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A Bus Ride Home: A Journey of Women, of Friends, of Relationships
A Bus Ride Home: A Journey of Women, of Friends, of Relationships
A Bus Ride Home: A Journey of Women, of Friends, of Relationships
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A Bus Ride Home: A Journey of Women, of Friends, of Relationships

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When Tlotlego encounters her childhood lover at a wedding, her life is thrown into disarray. After her divorce, she tried to get her life back and flush men out of her system. Now seeing Jabu - the boy whose kiss made her feel things she could not describe at 14 - reignited her feelings for him and his for her. They decide to give their love a chance. Then she sees a part of him that unnerves her. She goes to Lesotho for a 124km walk, hoping to reflect on her life. Her journey takes us through her life and that of her friends, Kgopolo, Amantle and Pelontle.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherXlibris UK
Release dateSep 26, 2013
ISBN9781483693392
A Bus Ride Home: A Journey of Women, of Friends, of Relationships
Author

Tidimalo

Growing up in a small and remote village in South Africa, Tidimalo Manyaapelo enjoyed reading and writing. While she wrote drama scripts for her church youth group, she never realised writing was a gift she could share. She enjoyed radio drama and wished to write and act for radio. She later acted in radio drama and went on to write radio drama and educational programmes for SABC radio. She has edited several Setswana Learner’s and Teacher’s books and also contributed short stories and a short drama in a Setswana Reader. This is her first novel.

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    A Bus Ride Home - Tidimalo

    1

    T lotlego got into the bus to Mate in Lesotho, and since there was a long queue outside and it was certain that not everybody was going to fit in there, she knew she didn’t have the luxury of choosing a seat. Not that it would have made a difference. She was travelling alone and all seats seemed to be the same anyway. None seemed to be intact.

    She sat next to a man with unusually big eyes. They looked more like they were being pushed from inside. He smiled.

    Agee,’ she said in her most respectful tone.

    He replied with a nod and an even wider smile, revealing a beautiful set of teeth. She’d always had a thing for beautiful teeth. Maybe because she thought her own set was not so perfect. She’d sworn she wouldn’t go under the knife regardless of her wobbly underarms and other not-so-perfect bits. After all, nobody was perfect, she reasoned. But she had pondered the idea of buying herself a beautiful smile.

    ‘We’re lucky we were not at the back. Otherwise, we were going to have to throw the javelin,’ the stranger said with a naughty smile.

    She followed his gaze to the javelin throwers. She let out an animated laugh at the sight. Those who did not get seats had to stand up and hold on to the rail above their heads. She looked at him.

    This is going to be some interesting trip, she thought.

    Prior to the arrival of the bus, she had been feeling a bit edgy. She had arrived in Maseru about two hours earlier and was due to catch a bus to a village called Mate, about 150 km away. The thought of riding in a bus with a bunch of strangers in a strange country wasn’t appealing. In fact, since leaving her hometown of Mafikeng that morning, all she did was struggle with an internal conflict regarding that bus ride. People had participated in the Menkhoaneng-to-Thaba-Bosiu walk for more than five years. All those years, they were ferried by bus from Maseru to Mate without a single incident. A part of her, which she tried without much luck to silence, kept reminding her that there was always a first time and that in some of these countries, anything was possible. She had to stop that voice before it made her regret her impulsive decision to be part of this walk.

    *     *     *

    At the border, she just couldn’t understand why the queue was so long. At another window, she saw sisters chatting gaily. She was convinced their chat had nothing to do with what they were employed to do. That was boring. Was that what she signed for when she resolved to do the 124 km three-day walk? Hell, no! She had expected that to be torture, but this was not the kind of torture she had in mind.

    She got into her car after her passport went through the normal checks. She was relieved. The car was just moving from the parking when she saw him. She could not believe her eyes.

    Welcome to Lesotho, she thought.

    But then she was still on the South African side. What the heck? She stopped the car and immediately took out her BlackBerry Torch. She then started clicking.

    ‘What do you think you’re doing? Are you from the newspapers?’ asked her victim.

    How could she have resisted? I mean where on earth have you ever seen a policeman—no, a South African policeman, clad in shorts? There, in front of her car, was this man in full police uniform, only his trousers, which held his work firearm at the back, were short. She had never seen anything like that, and she was obviously fascinated. Being a lover of photos that told a story, she couldn’t waste a minute. This, she had to share.

    She was summoned to get out of the car, which she did without any qualms. She was still giggling, oblivious of how livid the policeman was.

    ‘What gives you the right to take my photo without even asking permission? What are you? A wannabe paparazzo?’ the man asked approaching.

    Looking at him, she could see he was not joking. She could see sweat on his nose and couldn’t miss the quiver on his lips as he spoke. She knew she had to humble herself or risk losing her cellphone or, worse, risk being told to go back to wherever it was she came from. Hell, how sad that would be. She was looking forward to the adventure—to walk 124 km with strangers and be in a space where she could reflect on her life. She needed to be part of this walk. Yes, walking and hiking, to her, was a passion and some sort of an addiction, but this was not about feeding the monster. It was about taking time off to do some soul-searching. Walking in the wilderness with a bunch of strangers seemed ideal.

    Intshwarele ntate,’ she said, having gathered all her manners. She had alighted from the car and was approaching the man in blue shorts with some trepidation.

    ‘I . . . ,’ she choked, partly because of the stern stare from the man.

    ‘Give me that phone,’ he demanded.

    Like hell she was going to give him her phone. While she was trying desperately to suppress the male rebel within, she knew she was not letting any man in blue shorts take her expensive BlackBerry. She could go hang for all she cared. Who the hell did he think he was anyway? South Africa was a free country, and she was not about to be intimidated by a man in uniform.

    ‘I didn’t mean to offend you rra, I was just . . . ,’ she stopped. ‘I just like your uniform. Honestly. That’s why I was taking your picture,’ she said meekly, having pondered with the idea of telling him she actually fancied him.

    She had concluded he was not the type to flirt with. Her fake timidity seemed to work for the guy’s brow was no longer tensed. She could swear she saw a smile forming around his not-so-nice-looking lips. They were pinkish and very dry, almost begging to be cared for. She also had a thing for lips. She liked them full and luscious. Her very first kiss might have had something to do with this.

    ‘Where are you from?’ he asked in a more pleasant tone.

    ‘I’m from Mafikeng in the North-West province. But I work in Johannesburg. I’m here for the Menkhoaneng-to-Thaba-Bosiu walk, and I’m actually running late for the bus to Mate.’ Her face lit as she explained the reason for her visit.

    ‘That’s very brave. You didn’t strike me as the adventurous type,’ he said, smiling.

    She immediately noticed that his teeth were what she called a distastefully packed cupboard.

    ‘You know what they say,’ she said, winking, ‘don’t judge a book by its cover.’ The last part was said in a lowered and seductive tone. The real Tlotlego had resurfaced.

    ‘Now tell me, what are you going to do with that photo?’ he asked with a smirk, obviously charmed by the short woman in cargo shorts.

    She explained her fascination with the shorts as she had never seen a policeman wearing those before. She went on to show him that she actually didn’t even include his face as she had no intention of offending him.

    ‘Maybe you should take one with my face. I mean . . . so it keeps you company in the bush. I hear it can be hectic there.’

    She was never going to refuse that offer, though she knew she would delete the ugly-looking thing from her expensive phone the minute she got into the car. She took the photo and showed it to the subject who smiled approvingly. He asked for her business card, which, she said, she didn’t bring as she was not there for business. He understood and settled for a phone number. She gave him her male colleague’s number and left.

    *     *     *

    Somebody came into the bus and asked the javelin throwers to get out as alternative transport had been arranged for them and those still outside. She breathed a sigh of relief as she had been wondering how she was going to breathe with so many people in the bus. Instead, more bags were brought in and lined up in the passage. Only a small space was left for some movement.

    Looking at the guys packing the bags, she realised that her arrival in Maseru was not without drama. She had promised herself the previous year that she had to visit Lesotho and Swaziland. It didn’t make sense that she had not been to her neighbouring countries, though she had been to several countries within and beyond the continent. So when she heard about the walk, she decided immediately to go for it. It didn’t matter that none of her hiking buddies were available at such notice. She was doing the walk. She needed it. Her head needed it. Plus she was going to have a tick on her to-do list for the year.

    2

    W hen she arrived at the offices mentioned in the registration information, a lady, who introduced herself as Teboho, told her that three buses had already left. That didn’t bother her much as she indicated that there was still another bus. She also said they were still waiting for a group from South Africa. The last news brought some relief, though she could not make out why. Yes, they would be from her country, but the truth was they would be strangers.

    As she removed her bags from the car, the lady looked at her with astonishment. She had a big backpack with all she needed for the walk. She had toyed with the idea of taking only one set of clothes for the three days. What would be wrong with that? She had, in the past, spent three days in the Drakensberg with one set of clothes—undies and all. There was no shower or bath, and she had to do with wet wipes for her face, underarms, and intimate area. Not that she minded. But never had she imagined that her friend Pelontle could survive three days without a proper bath.

    Pelontle is eccentric in every way imaginable. She always wore colourful clothes, matching from head to toe. Oh, need we mention make-up and accessories? She had all the wildest colours even before colour blocking became fashionable. You’d swear she bought from special shops. Her clothes were different. Not always exclusive but very different. She wore her make-up and big colourful ear pieces even during hiking. Even as her friends removed what they deemed unessential to lighten the load they would carry for the three days, she was not going anywhere without her make-up kit. Her reasoning was simple. Should she die there, she should still be a beautiful corpse. She wanted to be remembered as that girl who took care of herself without compromise. Tlotlego could not forget how she once brought her a wild, floral bell-bottom trouser and an Afro wig to wear to a sixties-themed party.

    *     *     *

    It was a mutual friend’s birthday, and Tlotlego was bent on wearing her bootleg jeans and a top with flared sleeves. Her reasoning was that the bootleg and the flared sleeves gave her attire a sixties feel.

    Pelontle was not going to hear any of that. She came prepared. She let Tlotlego wear her top with the bell-bottom trousers that she had brought. It was not just a pair of bell-bottom trousers. They were a bright lime green with bright cerise pink and yellow floral patterns. She had to wear the biggest Afro wig she had ever laid eyes on and add platform shoes to the mix. The poor girl was your typical tomboy. She preferred her pumps and at the most three-quarter heels. That was not all. Pelontle had brought all her accessories, including the oversized sunglasses, which Tlotlego had sworn on her mother’s grave she would never wear.

    ‘We have to make a statement, my friend. People should always remember our entrance, style, baby, style,’ Pelontle had said, applying make-up on her face.

    That was too much for this plain Jane. The closest she came to making herself look beautiful was having her eyebrows tweezed just a little, more like cleaning them up as her beautician would say. Then she would put on a colourless lipgloss. That was it. She was content with being the plain girl she was. Once in a while, she would brush her eyelashes with a colourless mascara just to remove them from her oval-shaped eyes.

    *     *     *

    Teboho looked at her as she removed more stuff from the boot. Tlotlego felt obliged to explain.

    ‘These are just my walking shoes. Or maybe I should leave these ones that I’m wearing and put on my walking shoes, hey. But I need flip-flops, you know, for . . .’ she almost said, for taking a shower. Then she remembered that she was going to be a bush baby for the coming three days.

    ‘I meant, maybe I should take my crogs for in the evening. I mean when the feet are sore after the hectic walk,’ she said, not knowing why she had to explain but still feeling the need to.

    ‘Well, you will need them for crossing the river. And at least those will not be swept away like the ordinary flip-flops,’ Teboho said.

    Did she have to remind her about the river now? And how deep was it if it could sweep things away? What were the chances of her being swept away?

    ‘Um . . . the guy I spoke to told me you guys help those like me who are scared of water when crossing the river, you do, don’t you?’ she said, not quite able to read Teboho’s face.

    ‘Oh, that! So you’re scared of water? You know you’re going to cross about four rivers?’

    ‘Four?’ The fear in her voice could not be disguised. ‘But the information mentions only one river.’ What was she thinking? That was the intrusive voice again.

    ‘Well, Mamafubelu is the only one that’s a bit deep as the water comes just above the knees. The rest are just streams, but you may have to remove your shoes at some point. In other places, there are rocks, so you can just sort of hop on to the next like that. In any case, people help one another when walking as you might know. Or still, you can use our local taxi,’ Teboho said, looking at her with pity.

    ‘Taxi?’ Tlotlego was confused.

    Teboho was referring to the Basotho ponies. She explained that at some streams, locals offered to help walkers cross over with their ponies for a small fee. Tlotlego was impressed that the locals were embracing business opportunities elicited by the walk. Commendable, she thought.

    ‘Will this be like your first walk?’ asked Teboho.

    ‘Well, obviously the Menkhoaneng-to-Thaba-Bosiu will be my first, but you know in the North-West province, there is this annual walk that we do towards the end of May, beginning of June. It’s called the Heritage Park walk. It’s almost the same distance, let me see, about 135 km over five days. We walk from Pilanesberg Game Reserve to Madikwe Game Reserve, and the next year, vice versa. I walk it every year. But except that, I’m generally an ardent hiker.’

    Her confidence had been restored. She had felt the need to redeem herself since she was almost sure Teboho was about to write her off as a chancer. She was just happy that she put her in her place. What gave her the right to decide that she didn’t have what it took to do the 125 km? Deep down, she knew she was scared to the core. How on earth did she expect to walk 54 km in one day? She couldn’t even finish 50 km at an ultra-marathon. But then again she remembered that it wasn’t her fault entirely. It felt good to blame someone else. It was Pelontle who encouraged her to call it a day after 44 km.

    *     *     *

    ‘My friend, we didn’t come here to commit suicide, and if you did, then you didn’t tell me. So I’m not asking you. We are not continuing with this s***t walk. We are going to wait under that tree, and they will collect us.’

    Tlotlego was at a loss for words. Yes, she was tired, and, yes, she had a throbbing headache. But that was no reason for her to give up at just 6 km to go. She knew the headache was part of a premenstrual syndrome which had been an undesirable part of her life for the past

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