A Dry Season

By Dr. Teedzani Thapelo

Kabelo closed the thick case file and rubbed his eyes. Another not guilty plea for another client whose innocence he doubted. Through the window of his small law office, Gaborone’s late afternoon sun cast long rectangles of light across the cluttered desk. Dust motes swirled in the beams, dancing idly above stacks of legal briefs and a half-empty coffee cup. It was the dry season, and the air in the office felt accordingly arid and still.

He loosened his tie, remembering a time when he used to leave work early to have dinner with his family. Nowadays, he often stayed late, either by necessity or by choice, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was easier to drown in paperwork than to face the silence of home. On the wall hung his law degree and a framed photograph from a decade ago: Kabelo in a crisp suit on the High Court steps, arm around his wife Boitumelo, their daughter Naledi perched on his shoulder, all three smiling. He couldn’t recall the last time he had seen those kinds of smiles.

Today he had tried to smile in court, playing the genial advocate, but the muscles felt stiff. The case itself left a bitter taste: a low-level official accused of diverting development funds into personal accounts.

All afternoon, Kabelo navigated the labyrinth of motions and objections, aware that the truth was drowning in a flood of legal technicalities and half-truths. The official sat stone-faced, occasionally meeting Kabelo’s eyes with a silent plea or perhaps a warning. It was hard to tell. Years ago, Kabelo might have cared more about uncovering what really happened. Now, he was being paid simply to perform, to win. And performing required a degree of wilful blindness.

“Kabelo, tea?” a soft voice interrupted.

It was Dineo, the office’s long-time secretary, poking her head in. Only then did he notice twilight had crept into the room; the sun’s beams had vanished, leaving the office dim except for the amber glow of a desk lamp. He nodded absently. Dineo stepped in and placed a steaming mug beside his elbow.

“Working late again, sir?”

He managed a polite chuckle.

“As always, Dineo.”

He wanted to add a jest to lighten the mood—something about how criminals and fools keep lawyers in business—but he held his tongue. Instead, he thanked her and she slipped away, closing the door gently. The tea’s warmth in his hands was comforting, though the taste was ashy on his tongue. At forty-six, Kabelo felt as though everything was losing flavour — his career, his relationships, even the tea.

He wondered if Dineo knew about the divorce. In Gaborone, news — especially bad news — travels swiftly through whispers in office corridors and over weekend braais. If she did, she was kind enough not to show any pity. Kabelo dreaded pity. He’d seen enough of those looks at the law society meetings: colleagues tilting their heads slightly, saying “I heard, I’m so sorry,” while their eyes danced with either genuine sympathy or thinly veiled curiosity.

It was easier to avoid all that by staying in the office with his paperwork and the quiet company of unspoken regrets.

By the time he left the office, night had fallen. Gaborone’s streets were a patchwork of orange streetlights and deep shadows. The air outside was cool and carried the familiar dry-season scent of dust and distant burnt grass. Kabelo walked to his car with slow steps, briefcase in one hand and the weight of the day in the other.

Over the city, a haze hung, reflecting the lights in a dull glow. It made the sky amber near the horizon, fading to a murky darkness overhead where a few stars flickered.

He drove home on autopilot, passing landmarks he’d known for years: the old courthouse with its colonial pillars stained by decades of dust, the new glassy high-rises of the CBD that reflected the night in sterile mirrors.

Gaborone was changing — new buildings, new wealth — but somehow the same old troubles persisted beneath the fresh paint. Corruption, nepotism, quiet despair behind cheerful facades. Kabelo had started his career believing Botswana was different — a shining example of stability and good governance in Africa — and for a while, it felt true. But as the city expanded, so did the shadows where greed and disillusionment could hide.

He slowed at a traffic light. A hoarding on the roadside displayed the President’s broad smile with the slogan “Zero Tolerance for Corruption!” in bold letters. Someone had scribbled graffiti across it in red paint. Even in the dark, Kabelo could make out the scrawl: a Setswana curse and a crude caricature of a laughing face. He shook his head, not sure whether he felt angry at the vandalism or in bleak agreement with its sentiment. The light turned green and he moved on.

When he turned into his neighbourhood, the houses grew larger, the yards wider. Here lived the comfortable middle class — civil servants, bankers, lawyers like himself — behind plastered boundary walls and motorized gates. Kabelo’s own gate groaned as it slid open. The yard was tidy but lifeless: neat flowerbeds Boitumelo had once tended now lay dry and overgrown with weeds. He really should hire a gardener, he thought for the tenth time that month, but never acted on it. Under the porch light, moths flitted in erratic orbits.

He parked and sat for a moment in the quiet car, engine off. The ticking of the cooling motor was the only sound.

He was in no hurry to step into the emptiness of the house. Eventually, with a sigh, he pocketed the keys and went inside.

“Naledi?” he called, his voice echoing slightly against tile floors and high ceilings. The house answered only with a faint hum from the refrigerator. He flipped on lights as he went — hallway, living room — chasing away the darkness room by room. A dish lay on the coffee table with the dried remains of what looked like cereal and milk. Her school blazer was tossed carelessly over the back of the sofa. So she had been home, at least earlier.

Kabelo’s jaw tightened. They had agreed she would be home this evening. Wednesday nights she was supposed to be at his place — part of the awkward custody dance arranged after the separation. But Naledi was seventeen and rules had become suggestions, at best. Lately she came and went like a stray cat, always slipping off to somewhere else she’d rather be.

He picked up her blazer, folding it absentmindedly. A faint scent of her fruity perfume hit him — that cheap popular brand all the teenage girls seemed to drown themselves in. The fragrance triggered a memory: Naledi at 10 years old, running up to him after a school play, her face bright with excitement. She had thrown her arms around him, unbothered by the sweat and dust of the playground clinging to her. That pure, unquestioning affection… when had he lost it?

As he draped the blazer over a chair, his phone buzzed in his pocket. A message. He swiped it open to see Boitumelo’s name.

“Your daughter didn’t show up here either. Have you heard from her?” followed by “This is unacceptable. We agreed on her curfew.”

Kabelo felt a familiar mix of guilt and irritation rise in his chest. 

Our daughter, he corrected in his mind, though he didn’t bother to text that. Communication with his ex-wife had distilled down to terse practicalities and blame ping-pong. They rarely spoke unless it was about Naledi or legal procedures. The warmth had evaporated year by year, leaving only a formal, chilly undertone, as if they were negotiating a contract rather than trying to co-parent.

He typed back quickly: “She’s not home yet. I’ll find out.”

Hitting send, he winced at the screen’s glare. Almost 9 PM. Where would a rebellious seventeen-year-old be on a Wednesday night? A few possibilities came to mind — none particularly reassuring.

He tried calling Naledi’s number. It rang four times then went to voicemail. At least the phone was on; that was something. He imagined her rolling her eyes at seeing “Dad” on the screen and pressing ignore. The silent treatment was her weapon of choice lately.

Kabelo paced the living room. On the TV stand were still family photos Boitumelo hadn’t taken when she moved out. In one, the three of them sat at the edge of the Gaborone Dam on a picnic, Naledi gap-toothed and grinning on her mother’s lap, his own younger face blissfully unaware of what the future held. He picked up the frame, running a thumb over the glass. Dust had started to gather at the edges. He remembered that day — it had been just after he made partner at the firm. They’d driven out to celebrate, laughing as a troop of vervet monkeys tried to raid their picnic basket. He could still hear the echoes of Naledi’s squeals and Boitumelo’s laughter mingling with the breeze over the water.

A sharp bang jolted him from the reverie. The front door rattled, then opened. Naledi stood on the threshold, dressed in torn black jeans and a faded band t-shirt, heavy eyeliner smudged around her eyes. Her braids were partly undone, and she carried the scent of night air and cigarette smoke.

Kabelo exhaled, relief and anger warring inside him. “Naledi. Ke go batla kae? Where have you been?” The Setswana slipped out in his worry — he usually spoke English with her, especially since the divorce when everything between them grew formal and brittle. She seemed to bristle at the familiar tone.

“Out,” she replied flatly, kicking off her sneakers. She did not meet his gaze, instead bending to pick up the shoes and toss them by the door with a thud.

“It’s past nine. On a school night,” he said, striving for calm but hearing the strain in his voice.

Naledi rolled her eyes, finally looking at him.

“I’m not a child. Stop treating me like one.”

“You’re seventeen. That’s still a child, legally.”

The lawyer in him regretted the word the moment it left his mouth. He sounded like he was in a courtroom, nitpicking definitions.

She latched onto it.

“Legally,” she mocked under her breath.

“Sure, because legal is what matters, right, Dad? Not what’s actually happening.”

Kabelo was taken aback by the venom in her voice. He noticed her hands trembling slightly as she crossed her arms. Was she scared? Angry? Something had agitated her. He stepped closer, softening his tone.

“What’s going on with you, Naledi? We were worried. Your mother has been texting. You can’t just go off grid on us.”

At the mention of her mother, Naledi’s expression soured further.

“I can do what I want. Mom doesn’t care unless she can use it against you, and you…” she paused, biting her lip.

“And I what?” Kabelo pressed gently.

Her eyes flashed.

“You don’t care either. You just want everything to appear fine. You and your stupid image.”

Her voice was rising now, each word a jab.

“High-profile lawyer, respected man in the community… if people only knew.” Naledi’s eyes glistened suddenly, tears she was clearly fighting.

“You care more about your cases and your reputation than us. Than me.”

The accusation struck deep. Kabelo felt heat flare in his chest — defensive anger, but also shame because a part of him feared she might be right.

“That’s not true,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I do care about you. Everything I do… it’s for you and your future.”

Even as he said it, he wondered if it rang hollow. Was it really for her? Or had work become an excuse to avoid the messiness of home?

Naledi gave a bitter laugh, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and smearing the eyeliner further.

“My future? You think arguing in court for those corrupt uncles is for my future? Please.”

She took a shaky breath.

“You know what I saw tonight? I saw Mr. Baya at the club. Yeah, the big man from the Land Board you defended last month.”

Her tone was almost taunting.

“He was there flashing bottles of Moët, boasting about how he got off scot-free. My friend knows his niece; they were all laughing, calling the trial a game. One big joke.”

Kabelo felt his stomach twist. Mr. Baya. Acquitted on a technicality that Kabelo had, in fact, brilliantly exploited. The man had been guilty as sin of misappropriating communal land, but thanks to missing paperwork and a key witness who changed his testimony (after a rumoured payoff), Baya walked free. Kabelo had told himself he was just doing his job, that justice was blind and it wasn’t his role to play moral guardian. Hearing how Baya flaunted his freedom now made him feel complicit and small.

Naledi continued, her voice cracking, “All my friends know you were his lawyer. They looked at me like I’m some… I was so embarrassed.”

Her tears flowed freely now, anger melting into hurt.

“Don’t talk to me about my future when you’re helping people like that. What kind of future are you making for this country? For me?”

Each word landed like a blow. Kabelo opened his mouth but nothing came.

He wanted to say that it wasn’t that simple, that if it wasn’t him defending Baya it would have been someone else, that everyone has a right to a defence. All the justifications rang hollow in his ears.

He realized he had stepped toward Naledi; she stepped back, as if afraid he might reach out to her.

For a moment, they stood in strained silence, the only sound the faint chirr of insects outside. Kabelo felt a wetness on his own face and realized he was crying too, silently. He quickly brushed a tear away, but Naledi had noticed. Something in her hardened expression wavered.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to say, his voice rough. He wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for specifically — her embarrassment, his choices, the divorce, all of it.

Naledi looked down, wrapping her arms around herself. She suddenly seemed very young, despite the edgy clothes and makeup.

“I’m tired. I have school tomorrow,” she mumbled. Without another word, she turned and padded down the hall to her room, closing the door with a soft click that echoed in Kabelo’s ears.

He stood there, rooted in the empty living room, feeling more helpless than he ever had in front of any judge.

How had it come to this? He had wanted to give his family the best life — good house, good school, financial security. And yet here he was, alone in a big empty house, his wife gone, his daughter drifting beyond reach, and his sense of self tarnished by compromises he once swore he’d never make.

Kabelo sank into the couch. The leather cushions sighed beneath his weight. In the silence, the ticking of the living room clock grew loud, each second tapping at his conscience. He remembered being Naledi’s age, idealistic and fiery. At seventeen, he had won a national essay contest writing about justice and integrity — how Botswana’s future depended on the rule of law and honest leadership. The president himself had handed him the award certificate while his parents beamed with pride. That bright-eyed boy who wrote passionately about right and wrong — would he even recognize the man he’d become?

He leaned forward, head in his hands. A dull ache throbbed at his temples. Perhaps it was the start of a headache, or maybe just the weight of guilt and regret pressing in. Degradation and corruption — he suddenly thought of those words, as if someone else had spoken them.

Was that the sum of the world he lived in now? He had not set out to be a bad man, or even a selfish one. But piece by piece, year by year, he had conceded ground — an overlooked lie here, a strategic silence there — until he wasn’t sure where he stood anymore.

From down the hall, he heard a muffled thud. For a fleeting second, he imagined going to Naledi’s door, knocking, and trying to speak to her again. But what would he say? He feared any attempt would just reopen the wounds of their argument. Instead, he stood and went to the kitchen. The quiet routine of filling a glass of water steadied him. He gulped it down, the coolness soothing his dry throat.

On the fridge, a yellowing sticky note in Naledi’s handwriting caught his eye. It was from two years ago — a forgotten relic.

“Don’t forget: Naledi’s school play @ 6pm.”

It had an excited little smiley face drawn next to it. He remembered that day too: he had rushed from court but still missed her performance. She had been onstage delivering a monologue when he slipped into the auditorium.

After the show, she had said it was okay, but her eyes had been red. Not long after, Boitumelo had called him married to his work during one of their fights. At the time, he’d snapped that someone had to pay the bills.

The bills got paid; something else was left bankrupt.

Kabelo peeled the note off the fridge and held it for a moment, then carefully smoothed it back where it had been, as if restoring a tiny piece of the past.

He made his way to the porch, craving some air. The night greeted him with stillness. Stars were faintly visible now, scattered like distant hopes in the dark. He lowered himself onto the front step, the concrete cool through his trousers. In the quiet, he could hear far-off sounds of the city nightlife: a revving car engine, a burst of laughter from a neighbour’s patio down the street, the rhythmic thump of music carried on the breeze from some bar or club out of sight. Life going on, indifferently.

His mind drifted to the case again, to Mr. Baya bragging in a club. The thought sickened him. Perhaps tomorrow he would withdraw from that case, or from others like it. Perhaps he would find a way to do law the right way again. But then, what was the right way? To fight corruption one case at a time? It felt like trying to stop the desert sand with a sieve. And withdrawing wouldn’t stop Baya or men like him from finding someone else to do their bidding.

Kabelo looked up at the sky, searching for the constellations he used to recognize. He found the Southern Cross, faint but steady, hanging above the sleeping city. He remembered a camping trip long ago where he taught Naledi how to find it. She was about seven, and her small hand had gripped his tightly as she tilted her head back to see the stars. That night, she’d asked him endless questions about the universe — were the stars always there, who held them up, could they fall? He had answered as best as he could, marvelling at her curiosity. That memory glimmered now, a stark contrast to the sullen, wounded teenager behind the closed door inside.

He shut his eyes and sighed. What answers did he have for her now? For himself?

After a long while, Kabelo stood. The night was growing colder, and a stiff breeze rustled the dry leaves in the yard. He wrapped his arms around himself against a sudden chill. Before going in, he walked to the gate and gazed down the empty street. Under the halo of a streetlamp, two stray dogs rummaged near an overturned bin, likely attracted by the smell of something edible. One of them looked up, sensing his presence perhaps, its eyes two pale discs in the dark. For a moment, man and animal regarded each other across the silence. Then a distant car horn shattered the stillness. The dog trotted off after its companion, disappearing into the shadows.

Kabelo remained there a moment longer, staring at the deserted road and thinking of nothing in particular. The street was so tranquil, belying the turmoil in people’s lives behind closed doors. How many of his neighbours, he wondered, were awake wrestling with their own regrets, their own domestic battles, hidden behind those well-kept facades?

Eventually, he walked back inside, locking the door behind him. The house felt different somehow — cooler, quieter. As he passed Naledi’s room, he noticed light seeping from under the door. She was likely still awake. He yearned to knock, to say something — anything — that might bridge the chasm between them. But he hesitated, hand half-raised. What if he knocked and she didn’t answer? Or worse, told him to go away?

He gently rested his palm on the wood of her door, as if feeling for a heartbeat.

“Good night, Naledi,” he said softly, not sure if his voice carried through. For a long moment, nothing. Then he heard a faint rustle, and the light under the door blinked out. In the darkness, he could just make out her reply, almost a whisper:

“Night, Dad.”

He stood there, heart catching in his throat. It was the first time in months she had called him Dad without spite.

Kabelo retreated to his own bedroom, leaving Naledi to her rest.

He sat on the edge of his neatly made bed, staring at the blank wall. In the silence, he listened to his own breathing until it calmed. On the nightstand lay a half-read novel he’d been meaning to finish, something about a man who wakes up to find his life unrecognizable. He picked it up, then put it down again.

Instead, he lay back and let the darkness settle around him. Sleep did not come immediately. His mind wandered to court tomorrow, to the demands of clients and the subtle dance of truth and lies he would navigate once more.

He thought about calling Dineo in the morning to dictate a letter withdrawing from Baya’s defence. But what reason would he give? And would it make any difference? Unanswered questions hung in the air, heavy as the night.

As his eyes finally grew heavy, Kabelo heard a soft sound through the wall — Naledi’s muffled sob, or perhaps just the wooden beams of the house easing in the cool night. He could not be sure. He realized he would have to wait for the morning to see if anything between them had truly changed, or if this fragile moment of understanding would evaporate with the dawn.

In the darkness before sleep, Kabelo found himself suspended between resolve and resignation. The choices of tomorrow loomed, but tonight there were no more decisions to make. There was only the quiet of a Gaborone night, wrapping around father and daughter, each alone in their rooms with their private hopes and fears.

Outside, somewhere in the city, a dog barked — one sharp cry into the night — and then all was still again. Eventually, Kabelo closed his eyes and let the silence carry him to sleep.

---

Teedzani Thapelo is a poet and novelist. He has been recognized by the Share Botswana Tourism Fiction Award (2017); Botswana Society for Human Development, Gaborone and was a Share Botswana Tourism Fiction Award (2019) winner. Thapelo is the author of Seasons of Thunder (2020), 2nd Edition, Ironmantle Books, Virginia, USA. His poem, “Okavango Delta’’ (2017), was published in the Botswana collection 36 Kisses and Other Stories, Anthology of Botswana Writers, Nascali Publishers, Gaborone and his poem “Dry Heart’’ (2019), appeared in in Blue Train, Anthology of Botswana Writers, Nescali Publishers, Gaborone.