Papa

By Goitseone Raphael

Francistown, 1997

The same dream haunted me every morning. Papa would appear without warning, smiling warmly, lifting me effortlessly into his arms. In those moments, everything felt perfect, but then the alarm would blare, tearing me away from him. I slammed the clock, but the damage was done. The warmth of Papa’s embrace was gone, leaving a hollow ache.

The room was dark. I lay in bed, eyes closed, hoping I could drift back into the dream, but it was no use. I sighed, pulling the blanket tighter around me, hating the reality that Papa wasn’t here. When he was home, I never needed an alarm. His gentle voice would wake me, and everything was better.

Papa always made mornings feel special. On weekends, he would bring breakfast to the table before I was even out of bed. He would tease me about sleeping in, calling me “Lelobu.” Even though I didn’t like the nickname I would laugh, because the way he said it made me feel warm and safe. The house would be filled with the smell of fried eggs, the only thing Papa is good at cooking, then I would hear Mama’s constant giggling in the kitchen, and I would drag myself out of bed knowing that the day was already good because Papa was there.

But now most of my mornings were rushed and cold.

“Thuto! Time to get up!” Mama’s voice rang from the kitchen. Her voice was sharp, hurried, always caught up in the tasks she had to do. The laughter was gone, replaced by the clatter of dishes and the hum of the RB1 radio station in the background.

I sighed again, louder this time, but Mama didn’t come to check on me the way Papa would. I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom. The metal tub was already filled with steaming water, but I still scratched at my skin, that itch returning as it did every morning. Bathing used to be fun when Papa was here. He would turn the washcloth into a puppet and make silly voices, the room echoing with my giggles. He would scold me in the most playful way, telling me to stop “playing the guitar with my ribs” as I scratched at my skin.

Now, bathing was just another chore. The warm water didn’t chase away the emptiness, and the silence in the house felt too loud. By the time I dressed, I was late. My uniform was neatly ironed as always, but it felt stiff on my body, like it didn’t belong to me. I rushed to the kitchen, barely tasting the sour porridge that Mama had prepared. It was thick and warm, but I wasn’t hungry. My stomach churned with thoughts of Papa. I wondered whether he ever thought about me the way I thought about him every single day.

I bolted toward the door, my mind already on the long walk to school, but Mama’s voice stopped me.

“Finish your food. And no pocket money today,” she said, handing me my bag before I could protest. Her words were firm, but her eyes looked tired, like she was carrying a weight even heavier than mine.

I wanted to argue, to ask why, but I couldn’t find the words. I just grabbed my bag, mumbled a goodbye, and hurried out the door.

As I walked down the street, I looked around for my friends, hoping to see familiar faces, but they were all gone, already on their way to school. I was alone, again. The streets felt emptier without them, and even though the sun was shining, the world seemed dull. My mind drifted back to Papa, like it always did. He was my hero, my guide in everything. I couldn’t understand why he had to work so far away. When he was home, everything was better. We would go on walks together, fixing things around the house, or just talking about whatever came to mind. He always knew how to make things right.

It had been months since I last saw him. Sometimes, it felt like years. He worked in one of those big mines in South Africa, a place I couldn’t imagine. All I knew was that it was far, so far that he could only come home a few times a year. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t find a job closer to us, but every time I asked Mama, she would just say, “He’s doing what he needs to do for us.” I hated that answer. It didn’t make me miss him any less.

Moses, my best friend, told me something once that haunted me. His father had left his family; walked out one day and never came back. He had a new family now, and Moses said that could happen to me too, that maybe Papa wouldn’t come back. I hated hearing it. Papa wasn’t like that. He loved us, I knew it. He always hugged me tight, and his eyes would light up when he saw me. But what if Moses was right? What if Papa didn’t come back this time?

The thought sent a cold shiver down my spine, even though the morning sun was warm on my skin. I shook my head, trying to push it away, but it clung to me like a shadow I couldn’t escape.

Suddenly, a blaring horn cut through my thoughts. I froze, my heart racing. A car was speeding toward me, and for a moment, I couldn’t move. My legs felt like they were glued to the ground. The car swerved at the last second, tires screeching, and I stumbled to the side of the road, shaking.

“Watch where you are going, mosimane!” the driver yelled angrily as he sped away.

My body trembled, and tears welled up in my eyes. It wasn’t just the fear of the car that rattled me, it was the sudden crushing realization of how lost I felt without Papa. He would’ve been there, holding my hand, guiding me across the road, just like he always did. Without him, I didn’t know how to navigate the world.

I wiped my tears and kept walking, but the feeling of emptiness clung to me. By the time I reached the school gates, the morning assembly was over. The playground was deserted, and I could hear the faint sounds of my classmates already starting their lessons inside. I was late, again. Panic squeezed my chest as I realized how far behind I was, but all I could think about was Papa. When would he come home? And what if… what if he didn’t?

Outside my classroom door, my hand hovered over the handle. Should I knock or just sneak in quietly? My heart was racing again, but this time it wasn’t from fear of a car, it was from fear of Mrs. Morula’s wrath. She was the strictest teacher in the whole school, known for turning kids’ butts into rainbows with her stick. If she caught you doing something wrong, there was no escape.

I peered through the small window on the door, trying to see if she was inside and I couldn’t make out much. My heart thumped harder. Maybe she wasn’t there yet. Maybe I could slip in and act like I had been there all along. I knew it was risky, but what choice did I have? I took a deep breath and slowly pushed the door open.

To my relief, the classroom was silent, and Mrs. Morula wasn’t there. I rushed to my seat, my legs still shaking from the close call on the street. I took out my books and tried to look as if I had been diligently reading, even though my mind was still a windstorm of emotions, fear from almost being run over, worrying about Papa, and the mounting pressure of trying to keep up at school.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open, and in walked Mrs. Morula. My stomach twisted into knots as she entered, but instead of the usual stern expression, she had a strange smile on her face, a warm, almost cheerful smile. It was so out of place that I couldn’t help but stare.

“Good morning, class,” she said, her voice bright and unusually cheery.

We all mumbled a response, clearly confused by her mood. Then she dropped the bombshell.

“We have some exciting news,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “All Grade Six students are going on a special school trip to Kasane, to see the Okavango Delta and the wildlife!”

The class erupted in cheers. My heart leaped with excitement. Kasane! The Delta! I had heard about the elephants, the hippos, the lions. It felt like a dream come true. My classmates were already chattering about the trip, imagining what we would see, what we would do. I could feel the excitement bubbling inside me too.

But then, Mrs. Morula raised a hand to quiet us. “There’s one condition,” she said, her tone more serious now. “Each student needs to contribute P200 for the trip.”

The room fell silent. P200 was a lot of money. My stomach dropped. My mother struggled just to make ends meet. How could I ask her for that kind of money? And what if Papa didn’t come home in time? I could already feel the weight of disappointment pressing down on me.

As Mrs. Morula handed out the consent letters for our parents to sign, my mind raced. How am I going to tell Mama? Will she be able to afford it? What if Papa doesn’t send the money in time? What if… I can’t go?

The whole day at school, I could barely focus on anything else but the trip. My friends were buzzing with excitement, already making plans about what we would see, what we would pack, and who would sit next to whom on the bus. I wanted so badly to join in their enthusiasm, but all I could think about was the P200. For the rest of the day, a knot of anxiety sat heavy in my chest.

When the final bell rang, I grabbed my things and ran home as fast as I could. The weight of the letter in my backpack seemed heavier with every step. By the time I reached our front gate, I was breathless, both from running and from nerves. I wasn’t sure how I was going to bring it up, but I knew I had to.

I burst into the house, still panting. “Mama!” I called, searching for her.

My eyes darted around the small house, looking in every room until I found her in the kitchen, busy chopping vegetables for dinner.

“Mama, I have to tell you something! Something really important!” My voice trembled with a mix of excitement and fear.

She looked up from the cutting board, her brow furrowing. “What is it, Thuto? You look like you’ve been running from a lion.”

“It’s not a lion,” I panted, pulling the crumpled letter from my bag. “It’s a school trip… to Kasane! We’re going to see the Okavango Delta and the animals and everything! But we need to pay P200 for the trip.”

I watched her face closely as she read the letter. Her eyes moved across the page, and the frown on her forehead deepened. I felt my stomach twist into a knot as the seconds ticked by, each one heavier than the last.

When she finally looked up, her lips were pressed into a tight line. “P200 is a lot of money, Thuto,” she said quietly, her voice soft but firm. “That’s more than I spend on groceries for almost two months.”

I swallowed hard, trying to keep the panic from rising in my throat. “But Mama, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime trip! All my friends are going. We are going to see real elephants, and lions, and… and everything! It’s educational too! I promise I’ll do all my chores without complaining if you let me go.”

She sighed, folding the letter carefully and placing it on the table. “I’ll talk to your father. We’ll see what he says.”

The knot in my stomach tightened. “But Mama, what if… what if Papa can’t… what if he doesn’t come home in time?” I couldn’t bring myself to say the words that had been haunting me all day.

She gave me a tired smile, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We will see, Thuto. Your Papa always finds a way.” But there was something in her voice, a kind of uncertainty, that made my heart sink even lower.

I spent the rest of the evening in a haze of worry. I helped Mama with dinner, but my mind was somewhere else. Later that evening, after we had eaten dinner, Mama finally said the words I had been waiting to hear.

“Let’s go call Papa,” she said, reaching for her purse. “We’ll ask him about the trip.”

My heart soared as I quickly followed her out the door. We didn’t have a phone at home, so we always had to go next door to Mrs. Pula’s house. She was the wealthiest woman on our street, with her big house and fancy telephone. Mama didn’t like going there because Mrs. Pula was always full of gossip and would talk your ear off, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to talk to Papa.

We knocked on her door, and after what felt like an eternity, she opened it, dressed in her white robe, her hair wrapped in a scarf.

“Evening, Mrs. Pula,” Mama said politely, though I could tell she was bracing herself for the inevitable flood of conversation.

“Oh, evening! Come in!” she said, waving us inside. “Oh, how nice to see you.” Her voice dripped with false warmth. “What brings you here today?”

“We need to make a quick call,” Mama explained, her tone polite but firm. “To my husband. It will only take a few minutes.”

“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Pula said. “You know where the phone is. Should I offer you some tea?”

Mama smiled politely. “No, thank you; we are in a bit of a rush. It will be quick.”

We made our way to the small table where the phone sat. I sat on Mama’s lap as she dialed the number. My heart thudded in my chest with every ring. What if Papa didn’t answer? What if the line was busy? What if he couldn’t send the money? The fear gnawed at me as I waited.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a voice answered. It wasn’t Papa. It was some woman. My stomach tightened. I hated when someone else answered the phone; this always meant a delay. She told us to wait while she fetched Papa from his office. My heart pounded with every second that ticked by.

Finally, after what felt like forever, I heard Papa’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello? Thuto? Is that you?”

I gripped the phone tightly, my voice trembling with excitement. “Papa! Yes, it’s me! I miss you so much!” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

Papa laughed on the other end, the sound of his deep, warm voice making my heart swell. “I miss you too, my boy. How’s everything? How’s school?”

“School’s good, Papa. But we’re going on a trip! To Kasane! We’re going to see the Delta and all the animals, but… we need to pay P200. Mama said we could call you and ask if you could send the money.”

There was a long pause on the other end. My heart felt like it had stopped beating.

“P200 is a lot,” Papa said finally, his voice quieter now. “We’ve been saving up to put electricity in the house. I’ll see what I can do, but… it might be tough.”

My heart sank. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I blinked them back. “Papa, please,” I whispered. “Everyone’s going. I’ll be so sad if I can’t go. I’ll be the only one.”

I could hear him sigh on the other end, and for a moment, I was sure he was going to say no. But then, his voice softened.

“I’ll try my best, Thuto,” he said. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to get the money to you before the deadline. If I can’t bring it myself, I’ll send it through the mail.”

Relief washed over me like a cool breeze on a hot day. I didn’t know whether he would make it, but at least he hadn’t said no. At least there was still hope.

“Thank you, Papa,” I said, my voice shaking with emotion. “I love you.”

“I love you too, my boy. I’ll see you soon. Give Mama the phone.”

***

 Days turned into weeks, and I found myself trapped in a constant state of waiting. Every day after school, I would rush home, hoping – no, expecting – that Papa would be there, and ready to hand me the money for the trip. But he never was. I would sit on the veranda, watching the street, waiting for the sound of his car, waiting for that moment when he would come through the gate with his warm smile, promising that everything was okay.

But as the days dragged on, the excitement I had felt when we first called him slowly turned into anxiety. By the end of the fourth week, most of my classmates had already paid for the trip. The excitement that had once filled the air now hung like a heavy weight on my shoulders. Everywhere I went, students were talking about what they would pack, what animals they hoped to see, and who they would sit with on the bus.

And every day, someone would ask me, “Thuto, have you paid yet? Are you coming?”

I hated the question. Each time I shook my head and mumbled the same answer: “I’m waiting for Papa.”

At first, my friends were understanding. They nodded, offering words of encouragement like, “He will come, don’t worry.” But as the days went by and my answer stayed the same, their patience wore thin. Moses, in particular, kept bringing up his parents’ divorce, warning me in his usual blunt way that maybe my father had left for good.

“You know, Thuto,” he said one afternoon during lunch, “my dad never came back. He said he was just going to work, but he never came home again. Maybe your papa’s the same.”

I wanted to punch him, to tell him he was wrong. But deep down, the seed of doubt he had planted began to take root. What if Papa didn’t come? What if Moses was right? I tried to shake the thought from my mind, but it lingered, feeding the growing fear in my chest.

By the end of the sixth week, I was one of only six students who hadn’t paid. The pressure was unbearable. It felt like everywhere I went, people were watching me, wondering why I hadn’t paid yet. The deadline was fast approaching, and I could feel the clock ticking louder with every passing day.

Finally, Friday came. The following Monday was the deadline. I held onto a desperate hope that Papa would come over the weekend, that he would show up at the last minute, like a hero in the stories he used to tell me. Saturday morning came, and I spent the whole day sitting on the veranda, my eyes glued to the gate, waiting.

The sun was setting when my mother came out and sat beside me. She put her arm around me, her voice gentle.

“Thuto, you’ve been sitting out here all day,” she said softly. “Why don’t you come inside? Papa will come when he can.”

I shook my head. “I’ll wait a little longer,” I said, though my voice sounded more tired than determined. I couldn’t let go of the hope that Papa would come, that he would walk through the gate with the money and make everything okay.

But as the sky darkened and the stars began to appear, I started to feel the weight of disappointment settling in. The hope I had clung to all day was slipping away with every tick of the clock.

When Mama called me for dinner, I could barely eat. I pushed the plate away and went to bed early, though sleep didn’t come easily. I tossed and turned, my mind racing with all the worst possibilities. What if Papa had forgotten? What if he couldn’t send the money? What if… he wasn’t coming at all?

The next morning was Sunday, and I refused to go to church with Mama. I didn’t want to face anyone, didn’t want to explain why I looked sad.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” Mama asked, standing in the doorway with her church hat on, her voice full of concern.

“I’m sure,” I muttered, staring down at my shoes. “I’m waiting for Papa.”

Mama sighed but didn’t argue. “Alright, sweetie. I’ll see you later.” She gave me a kiss on the head and left.

I spent the whole day sitting on the veranda again, watching the street. Every time I heard the faint sound of a car approaching, my heart would leap, only to sink again when it passed by. By the time the sun was setting again, the pit of despair in my stomach had grown deeper. Sunday was almost over, and there was no sign of Papa.

That night, I refused to go inside until Mama threatened to lock me out. “Thuto, it’s late! Get inside before the thieves come and steal you,” she said, half-joking but serious enough that I finally obeyed.

I dragged myself to bed, feeling more defeated than I had in a long time.

I woke up with a start in the middle of the night. I was sure I had heard Papa’s voice, calling me to wake up. My heart raced as I sat up in bed, straining to hear him again. But the house was silent. I realized it had only been a dream. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I let them fall as I lay back down, feeling more alone than ever.

***

When Monday morning finally came, I dreaded going to school. The deadline had arrived, and I knew what was waiting for me. I dressed slowly, my limbs heavy with exhaustion. I barely said a word to Mama as I left the house. My heart ached as I walked the familiar path to school, knowing I wouldn’t be part of the trip that everyone else was so excited for.

As soon as I arrived, one of the other students came up to me and said, “The principal wants to see you.” My heart dropped. I knew what this meant.

I walked to the office, each step feeling like it took all the energy I had left. When I entered, the principal, my teacher Mrs. Morula, and another teacher were waiting for me.

They asked why I hadn’t paid. I explained, my voice trembling, that I was waiting for Papa, that he had promised he would come. But even as I said it, I could feel the doubt creeping into my voice. I didn’t believe it anymore.

“I’m sorry, Thuto,” the principal said kindly, “but we’ve reached the deadline. We have to remove you from the list.”

My heart shattered. I nodded numbly as they sent me back to class. But I didn’t go to class right away. I went to the bathroom and locked myself in one of the stalls. The tears I had been holding back all weekend came pouring out, and I couldn’t stop them. I cried until the bell rang, and even then, I wasn’t ready to face anyone.

The rest of Monday dragged on in a haze of sadness. I didn’t speak much in class, and when my friends asked if I was going on the trip, I just shook my head. I could see the pity in their eyes, and I hated it. I wanted to disappear, to melt into the walls and never have to explain why Papa hadn’t come through for me.

During lunch, I walked home slowly, the heavy weight of defeat sitting on my chest. My feet dragged, and everything around me seemed dull and gray. When I got home, I went straight to my room, shutting the door behind me. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling too tired to cry anymore. There was nothing left to say or do. I had waited for so long, and for what? Papa wasn’t coming. The trip was going to happen without me, and there was nothing I could do to change that.

Mama knocked on the door and peeked in. She didn’t say anything, just gave me a sad look, and I knew she felt bad for me. But even she couldn’t fix this.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. I barely ate my dinner, barely spoke, and when it was finally time to go to bed, I was relieved. At least in sleep, I didn’t have to think about the disappointment gnawing at my heart.

That night, I fell asleep quickly, exhausted from all the emotions that had weighed me down throughout the day.

The rest of Tuesday morning felt unbearable. I went through the motions of class, barely paying attention to anything around me. I had been removed from the list for the trip, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how all my friends would be going without me. I couldn’t face them. I couldn’t deal with the pity or the questions about why Papa hadn’t come through.

During the morning lesson, I was staring blankly at my notebook when one of the other students tapped my shoulder. “Thuto,” they whispered, “the principal wants to see you.”

My heart sank. Maybe they wanted to confirm I wasn’t going. Maybe it was just another reminder of my failure to pay. With my head hung low, I gathered my things and left the classroom, my legs feeling like lead as I made my way to the principal’s office.

When I walked in, the principal, Mrs. Morula, and another teacher were already seated, talking quietly. I stood in the doorway, not sure what to say or expect. Then I saw him.

My heart almost stopped.

There, sitting in one of the chairs, was Papa.

For a second, I couldn’t move. My mind struggled to process the image in front of me, my papa, right there in the principal’s office, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. His tall frame looked slightly out of place in the small office, but his face broke into a wide, warm smile the moment he saw me.

“Papa!” I gasped, my voice catching in my throat.

I rushed toward him, my eyes wide with disbelief. He stood up, and before I knew it, I was wrapped in his arms, just like in my dreams. The relief I felt in that moment was overwhelming. All the tension, the doubt, the sadness, melted away in his embrace.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Thuto,” Papa said, his voice soft and full of regret. “Work held me up, and I couldn’t get here sooner. But I’m here now.”

I pulled back, my eyes searching his face, still struggling to believe that he had come. “Are you… are you here to pay for the trip?” I asked, my voice trembling with hope.

Papa smiled and nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He turned to the principal, who had been watching the reunion with a kind expression. Papa reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope, handing it to the principal. “Here’s the money for the trip,” he said. “I’m sorry for the delay.”

The principal nodded and smiled at me. “Well, it looks like you’ll be joining us for the trip after all, Thuto.”

I could hardly believe it. Just that morning, I had been so sure that I wasn’t going. I had made peace with the disappointment. But now, here was Papa, saving the day just in time. Tears filled my eyes, and I threw my arms around him again, overcome with gratitude and love.

“Thank you, Papa,” I whispered, my voice shaking with emotion. “Thank you so much.”

He stroked my hair gently. “You’ve been patient, my boy. I’m proud of you.”

***

When I went back to class, I felt like I was walking on air. I could barely contain my excitement as I sat down at my desk. My friends noticed my beaming face, and one of them leaned over.

“Thuto, what happened? Why did the principal want to see you?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m going on the trip,” I said, my voice filled with joy. “Papa came to school and paid for it.”

The news spread like wildfire through the classroom. My friends cheered and hugged me, congratulating me as if I had won some kind of prize. I felt a swell of happiness that I hadn’t felt in weeks. Kasane, here I come.

That afternoon, as soon as school was over, I ran all the way home, eager to tell Mama the good news. She had already heard from Papa, of course, but when I burst through the door, my face glowing with excitement, she smiled as though it was the first time.

“I knew Papa would come through,” she said, pulling me into a hug. “Now, let’s get you ready for your big adventure.”

---

Goitseone Raphael is a Motswana writer passionate about children’s literature and storytelling. She is the author of Niko the Parrot Without Talent, which received recognition at the African Literature Honoree Awards (South Africa, 2025) and the Mulher Forte Literature Awards 2025. Her story Daisy and the Fish Eagle was published in Botswana’s first free e-book anthology by the Gaborone Book Festival.

Her stories often reflect cultural values while encouraging creativity, empathy, and imagination in children. She continues to share her voice through short fiction and children’s stories that resonate with readers both locally and internationally.

Her book Niko The Parrot Without Talent can be accessed here:

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