Ntate Makoanyane lives near our school and is paid a small sum to watch over it each night. He always stops by my place when he arrives in the evening. He asks me for some newspaper with which to roll a cigarette, he gets tobacco all over my floor, says he is tired and has a cold and complains about the lack of rain.
Sometimes he also brings me spoils from his fields; a few weeks back I got a bag of corn. When I go out of town I often pick him up some dried meat.
Yesterday he talked of me leaving and giving me some food for the road. Basotho always take some food for the road, "provisions" they translate it into English, "mofao" in Sesotho.
I've told ntate Makoanyane before that I ride an airplane between America and Lesotho. You can't drive across the ocean. But I guess I never did tell him that the airplane people feed you in flight.
"I want to give you 'mofao' when you go," he said. "I want to give you a chicken, but mine are still small right now, still chicks."
"I won't be leaving until January or so."
"Oh, then if the chicks have grown enough by then I'll give you one and you'll slaughter it and cook it."
I pictured it: My last day in Ts'oeneng, ntate Makoanyane handing me a chicken, me trying to slaughter it and cook it while packing. My carry-on luggage: a book, a pen, a bag of chicken pieces.
"I'll be grateful," I said.