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 control 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 moistures of perspiration were 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 discomfort. 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 her 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……

 

HOLD IT!!!!

YET TO COME.... 

 This is my 2024 publication that I am very proud of. In this collection of short stories, I apply my profound views on a variety of themes, including gender, AIDS, conservation, wildlife in general, alcohol abuse, partisan politics and others. 

The most trying challenge was "making the animals speak" but I enjoyed the endeavour tremendously. 

My writing as a hobby, is not as dormant as it seems; I would say, it's not rushed but stable. I have finished revisions on my sequel "to Love on the rocks," the novel most of my readers seem to prefer, and I should be able to have it published in due course. 

My seriously noted publications include, "Rassie", by Macmillan Publishers, who also published "Love on the rocks"; and "Carjack", published by Longmans. 

I am also writing a rather memoiristic manuscript that depicts the light, and at times, humorous aspect of my experiences with Botswana Heads of State. It is not really a memoir, and neither is it biographical nor autobiographical. It is a capture of anecdotes that stand out in my mind, the little nuances and musings that we do not often associate with the gravity of the presidential responsibilities. The major inspiration in writing the said memoiristic work came from my wife, with whom I would share the anecdotes and light moments that to my amazement amused her immensely. 

My wife, Rassie, said to me: "You must write and share these anecdotes... people only write and speak about presidents as if they are not human. Don't write any secrets or confidentialities, just write as you tell me... it makes presidents so endearingly funny and human... don't ridicule, just say it as you told me over the decades, male it light and funny."

That is exactly what I am doing in the latter work that I have so far entitled "Corridors of Power."