The literary work produced here under, is an extract from a 200 page manuscript being written by Andrew Onalenna Sesinyi as a sequel to my published novel, "Love On The Rocks", (Macmillan,1981). It is a sneak preview to what readers will  enjoy when the work is published in due course. It is the author's way of saying: "I'm working on it, as promised"

The title of the book- a sequel to its predecessor- is: "LOVE ON THE ROCKS TOO".

Enjoy, but kindly note that this work is not to be shared, copied or re-used in any manner whatsoever since that would constitute a serious breach of copyright/International Property Rights laws.

Chapter 1

Pule woke up to the choking heat of the dense summer night. Keeping his eyes closed, Pule stretched his arm to his side, where his wife Moradi was sleeping peacefully, seemingly unmindful of the heat. With the temperature hovering around 41 degrees Celsius, Pule felt as if their modest dwelling had been turned into a furnace. The stillness of the silent night was broken intermittently by distant sounds of traffic and dog barks. Occasionally, a cock crow, reminiscent of nights in the rural areas would supplement the sounds of the dying night. There was a reason behind the abrupt disruption of Pule’s sleep and an explanation for the pitch darkness that cloaked the night. There was yet again on this night, as it had been throughout the week, an electricity power supply cut resulting in a countrywide blackout. Pule had over the years developed reduced resistance to the sweltering heat of his country and to offset the discomfort he slept with a large electric fan on. The smooth purr of the cooling appliance rarely failed to lull Pule into a deep, restful sleep but when there was an electricity power disruption, the whirling electrical appliance would drone angrily to a halt, cutting the cool breeze and would be quickly displaced by a dearth of fresh air coupled with an almost tangible sense of soaring temperatures.

Pule was careful not to wake up his sleeping wife as out of force of habit he turned to look at the familiar ruddy face of the clock on the television stand at the foot of the bed. The electric clock was off. Pule sighed unhappily with growing discontent and indignation at the rapid deterioration of living standards in his country, the land that was hitherto regarded as a quietly efficient, fast developing, middle-income country- a far cry from the years when Botswana was classified as one of the least developed countries in the world. Knowing that his wife was a good sleeper who could only be roused from sleep by significantly loud sounds or movement, Pule once again became victim to force of habit when he reached for the television remote controller and pressed. He could hardly suppress a grunted swear word when he remembered that the television would be off, naturally. Although he usually slept well, Pule had an aversion for heat especially at night and he realised with growing irritability that moisture of perspiration was beginning to form under his armpits, on the forehead and behind the knees. With a heavy sigh, Pule rose as quietly as his elevated temperament could permit, careful that Moradi was not disturbed, and walked into their en suite bathroom. He would usually wet a towel to wipe sweat off his body before lying on the bed with the dripping towel covering his chest to reduce the heat, but Pule’s disrupted sleep was to go on an extended sabbatical when upon turning the tap he realised with dismay that there was no water coming out. A combination of lengthy electricity power cuts and water supply disruptions had been the order of the day for two years now, driving the nation into depression and despondency.

Unable to control his temper any further, Pule swore under his breath and lost his bearings trying to return to the bed in the dark. His leg struck the wooden stool in front of the dressing table and the pain made him cry out, more out of frustration than pain. He recalled irritably that his wife persistently reminded him to push back the stool into its place under the dressing table but since it was usually his favourite chair when chatting to Moradi in the bedroom, he would pull the stool out but forget to return it to its position. This was not the time to prove how right his wife was on many issues that generally caused him considerable discomforts. In his futile attempts to create as little noise as possible, Pule hastily moved to his side of the bed but the dry long towel that he was holding fell to his legs, tripping his movements. Pule fell and sprawled to the ground, and in his desperate attempts to hold on to something pulled the cloth on the dressing table on which Moradi’s makeup world rested. Bottles, tins and other items crashed to the tiled floor with a cacophony highlighted by the silence of the night.

“Honey? Pule? Are you okay?” Moradi asked sitting up on the bed, a little alarmed by the noise and the dark outline of his husband lying beside the bed.

“I’m fine, “Pule replied. ‘The power just went off.”

“And you’re trying to fix it honey?” asked Moradi with a hint of suppressed laughter in her voice.

“Of course not,” Pule replied. “I wanted a wet towel. The darned water is not there either.”

An irate Pule rose from the ground and moved to his side of the bed where he threw all decorum to the wind and crashed onto the bed making the lighter Moradi bounce a little as she reached for a cellular phone on her side. She switched the flash light on and shone the light on her distressed husband. Moradi’s suppressed laughter could not be contained any longer as Pule raised his hands to block the penetrating sharpness of the light on his face.

“Honey, this power shedding affects everyone and you don’t hear people breaking up their houses just because they have no light,” Moradi said, now laughing out loudly. “If you lie still, you won’t feel the heat that much. You worsen the heat by fighting it. Look at you! You’re like an enraged bull.”

Pule grabbed the light from his wife and with gentle vengeance shone it on her face. Moradi squealed with mirth, burying her head in her husband’s chest as she playfully tickled him to wrestle the cellular phone out of his hands.

“Rati,” Pule called, using his pet name for his wife, a shortened form of her name which in itself was short for ‘loved one.’ “You’re making me sweat even more. You can’t be playing at 1am. Give me that phone.”

He made no effort though to get back the phone from Moradi, as she slipped out of the bed and using the light walked barefoot to the kitchen. She returned with a litre of water, took the towel from the floor and went into the bathroom. When she returned, she had soaked the towel, making sure that unlike in Pule’s workmanship it was not dripping. She wrapped the towel around his chest and kissing him lightly on the cheek, said:

“Now can you sleep? We both have to go to work in the morning and you will wake up the children with this riot.”

Pule tried to pull his wife onto him but she restrained him with a firm hand laughing.

“No” she said. “You’re not going to get us all wet. Soak alone. Now, let’s sleep.”

Pule, now wide awake, knew that it would be a while before he can successfully fight off the heat to catch a nap before the alarm set to wake them up at 5 am churned its message.

“If at least I could watch tv,” said Pule morosely.

“You’re weird honey,” replied Moradi teasing. “Who wakes up to watch TV in the middle of the night?”

“I do,” Pule replied, stubbornly. “I told you. I wake up at 1am to use the bathroom but most importantly to make sure that I know I’ve been asleep. And I take delight in the thought that it’s not time yet to wake up and I’ve four more hours to sleep.”

“And the TV assures you of that?” Moradi teased further, knowing the response.

“Yes. TV shows me the awake world which isn’t asleep, making me feel special, privileged, lucky to be asleep. Plus, when I watch news at 1am I know the world is safe out there whilst asleep. It makes sense.”

“Yes honey, it makes sense alright,” replied Moradi. “But whilst you measure your sleep and monitor the world out loudly, some of us are disturbed.”

“Oh come on love,” replied Pule. “An earthquake wouldn’t wake you up.”

“Good,” replied Moradi. “We’re not earthquake country, so don’t cause any. Let’s sleep.”

Moradi switched off the cellular phone light and the room was once again plunged into darkened silence. It was not long before he heard the gentle snores of his wife and he envied her for her tenacity to withstand discomfort.

Benign evil stalking his heart, Pule deliberately turned and tossed boisterously until his wife woke up.

“I can’t sleep Rati.,” he whined, when her poised dark figure confronted her in the dark..

“What happened to your shooting of bad people that makes you sleep?” asked the awakened Moradi.

”They now shoot back and it keeps me a lot more awake”, replied Pule in a childlike demeanor.

 Moradi surprised herself with a spontaneous giggle at her husband’s illogical schemes to fight periodic insomnia. “What do you expect? You shoot you’re likely to get shot.”

“Their bullets are not supposed to hit me,” Pule continued with his imaginary game. “Usually, I become invisible and I can shoot them all down easily until there’s no more. Then I sleep.”

“What’s wrong with them, don’t they see your gun, or it becomes a ghost too?” Moradi humored her husband.

“It’s a next century laser gun honey,” replied Pule adopting the tone of a simpleton. “You can’t see it. I can jump from buildings without falling, fly and land anywhere without being seen. That’s how it used to be. When there’s no power like this, it’s too dark and I fall. Then the bad guys shoot me.”

“Pule honey,” replied Moradi. “I’m sure you’ll write a best seller one day but right now I’d like to sleep and so should you. There’s no electricity because of load shedding and you know it. So get used to a little discomfort.”

“A little discomfort,” Pule snorted. “They’re supposed to be inventing new wonderful things, not making up new vocabulary for incompetence. I need my aircon, or at least the fan. I pay for this electricity. It’s not on loan to me. You don’t see us load shedding their bills.”

“You’re right darling,” said Moradi, switching on her cellphone light again to look at her disconsolate husband. “Poor baby. Your face looks moist with sweat. It’s because you don’t lie still or try to ignore the heat. I’m affected the same way but I still sleep.”

“I’m older than you,” replied Pule.

Moradi sat up on the bed and shone the light even closer to Pule’s face before saying:

“You’re only 5 years older than me, you idiot. And that makes you 35 years old. Too early even for male menopause. How long have you been awake?”

“Two hours 45 minutes,” Pule replied promptly.

“You actually time these power cuts?” Moradi asked with mild concern. “Don’t you think you’re going over board? The entire country is affected by these power cuts, so why should you be the worst victim?”

“They said two to four hours,” replied Pule with obstinacy. “The power never comes back in two hours and most times it’s five hours. So, they lie. They’re official liars.”

“It’s people like you who suffer strokes whilst others sleep peacefully”, Moradi said. “There are two million people in this country who are affected and you choose to suffer the worst. Look if you want to spend hours endangering your health with worries and sleepless nights, join politics and be one of the official liars.”

“May be I should,” Pule replied, turning away from the sharp light and facing the wall on his side of the bed.

Moradi switched off the light and snuggled even closer to her husband, putting her tender arms around him, before replying.

“If you do, you’d have sentenced us all to abject poverty, or a life of theft and corruption. Look around. Do any of the politicians look happy? Is anyone of them clean? You’re educated, talented and good at what you’re doing, so the last thing you want to do is running around the country with a loud speaker and an audience of starving children, old people and their goats.”

Pule laughed, grinning into the darkness, for that moment tolerant of the sweltering that came with the increased heat from his wife’s proximity. It was not an uncomfortable feeling.

“Rati, you’re ever so derisive about politics. If we don’t join politics, the leadership will keep circulating among the school dropouts currently leading us. We’ve got to get involved.”

“Pule, are you serious? You sound serious about this and we never quite discussed it,” said Moradi.

“Honey, I’ve raised it before but you’re always dismissive when I raise it,” Pule defended himself.

“Derisive or dismissive?” Moradi asked more in an attempt to confuse Pule into changing the subject, than seeking a clarification.

“Both,” replied Pule without hesitation.

“And we will not be talking about it at this hour, darling,” Moradi said firmly. “We’ve enough problems of our own. Remember your three children? They’re sleeping peacefully right now, not knowing that their father is stealthily scheming to join voices crying in the wilderness.”

It was at that time that the hissing sound of a reactivating air conditioner announced the return of the electricity supply. Pule reached for the remote controller and switched on the cooling appliance whilst Moradi switched on the side light. Moving quietly with the grace of a cat, Moradi walked bare foot to the children’s rooms which were adjacent to theirs. Motsetsana and Tshetsana slept together in one room, and the toddler, Baruti in his own room. The soft lights of the children’s bedrooms were on and Moradi saw that they were sleeping peacefully.  As a health precaution, and a cost saving measure, she preferred that the children did not sleep with the air conditioning on but the oppressive heat demanded otherwise. She switched on the cooling appliances, adjusting the settings to ensure that the air circulated without direct impact on the children. She enjoyed the moments when she watched her little boy and the two girls sound asleep, without a care in the world, oblivious to the vicissitudes of life. It was during those savored moments that Moradi felt her maternal instincts sprouting in her with the effervescing power.

She walked soundlessly to the girls room first, and kissed each of them on the cheek before moving to the boy’s room and doing the same. The three year old boy seemed to sense his mother because he made a whimpering sound as if fighting to awake from the deep sleep. Moradi smiled to herself and walked back to her bedroom, where her husband had switched on the television and was watching world news .on his favorite BBC channel. In that regard, she was a long suffering spouse and had come to terms with the idiosyncrasies of her husband, which she attributed to the infantile behavior of men in general. Her mother Mmamoradi, had endured the midnight snacking habits of her father Mr Baruti until the older woman developed the secondary results of the habit and treated herself to her cookies delicacies at that odd hour. Moradi had so far resisted adopting any bad habits to match her husband’s inexplicable antics with the night.

After visiting the adjacent bathroom, Moradi marched authoritatively towards her husband, grabbed the remote controller and switched off the television. When Pule opened his mouth to protest, Moradi kissed him gently, switched off the light and purred into his ear:

“I want my husband to now make love, not war.”

Pule melted and surrendered to marital bliss.

(The manuscript development is now at an advanced stage and readers will next meet Pule and Moradi when it is published)

Andrew Onalenna Sesinyi [All copyright laws apply]