Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)

“What would you like to see?” he asks, but I’m already climbing down from the Jeep.

A few woman carrying baskets on their heads stop to stare at me. The children at their feet gape openly. I go straight for the clinic.

It’s a small building consisting of a reception area and a door leading off to each side and the back. The door sign on the left reads consultation room and the one on the right dispensary. A sign above a hallway leading toward the back reads toilets.

Two people are waiting in the reception area, but when Shona tells the receptionists who I am, she picks up an old-fashioned, rotary dial telephone and announces my visit. A woman dressed in a white uniform—the nurse, I presume—immediately comes out of the consultation room.

Her smile is broad. “What can I do for you, Miss Cas?”

“Just Cas,” I say in Tswana.

She does a double take. If possible, her smile turns even wider. “Okay, Cas. I’m Maita.”

“I’m sorry for disturbing you.” I wave at the patients. “I’ll wait my turn.”

“No, go ahead.” At my hesitation, she adds, “They’re only here to pick up prescription medicine. They won’t mind waiting a few minutes. You’re our guest of honor after all.”

Guest of honor is an interesting way of putting it.

Banga shuffles his feet next to me, and Shona watches me with curiosity.

“Do you have the morning-after pill?” I ask.

Banga coughs. Shona gives the minutest shake of her head.

The smile vanishes from the nurse’s face. A blank look comes over her features. “I’m sorry, no. We administer the shot for the women who request birth control. We haven’t needed any stock up to now.”

“Ah.” My shoulders sag with disappointment. Today was my last chance of getting a pill. After tomorrow, the window of opportunity would’ve closed.

“Do you need anything else?” she asks.

“No. Thank you anyway.”

“You’re welcome.” Her smile returns, but unlike earlier, the gesture is uncertain. “Drop in any time you like.”

After saying the customary polite greeting to the nurse, receptionist, and the patients, I walk outside into the bright sunlight. What am I supposed to make of her attitude? Somehow, I get the feeling her reservation had more to do with fear of Ian’s reaction to my request than judgment.

Stopping on the pavement, I prop my hands on my hips and look around. The small village is a neatly organized network of dirt roads crossing the main road that runs through the center. A convenience store makes up half of the block on the opposite side of the clinic, and the other half is taken up by a school. The designations of the buildings are painted across the walls in big, bold letters. Whereas the clay walls of the thatched huts are decorated with beautiful, ochre patterns, the graffiti on the school and general store walls are colorful. It’s artistically done.

Banga keeps the respectable three steps of distance between us. “Where to now, Miss—uh, Cas?”

His uncomfortable fiddling tells me he’d like to get back to the office and his work, but I didn’t force him to come. Shona did. I trace the hills with my gaze to where the maize gives way to vegetable crops on the banks of the river. Women, some with baskets and others with babies tied to their backs, are bent over rows of cabbages.

“There,” I say, pointing toward the vegetable plantations.

Banga frowns.

I climb back into the Jeep. “Give me a tour of the town first.”

We drive down the main road while Shona points out the buildings. The open-air boma with a thatched roof for shade serves as a crafts factory where women make jewelry from seed pods and beads. Others weave baskets from grass. The chatter is lively and the atmosphere jovial. We’re greeted with much curiosity and enthusiasm. I immediately like the place. Shona explains the other crafts as she gives me the tour. Plastic bags that are cleaned up from the side of the main road to Vic Falls are recycled into woven floor rugs and placemats. Some women batik-dye fabric or weave wool for knitting.

On the opposite side, men make furniture and carve ornaments from wood. Ebony figurines, animals, and chess sets are polished to a shine to be sold at the local markets in Vic Falls as well as exported to the African markets in neighboring countries. I admire the goods and chat a little with the artisans before Shona says it’s getting close to lunchtime and we better move on.

After the market, we visit the terrain where maize flour is produced with an old-fashioned donkey mill. The inhabitants’ industriousness is the reason they’re thriving. Every hut is thatched and its walls decorated. The gardens are neat with squash and pumpkins in the back and orange daisies in the front.

At the end of the street is a hall for gatherings and children’s concerts, and the traditional shebeen is situated across the road. The shebeen has an inside bar area and picnic tables and benches outside. A reed awning that provides shade is decorated with colorful beads and dry seed pods. A giant speaker covered in dust stands in the corner, and next to it is a huge, stainless-steel brewing kettle. I’m guessing they use the kettle for brewing barley beer, which is the most common drink served at the local shebeens.