka turns from the stove and pots and anchors his attention on his son. His eyes glisten at Mokwadi’s words. “Protagonist? Ke mang yo yaanong?”
“The starring, Pops. Do I have to teach you everything? C’mon now.”
Mogaka chuckles. “You’re your mother’s son, you know that?”
“You think she’s proud of me, wherever she is?”
“Hundred percent, my boy. We both have been since the days you’d choose to play with blank pages while other normal kids played with their toys! I’m sure the girl whom you dedicated a love letter to in primary school is proud, too.”
Mokwadi covers his face with his hands. Only a faint “eish” escapes his mouth.
The two share a laugh as Mogaka returns his attention to the stove and dishes up for him and Mokwadi. They have a hearty supper and call it a night.
***
In preparation for the final session, Mokwadi spends most of his days in the garage tweaking his draft. He usually comes here to converse with his late mother, Mme Thulaganyo. This is where he feels her presence the most.
On his off days, Mogaka either tends to his garden, is in the kitchen experimenting or joins Mokwadi in the garage. This time, he affords his son some alone time to carry out his task. Mokwadi’s draft is a fantasy-adventure fiction short story centred on Tswana cosmology about a young man who stumbles upon a hidden cave in his village while exploring a hill. Upon entering it, he’s transported into a different world with mystical creatures like the Kgogomodumo, and where time and space are warped. The young man, for whom only a day has passed in the village since his departure, returns with the knowledge of the stars to impart to his people, sparking the invention of a tool that enables inter-stellar and inter-dimensional travel.
One time, while surfing the internet, Mokwadi stumbled upon a one-page article on the topic—reposting it on the monetized blog he’d been running with some of his school allowance—that birthed the quickest first draft he’d ever written.
“Why cosmology?” Mogaka asked him after perusing the first draft.
“I don’t know, Pops. There’s just something enchanting about the universe and the stars and how ancient cultures here on earth related to them,” Mokwadi admitted. “Kinda sucks that I can’t find much on our Tswana culture though.”
While tweaking his draft, Mokwadi scans through the huge black rectangular trunk that carries most of his mother’s written works—or at least the ones he and his dad know of. Most of these are Mme Thulaganyo’s rendition of Tswana folktales, her personal journals, her personal essays, her favourite local authors’ books and letters from her pen pal. Mokwadi has read most of them countless times but not once has he been bored from doing so.
Mogaka arrives in the garage and finds his son immersed in the contents of the huge black trunk.
“What have you got there, son?”
“Oh, Pops! Didn’t see you there. Done in the garden?”
“Mm. Just taking a break. Thought I’d come and check on you. Ke ya ga Mmaago?”
“Yeah. I had no idea she struggled this much as a writer in Botswana, Pops.”
Mogaka sighs, takes off his garden hat and gloves, takes a deep breath then settles on the ground next to Mokwadi, placing his trowel next to his feet. The debris on both his boots and trowel find a new home on the tiled floor.
“Your mom loved writing. She struggled to get her works published and when she finally did, they didn’t get received as well as she’d wished. With the pen and paper, she was in her element.”
Mokwadi’s eyes glisten as he shakes his head at Mogaka’s narration. Before Mogaka continues, Mokwadi sneaks in a remark that puzzles his dad.
“I had one of those dreams again last night, Pops. Mama was seated in a golden armchair in a room with her face buried in a book. The door was slightly opened. Standing by the door, I called out to her but she couldn’t hear me. I tried to enter but it was like there was a barrier even though the door was slightly opened. What do you suppose that means?”
Mogaka rests his chin on his hand, looking thoughtful. Mokwadi suspects that his father has an interpretation of his own, but instead of sharing his thoughts, Mogaka says,
“Hmm! Write it down in your journal like the therapist suggested then try and meditate on it when you’re done here, son.”
“Oh, yeah. Will do.”
“Go bua nnete, your mom wasn’t only fighting external demons but internal ones as well.”
Mokwadi looks up in surprise. “Demons? How do you mean, Pops?”
Mogaka explains to his son that Mme Thulaganyo didn’t have the opportunity to study writing in all its facets, let alone share her writings with the world, but possessed immense natural talent and honed it from her teenage years well into her adulthood by reading and writing, then reading and writing some more. Unfortunately, she always felt she fell short of being a writer.
“We met at a writer’s conference in Kimberley, South Africa,” he says, “together with a lady who was to become her best friend, your godmother, and later pen pal. I was a trainee chef at the company in charge of the catering at the time, before Botswana became a greener pasture.”
Mogaka brings up Mokwadi’s childhood; the stories Mokwadi would conjure up from a vacuum about everything in his environment. He asks his son his intentions with his craft and the pair brainstorms ideas for the future.
“Ke itse gore you’ve had a bit of a tough time with words since your mom passed. Don’t throw in the towel. As much as it’d be a way to honour her, you owe it to yourself. Writing has always been your outlet. ‘I wanna contribute to the literary space in Botswana.’ These were your words when you received news about being part of the virtual writing master-class. Remember?”
Mokwadi nods. “Still do,” he says. “And also show Batswana youth that their culture is ancient and cool, too. I remember it all, Pops.”
“Exactly!”
“Oh, oh, oh, and also helping youth going through the most but struggling to express themselves. That would be so cool.”
“That’s a new one. That’s called leaving a legacy, my boy. Who knows? Maybe one day you’ll write a story about your life that will inspire someone. Or maybe even start a writers’ union for youth.”
Father and son feed off each other like team players playing 30 Seconds. Mogaka uses his hands to propel himself to his feet then grabs his son into an embrace that transcends time and space. Nothing else matters but this moment.
***
It is his last year at the University of Botswana (Basco, as the young students call it), and Mokwadi is working on a thesis about the 21st Century challenges faced by writers and authors in Botswana, referencing some of the information from his mother’s unpublished journals and essays.
He hosts a few writers’ meet-ups at the Visual and Performing Arts Hall in school for both students and visitors, sharing his plans to one day get the funding to upgrade his blog to an online magazine open to the public with an ecosystem of paid team members and contributors. Only a handful attend each of the meet-ups, to Mokwadi’s disappointment.
In one of the meetings, one of the attendees walks out and mumbles a statement that feels like a stab to Mokwadi’s heart, “Ga se mo States mo!”
The young lad lets out a sigh as his shoulders and head droop. It’s been seven months and he feels like the statement sweeps him back to the beginning. He finds his composure in time to adjourn the meeting.
While heading home in the backseat of an Oodi combi, Mokwadi ponders the happenings of today’s meet-up. I thought I was making headway with these meet-ups. Am I being too idealistic? Is a writing career a lost cause here?
Mokwadi finds his dad home preparing for a gig he’s going to in about an hour. As he jolts the kitchen door open and walks in, Mogaka greets him but Mokwadi doesn’t respond. With a raised eyebrow, Mogaka turns his attention to his son.
“Why the sullen face, my boy?”
“Today sucked. I’m bummed out, Pops!”
Mogaka pulls two kitchen stools for him and Mokwadi.
“Sit. What happened?”
“Am I way in over my head here with the writing thing, Pops? Our master-class coordinators Charity and Chinua speak of not only internal fulfilment from writing but sustainable living as well. Here, we speak about writing as though it can never be anything more than a hobby. We treat it like a side-hustle. In 2025?”
“Uhu! Must’ve been a rough day.”
“All I’m saying is, it’s exhausting, Pops. I always imagined this thing that feels heavenly to me when I’m immersed in it could sustain me as well.”
Mokwadi relays what transpired earlier at the meet to his dad. He explains that he has sent out countless email and physical mail writers’ meet-up invitations to prominent figures in the Creative Industry but none have ever honoured the invites.
In the same breath, he remarks that he desires to move to a different country after he graduates in three months. A cold shiver ascends Mogaka’s spine.
“Whoa, son! That’s the hurt talking. Wena just focus on your blog and thesis and have faith. You can include these issues in your thesis.”
Mogaka hopes Mokwadi heeds his advice but he’s still uneasy about their conversation. The pair entertains their thoughts more than each other over supper. Clink clink clink go the plates and the forks and the knives and the spoons as they mix and mingle with the fresh lasagna.
Before bed, Mogaka lights a half-used candle and places it on the dresser in front of the mirror. He then converses with Mme Thulaganyo as though death hasn’t yet claimed her.
“I’m terrified, my love,” he says while staring straight into the candle’s flame, “terrified of losing our son and seeing him leave my side. But I don’t want to stand in the way of his growth and greatness.”
He asks for guidance, places the burning candle on the floor at the corner safely and hits the sack.
***
In the final session, the coordinators of the virtual master-class, Charity and Chinua, have good news in store for the nine attendees. The all-expenses paid trip to Uganda to attend the launch of their journal African Xpressions (AX) is coming to fruition, and all the preparations are finally in place and visas approved. The nine are asked to check their inboxes for the itineraries. They receive the news with delight.
“Mokwadi, you’re awfully quiet tonight. Is everything ok?” Charity asks.
Mokwadi’s lost in thought.
“Mokwadi?” Charity calls out with a raised voice.
Mokwadi is plunged back into his body and attempts to conceal his excitement at the announcement. “Yes, ma’am. I’m… I’m here. I just… This is fantastic news! I’ve waited so long for such an opportunity.”
His sentiments are underscored by a choir of yeahsand uh-huhs from the rest of the class.
***
The next day Mogaka prepares the last meal for him and his son, packs Mokwadi a lunchbox, and places it in the fridge. In the wee hours of the morning, he assists his son with his luggage, slipping some of Mme Thulaganyo’s essays underneath some of the clothes, gets the snacks and lunchbox then turns the car key to wake the engine up.
“Don’t forget your laptop,” he says to Mokwadi.
They dash to Sir Seretse Khama International (SSKI) Airport.
Track 5 from Mogaka’s favourite artist Bhudaza’s latest album emanates from the car speakers at a moderate volume. Between the chats, Mogaka steals moments to parrot all the lyrics. He and Mokwadi are accompanied by Mokwadi’s aunt, Shirley and cousin, Leo, who also reside in Oodi village. Mokwadi’s flying to Johannesburg, South Africa where he’ll board a connecting flight to Entebbe, Uganda.
Luckily, the Uganda trip is a week-long and is taking place during his school’s semester break. At SSKI Airport, Mokwadi bids his dad, aunt and Leo farewell as he boards a flight to O.R. Tambo International Airport. Mogaka and his aunt Shirley have given him some pocket money for his trip.
“I’ll call once I’ve settled in at the destination. Promise!” Mokwadi says.
At the airport in Entebbe Mokwadi is met by Charity, Chinua and the other master-class participants.
“Wow! So this is everyone?” asks Chinua. “Great to finally see you in person, guys. How’s everyone feeling?”
Mokwadi and his classmates gaze at each other with illumined faces as though they rehearsed the reaction for that particular moment.
“Alive,” shouts Ada.
The eleven get an Uber to a hotel close by. The streetlights magnify the city of Entebbe’s brilliance at night and illuminate the crowds of people walking up and down the streets to their various destinations. Most of the tree branches are nearly naked with dark brown leaves. A cool breeze befriends the lukewarm night and carries some of the crowds’ gospel hymns into the eleven’s ears, diverting their attention to a candlelit room where a congregation is still active.
The night is still young but the jet-lag ensures that none of the nine are painting the city red tonight. Before calling it a night, Mokwadi connects to the hotel Wi-Fi and calls his family in Botswana to let them know of his safe arrival.
As he brushes through his luggage, Mokwadi finds his mother’s essays. He grabs one and peruses it. In one of the passages, Mme Thulaganyo mentions her best friend, Lame:
“Lame and I met at the writer’s conference in Kimberley, but my husband Mogaka only got to meet her when she visited me in Botswana sometime later. We’re both from Botswana. She’s a phenomenal writer and much, much more prolific than I am. A year after Mogaka and I got married, she midwifed for me when I gave birth to my only child, Mokwadi. Lame moved to South Africa permanently in search of greener pastures five months later. She and I wrote physical letters to each other weekly but sadly, the letters halted. I researched her whereabouts on the internet and later found that she’d been gunned down in a hijacking gone wrong. The thieves had robbed me of my other source of joy, much to my devastation. Rest in eternal peace, my friend!”
Mokwadi moves his mother’s essay away from his face just in time for the tears falling from his eyes to land on his lap instead. He fails to muster the courage to complete the essay and places it back in the suitcase. His heart throbs in his chest as he plunges into slumber to thoughts of his mother.
Mokwadi dreams of a woman who claims to be Mme Thulaganyo’s best friend—the same woman in her essay. She stands in front of a blackboard surrounded by different colours. Some, Mokwadi recognizes. Others, he doesn’t. Some colours feel warm. Some cold. Some in between. The colours morph into weird shapes and characters forming gibberish and back into colours again. The lady holds a book in one hand and white chalk in her other. Pointing at Mokwadi, she says,
“Want to see just how rich our culture is, boy-boy? Come. We’ll explore it together. By the way, I’m your spirit guide.”
Before she says anything else, she fades out of the picture as though it’s a movie scene.
The next morning, Mokwadi is up as the golden sunrays emerge from the horizon through the hotel room window. The others are staying in pairs but he’s sharing this room with two of his male classmates, Steve and Patson, to balance the equation.
Mokwadi ponders the dream he had last night as the other two lay in their beds, semi-conscious. Who was that woman? Why did she claim to be mom’s late best friend? Only Mama called me boy-boy. Why was I dreaming about her? Did she mean what she said? What if it’s all in my head? How come I’ve never dreamt of her before? I need to tell Pops about this.
Mokwadi snaps out of it upon hearing a knock on their room.
“We’re leaving for the National Botanical Gardens in about an hour and a half,” Charity says from the other side of the door. “We’ll discuss your final drafts once there.”
The Gardens are one of the places Charity and Chinua have chosen for sight-seeing with their students. While there, Charity and Chinua discuss their feedback on the stories their students worked on. All the stories except for Mokwadi’s get the greenlight.
“You’re almost there, Mokwadi,” Charity says, “but there’s something still amiss about your protagonist. I feel like we can go a tad deeper there.”
Charity’s comment dampens Mokwadi’s mood. Ada grabs his hand after the discussions and the walk through the Gardens revives his mood, although slightly.
On Tuesday, the crew visit the Writer’s Museum and a writer’s workshop that spills into Wednesday afternoon. Charity and Chinua keep popping in and out of the workshop to ensure that everything pertaining to the African Xpressions (AX) Journal launch, which is set for Saturday, is taken care of.
Once back at the hotel, Mokwadi studies his story. Why can’t I figure this character out? he wonders. With his hands on his head and face staring down at the desk, Mokwadi slams his laptop shut, shuffles through his backpack and grabs another one of Mme Thulaganyo’s essays. It speaks of some of the struggles she encountered as a Motswana writer in Botswana.
“There’s no formidable writers’ union because everyone wants to eat alone,” she writes. “How will I sustain myself and my family if I retire from teaching and focus entirely on my writing at this rate? Even the government doesn’t take us seriously because we don’t take ourselves seriously. This week, there was a motion tabled at parliament of whether to fund literary endeavours in Botswana. The majority agreed against it, stating that it wasn’t bringing in any revenue into the country. How dare they? I’m absolutely livid!”
With his jaw clenched, Mokwadi bangs his fist on the desk. He rotates his neck to check if the bang awoke his roommates, then sighs. He meditates for a few minutes, makes an entry into his journal then calls it a night.
The woman who identifies herself as Lame returns to Mokwadi’s dreams on this Tuesday night.
“Your heart is heavy,” she says. “You crave to connect with your mother. But your pain is still holding you back. It’s acting like a barrier to connecting with her and with your characters. You’re a phenomenal storyteller, Mokwadi. Pour that pain into a story. Use your emotions to churn stories. I promise you, you’ll heal and connect with your mother in ways you could never imagine. Mme Thulaganyo had her own battles. They’re not yours to fight. Perhaps your focus should be on your internal desires. That might be more sustainable.”
***
There’s not a cloud in the sky on Wednesday night. The sky is painted by radiating specks of light and the moon begins its shift. It is only now that Mokwadi’s getting a chance to phone home since Sunday night. He WhatsApp calls Leo first and he answers immediately.
Mokwadi and Leo get lost in their conversation. It is only an hour and a half later that Mokwadi remembers that he has to call his dad and touch base with him. Immediately after hanging up, he dials his dad’s number. They chat for hours as Mokwadi relays his experiences of Uganda and recent dreams to him before retiring to bed.
On this night, Lame once more appears in Mokwadi’s dream. The backdrop of the dream is one he recognizes. The only difference is that Lame is here. She’s standing by the ajar door, facing Mokwadi and holding out her hand to him.
“Come, it’s OK,” Lame says softly.
She walks into the room first and Mokwadi follows. Mme Thulaganyo stands next to the golden armchair. This time, she holds the book close to her heart. As Lame and Mokwadi approach her, Mme Thulaganyo places the book back on the chair then walks towards them. The trio share an embrace before Mokwadi settles in the golden chair with the book in one hand. As soon as he settles, the entire room is filled with the warmth of the summer sunset with them holding hands.
The warmth is strong enough to wake Mokwadi up. He checks his phone for the time. Realizing that the tears are blurring his sight, he wipes his eyes with the back of his hands. 3a.m. There’s a fleeting sense of grief that feels too far gone to hold on to, making way for a feeling that carries him towards the desk. He’s careful not to awaken Steve and Patson.
Mokwadi unzips his backpack, plucks out his laptop and settles it on the desk. Using the side lamp, he opens his story and revises it, envisioning and modifying the protagonist now as a young woman instead of a man. The story flows out of Mokwadi like an open faucet for about two hours before he calls it a night.
Thursday morning, the group of eleven visits the mall nearby for some shopping before attending a talk by a renowned writer and author at Nkumba University. Afterwards, Mokwadi shares his revisions with the group.
“Much better. Well done!” Chinua says as Charity nods in agreement.
“What inspired the character?” Ada asks.
Mokwadi smiles to himself, inhales deeply and says, “My late mother.”
Mokwadi and Ada exchange smiles while the rest of the group showers him with pats.
Nkumba University is hosting the AX Journal launch and the talk’s main objective is to emphasize unity between writers on the African continent through words, and to entice the public to attend the launch and support various writers from the continent.
***
Mogaka spends his day off in the garage. Thoughts bombard his mind as he stares at the black trunk that possesses his late wife’s writing legacy.
Who is this lady that keeps showing up in my son’s dreams, telling him she’s his spirit guide? In all my fifty-four years on this earth, I’ve never dreamt of any deceased friend claiming to be my guide. I wonder what her true intentions are with my son. He’s only twenty-two, for heaven’s sake.
The door creaks from the breeze entering through the window, plunging Mogaka’s awareness back into his body. He opens the trunk and skims through his favourite author’s works.
Mogaka slouches in his chair and covers his face with his palm. “My dear wife deserved better,” he thinks aloud.
Mme Thulaganyo shared her grievances with her husband while she was still alive, but reading them strikes a deeper chord.
I wonder if things have changed enough for my son to prosper in this field. I was hesitant about him studying Literature but I couldn’t hold him back because the heart wants what it wants. My wife died of a heart attack because these struggles broke her despite her resilience.
Today’s the fifth anniversary of Mme Thulaganyo’s passing and the fourth year since Mogaka and Mokwadi began their grief counselling sessions. The first year following her death wasn’t a walk in the park for father and son. Intoxicated, Mogaka would arrive home and find that his son had locked himself in his room. On some days, the two would go a day or two without seeing or talking to each other. One day, when Shirley had paid them a casual visit, she found a dire situation.
“He won’t talk to me, Shirley. I’m out of ideas. I don’t know how we’re going to recover from this,” Mogaka said.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I know someone you both can talk to when you’re ready. I’ll go and talk to Mokwadi about it. Le wena o tshwanetse go tsaya maikarabelo o fokotse dino, kgaitsadiake. I can literally smell the alcohol on your breath.”
Mogaka was more hesitant at first than Mokwadi but gradually, they opened up to the idea. Mogaka conjured up the courage to quit alcohol—one of the things that has drawn them closer to each other. Both of them now look forward to what has morphed into monthly counselling sessions.
***
Throughout the week, all nine students have become closer than they’d imagined. They relate to each other as though their bonds existed long before the trip and the trip has fortified them.
The hotel cafeteria staff has been privy to the bonds between these nine. This is where they’ve spent most of their nights long after they have supper. The never-ending conversations are always halted when either Charity or Chinua shows up to remind them not to stay up too late.
The students suggest another round at the National Botanical Gardens and the Writer’s Museum for Friday to further explore what they possibly missed on Monday.
Charity and Chinua leave early for the University on Saturday morning to make the final preparations for the launch. Everything seems in order. Mokwadi and the rest of the students arrive an hour before the show begins for a meet-and-greet.
The official AX Journal launch begins at 7p.m sharp and is being streamed live on the University’s social media pages. Charity introduces the audience to the nine contributors from Botswana, Uganda, South Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Zimbabwe, South Sudan and Cameroon.
Mogaka and his fellow classmates get a standing ovation as they mount the stage to share snippets of their stories and the inspiration behind them.
After the two-hour showcase, Charity, Chinua, Mokwadi and the rest of the squad return to their hotel in a rented minibus. They rave on about the night’s happenings. Mokwadi and Ada are seated next to each other, discussing the shooting star they believe is a comet that they witnessed as they were boarding the minibus.
Everyone heads to their rooms where the chats continue well beyond midnight. Before indulging, Mokwadi calls his dad to update him on the launch.
“Pops, I wish you were here to witness the greatness live, man.”
“Ke bone a few snaps of the launch on the Nkumba University Facebook page. Looks like it was a success.”
“That’s an understatement, Pops. It was packed and I got to rub shoulders with greats like Doreen Baingana, Peter Njeri and Wole Soyinka. They even honoured the late Ngugi wa Thiong’o. I can definitely see myself doing this for the rest of my life.”
An awkward silence persists.
“Pops?”
“Yeah. I’m still here, son. I’m happy you enjoyed yourself. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”
After the WhatsApp call, Mokwadi joins in on the chat with Steve and Patson as they pack their luggage. He then retires to bed while the two opt to savour the night indoors.
Charity and Chinua wake the boys up at around 5:30a.m.
“Your ride leaves for Entebbe Airport in an hour, guys,” Chinua says as Mokwadi opens the door.
Steve and Patson are out cold in the backseat of the minibus from the minute it leaves their hotel till it arrives at the airport.
“Late night, boys?” inquires Charity at the top of her voice, waking the duo from their slumber.
“You have no idea, ma’am.” Steve and Patson groan in unison.
They gaze at each other and break into hysterical laughter.
At the airport, the squad bids each other farewell and they board their respective planes. Mokwadi gives Ada a warm hug and promises to text her when he reaches Botswana.
Mokwadi finds his dad and Leo alone at SSKI Airport to pick him up just as the golden sun is sinking below the horizon. Aunt Shirley’s on duty today so she couldn’t make the trip.
The drive back to Oodi is mellow as the car radio blasts tunes from a Bhudaza playlist. Mokwadi rolls his eyes and giggles in amusement. He shares his experiences of Uganda with the duo and shows off the complimentary copy of the AX Journal he received to Leo while his dad steals glances at it and then his son.
He nods in spurts and grins during the glances. Mokwadi notices Mogaka and seems to comprehend his dad’s gestures. The trio arrives safely in Oodi as the sun surrenders to the darkness, dropping off Leo before heading home.
Mogaka flexes his culinary skills in the kitchen. It’s as though he’s been practicing for Mokwadi’s return; every movement and ingredient falls into place. Mokwadi studies his dad in amusement.
“Pops, the Master Chef! Look at you!”
“Wa nkitse, my boy. This is my realm!”
“No arguments there, Pops. Talking about realms, that lady from my dreams that claimed to be mom’s best friend and my spirit guide… Any thoughts on her?”
Mogaka’s smile turns into a slight frown as he shakes his head. He places the cooking spoon on the counter top next to the stove and faces his son.
“Your mom had a best friend called Lame. She passed on a while ago. Whoever you’re dreaming of must be an imposter…”
Mokwadi interrupts his dad.
“C’mooon, Pops. She doesn’t feel harmful. I think it’s kinda cool having a spirit guide. I finally had a breakthrough with my story, thanks to her. And I feel lighter. Like a heavy weight has been lifted off my shoulders.”
“That’s good and all, my boy but all I’m saying is be careful. Have discernment.”
Mokwadi nods in understanding as Mogaka dishes up for them. After supper, the two tackle the dishes together before retiring to their rooms. They have a counselling session in the morning. Mokwadi texts Ada as promised before calling it a night.
***
With a month left till the end of the final semester, Mokwadi winds up his thesis and the writers’ meet-ups.
The dreams keep coming and in them, both Lame and Mme Thulaganyo appear together, and continue guiding Mokwadi in honing his true voice and merging it with his rich culture to churn out authentic stories.
In the last two months, he has collaborated with Ada on a fantasy/adventure short story about African mythology. The duo use the story to apply for a writer’s residency in Ada’s home country of Nigeria.
On the final day of the semester, Mokwadi submits his thesis and joins a few of his Basco classmates for an afternoon celebratory drink.
“Cheers, jitas. We made it to the end,” declares one of Mokwadi’s classmates.
The declaration is met by cheers from the rest of the group. As the sun is about to succumb to the moon, Mokwadi makes his way to Oodi. He passes by Leo’s house. Both their parents are out on this particular Friday night, to their delight.
The duo takes turns showing off their dance moves to Leo’s favourite Amapiano songs on his phone. Leo’s phone awaits further instruction as it rests next to the Bluetooth speaker on the table in the centre of the living room.
In the midst of their mini dance-off, Mokwadi’s phone vibrates to signal a notification. He throws his body onto a bean bag chair next to one of the couches. His eyes widen and light up as he clicks on the notification. It’s an email from a Sophie claiming to be a Writer’s Residency Coordinator from Ibadan, Nigeria.
Dear Mokwadi and Ada, your application has been successful. We also read both your stories published in the AX Journal and thought they were absolutely brilliant.
The email is an official invitation to Mokwadi and Ada for a three-month writer’s residency in Nigeria.
“Due to logistics on our side, we ask that you respond to the invitation with either a rejection or an acceptance within seventy-two hours. Please reply with your number. If you do accept it, I’ll send a follow-up email or call after the seventy-two hours elapse,” Sophie concludes.
“Oh snap!” remarks Mokwadi.
Leo pokes the pause button on his phone screen and the Amapiano melodies are swallowed by a haunting silence.
“What’s got you so shook, cuz?”
“Bruuuuuuh! Just the greatest opportunity ever. Whaaaaaaat! I need to app Ada! Check this out!”
Mokwadi leaps out of the bean bag chair, throws Leo his phone, pumps a fist in the air, pokes the play button on Leo’s phone screen, increases the speaker volume and busts a few moves.
Laone J. Mangwa (Also LJ Mangwa) is a Motswana creative writer, author, spoken word poet, and copy editor fascinated with how life mimics art and vice versa. Some of his works have been published in the Kalahari Review, IBUA Journal, Petlwana Journal of Creative Literature and the Arts, Love Made in Africa: Our Stories Redefined Anthology 2024 (Flash Fiction Edition) and Lọúnlọún.
Petlwana Journal of Creative Literature and the Arts 
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