Tsoeneng 2010

When I got to the taxi rank for my ride down to Tsoeneng, the village I lived in for three years, a taxi driver recognized me. “Where have you been hiding yourself?” he asked. I recognized him, too. And the next thing ntate Nchebe asked is, “You're going to drive OK?”

I used to enjoy getting behind the wheel of the taxis on the Tsoeneng route, and the passengers always thought it was entertaining when I drove, too. But I told ntate Nchebe I was tired. “I traveled a long way to get here. I'm just going to ride today.”

Returning to Tsoeneng after being back in America for two years was something I had often thought about. I had received some news in America. I knew that the chief had passed away. And the owner of the village shop, Motsie, had also died. But who else will not be there? Who has since arrived? How much can a little village in Africa change in a few years?

I was a school teacher in Tsoeneng, and many of my former students happened to be there in the taxi rank. Teboho, Moraba, Motloheloa, Ncheoa. They all drive or work as conductors on taxis now. Teboho worked on ntate Nchebe's, and we were soon rolling out of the rank. As we did I noticed some new taxis with funny names: Pakistan. Arctic. Taliban. Pacific Ocean.

In the taxi there was a speaker right by my ear, and the accordion and spitfire speech of Sesotho music came out at full volume. This made conversation impossible. I read a sticker: “15 PASSENNGERS.” Then I counted that there were 17, but two were children so maybe they didn't count. I remembered my record being 26 stuffed into a taxi once from Ha 'Majane.

I felt I needed fresh air so I tried to open the window next to me. All the windows were closed, and although everyone else was wearing many layers of clothing, including jackets and blankets and beanies on their heads, I was sweating. I was suffocating. With so many armpits and so many mouths, I expected it to stink inside, but it rarely stunk in a taxi. That always surprised me. There was only a familiar earthy odor, something like motor oil. I still tried to crack my window, but it was fixed. I asked Teboho to open the one in front of me, and after he did the breeze came at my face and he asked, “You can be in short sleeves like this?”

After passing the village of Joala Boholo, A Lot of Beer, we arrived in Tsoeneng. Students were outside standing around the school grounds, playing soccer, playing morabaraba, reading the Bible. It was exam time, so in between tests they had an hour or two to kill.

'Me Tsita and 'me 'Malimpho met me at the gate and brought me to the staffroom. Ngoana Jesu Secondary School, where I taught English and Literature. Inside the staffroom were five teachers, none of whom I knew. They were all young, some fresh from university or the teaching college. I got their names. Only 'me Tsita, the principal, and 'me 'Malimpho, the head teacher, remained from my time. The room itself had blue walls which were slightly more stained and pocked, and the paper tile that used to cover the concrete floor was almost entirely torn up. Teacher Majoro occupies my old desk in the staffroom.

'Me 'Makopano, the school lunch cook, came out of the kitchen ululating. I saw a drop of blood was making its way down from her left nostril. She could sense it and she looked away and swiped at it, but when she turned back to me it was still there. Was it from inhaling the cookfire smoke all day, everyday? Was it from the snuff she snorted? She continued to ululate and she put her hand on my shoulder and I had the thought that she wanted a hug, but then I remembered that Basotho don't hug and I kept my arms down.

Two former students came down from the village. They are both mothers now, yet the child they were pushing in a stroller was the daughter of another former student. Then six former students who are now in the national university showed up. They are six of the first seven Ngoana Jesu students to ever go to college. They told Lemeko, the youngest of the group, to bring us all chairs so we could sit together outside. He gave the first chairs to me and Maleshoane, a former student who is about my age and already a mother of two. Then Lemeko gave others chairs. I always liked the orderliness of these sorts of tasks in Lesotho. It is always clear who should do certain work. Lemeko also carried my backpack throughout the day. Even former students still dote on their teachers. No wonder I like the orderliness.

'Me 'Makopano made papa and moroho, cornmeal and greens, and she brought some out for me along with lek'hok'ho, the crust of the papa, which she remembered I liked. After I finished eating I walked alone down to my old house.

The once bright facade had faded from canary yellow to the color of a dead corn stalk, and cracks splintered the paint. No one had lived there since I left. 'Me Tsita said sometimes when she is too tired to drive home after a school day she sleeps there. But no one is there to care for it. Small stunted plants stand where my robust chilipepper bushes grew, and so does a little gray flower plant where I once had orange and white blossoms. Where I had grown greens and potatoes and onions and much more there was now only weeds.

The school is still raising pigs, but now there are only three in the sties. 'Me 'Malimpho took me to them and she picked up a rock and threw it at the two males and said, “Wake up, you.” They stood and I saw that they were thin. Our school pigs were always on the thin side. But 'me Tsita lamented that ever since ntate Lemphane, the former agriculture teacher, left to teach at another school the pigs have suffered, and so have the staff and student body. “When ntate Lemphane was here we were eating meat!” The swine count was at least ten in those days.

Precisely in the middle of all the school buildings was a new structure, which 'me Tsita and 'me 'Malimpho introduced to me as the Computer Room. But Tsoeneng has no electricity, was my first thought. That wasn't the problem. The structure was made of cement blocks and sandstone walls which looked solid, but above was a tin roof that sagged like a satellite dish. “That is the only thing. The roof has been poorly made. When it rains this place fills up like a dam,” said 'me Tsita. She pointed at a chair, which showed water damage. She said some men were supposed to redo the roof soon and then another man was going to bring the computers, perhaps in August. They would be powered by a generator.

Up the hill from the Computer Room I saw the water tank made of stone and concrete which was finished back in 2006, the last year I taught at Ngoana Jesu. It had been 'me 'Malimpho's project. It was to collect rainwater from the roofs of the nearby classrooms and distribute it through a faucet at the bottom, and I asked if it was working now. “We are waiting for some parts. The tap needs just some few parts. But it is full of water, if we could only get to it.”

Four years to screw on a faucet? The school had been built with metal water tanks in the 1980s. One still worked when I arrived in 2004. The faucet valve on that one broke down during my first year until it was stuck open. Tsoeneng had no plumber. A new faucet head certainly cost less than building a new tank, but who had tools to complete the repair? Now the school has two tanks and still no water. Actually, there is water, which comes from a new borehole pump the school bought. I had used it to wash the papa off my fingers after lunch and it didn't clank like the old one did.

I walked back into the village before returning to Maseru. My feet were tired. That was life in Tsoeneng. You walked and walked. As I passed the bar next to the shop, the drunk father of a former student came out to greet me happily, and then he asked for “one beer.” Sorry, I said. Then a woman greeted me and I was grateful I remembered her name. “'Me 'Maseboka, how are you?” I said. She used to brew the beer for the bar. She said she was fine. It was so nice to see familiar faces, to remember and be remembered. Then 'me 'Maseboka said, “One candle.” Sorry, I said. “One candle,” she repeated.