Two Lekgoas are better than one

In Chile, I was Gringo. In Ghana, I was Obruni. In Kenya, I was Mzungu. Now I’m locally known as Lekgoa, mostly to children. My walk to work affords me an interesting cross-section of the Gaborone demographics. I leave Village, an upper-middle class suburb where Gaborone originated in the 1950s, and pass major construction efforts on the main road, on the other side of which there is a shiny shopping centre with some of the latest fashions and home décor, at prices more or less in line with what I would expect to pay in Canada. I walk through a dirt lot, converted into a road-side driving school, a la bright orange pylons, and watch out of the corner of my eye as young people try desperately not to back over them, as they practice their parallel parking skills.

I take a shortcut through a muddy ditch, which is peppered with dry dollops of cow dung, but I have yet to encounter the bearers of such gifts on my walk. I pass Fairgrounds Business Park, which houses some of the leading corporations in Botswana, such as Barclays, KPMG, Mascom and Botswana Insurance. I greet Mamas selling sweets and fat cakes just outside of staff parking lots, sitting under umbrellas on cooler boxes, their stalls fully stocked for the day. I stride through intersections and three lanes of traffic, as if I’m invincible to oncoming traffic. Without the look of fearlessness, no one will ever give you the right of way. This look has also deterred much unwanted attention from the opposite sex, but given the right outfit, some men will be so bold as to profess their love, or ask me to marry them. My latest retort is, “Does that ever work for you?” has yet to solicit a response- most of them are smart enough to keep walking.

Opposite Fairgrounds, is the Hospice neighbourhood, known as Newstands, but the odd time I attempt to give directions, it arouses blank stares. Suddenly my celebrity status has multiplied. As I turn the corner of an outdoor welding shop, children stream from their houses, shouting,

“Lekgoa, Lekgoa!” and wave at me with wide eyes and excitement. I dodge the odd rooster or chicken, as I wave back with a dutiful “Dumela Rra/Ma!,” depending on my audience. As I walk down the dirt road to the Hospice, I observe the remnants of the previous evenings’ drink fest. When I first started walking this route, a team of community women with green felt badges and a silver star on their lapels was just beginning their efforts to clear the gutters of debris, in preparation for the coming rains. Several women sit in quiet conversation in front of their houses, and laugh at my feeble attempts at Setswana. I have tried to commend them for their hard work, in English, unsure if the message gets through. It has always frustrated me to see such pollution in neighbourhoods where children play and go to school.

Last night as I left the Hospice, I came upon a group of men in the exact same place the women has been cleaning in the morning. The men all wanted to greet me and shake my hand, as they were already in a happy state, well into their second round of Chibuku Shake Shake, a cheap local brew that comes in a milk carton. I point at the empty containers littering the street.

“What is this?” I ask indignantly. The oldest man in the group jumps up and tries to engage me in the typical, ‘Where are you from? What is your name?’ conversation. But I persist. I tell them the women have been working hard, and they are undoing their progress.

“When the rains come, everything will be flooded because of this mess.” The man tells me they have no dustbin. I tell him to get one,

“I know you can do better than this. You want to be friends with me? Than you clean up this place.”

“Okay, okay.” He agrees. “We can get one.”

“That would make me happy. I don’t want to see anymore beer and Chibuku in the gutters, alright?”

“Ay-ma”

“Ke a leboga Rra”. ‘Who knows if this will have any sort of impact?’ I think to myself as I walk home alone.

On my way through Newstands after picking up tickets to Freshly Ground (Band from South Africa, best known from singing the  remake of Waka Waka with Shakira for the World Cup), Leigh (who’s off this week after a weekend up north for a sporting event with Botswana Council of Churches),  and I were stopped by some neighbourhood women asking me what I was complaining about yesterday. I told them I asked the men to put their drinks in the dustbin. The women agreed, but were more interested in my half-eaten loaf of raisin bread. I gave it to them, and they shared it with their children, ecstatic about the presence of two Lekgoas.