Deadly Harvest by Michael Stanley Page A

temporary home with acceptance rather than enthusiasm. Kubu sighed. They really needed to find her a new home as soon as possible, so she could settle into a new life. But it was very difficult. No one wanted an HIV-­positive little girl.
    At last Joy stirred and gave him a sleepy kiss. Kubu put his arm over her and pulled her into his embrace. He kissed her neck. “I love you, my darling. So very much.” She smiled and snuggled even closer. Just as he was about to kiss her again, the door flew open, and the two young girls burst in. Tumi jumped on the bed, followed by Ilia. Nono stopped at the foot of the bed.
    â€œMommy, Ilia caught a rat! A big one. It’s dead. In the hallway.”
    This news didn’t exactly make Joy’s day, so Kubu rolled out of bed to take care of the matter.
    â€œCoffee in bed?” Kubu asked. Joy smiled and nodded. He walked over to Nono and lifted her onto the bed with the others. “Do you girls want cereal for breakfast? With milk and sugar?”
    Tumi enthused, and Nono nodded with a shy smile. Kubu smiled back and went to start the day.
    T HE TR AFFIC TO M OCHUDI was unusually light, and few cows and sheep had strayed onto the road to slow progress. As soon as they turned into Kgafela Drive, Ilia jumped up and stuck her nose out the slightly open window, tail wagging furiously. She knew where they were. They drove past the Taliban Haircut & Car Wash and the dubiously named Jailbird Security Company. Nono, who had never been outside Gaborone before, looked around with wide eyes.
    They arrived at Kubu’s parents’ house at around noon, earlier than expected. As soon as Joy opened the door, Ilia bounded up the stairs to the veranda and jumped onto the lap of Kubu’s waiting father. Wilmon patted her for a few moments and then struggled to his feet to greet his family. Ilia yelped as she jumped off his lap. At the sound of the car doors, Kubu’s mother, Amantle, came out of the house and stood at the top of the stairs beaming.
    Kubu walked up the stairs and greeted his parents formally, in the traditional Tswana way. “ Dumela , rra. Dumela , mma.” He then extended his right arm to his father, touching it with his left hand as a mark of respect.
    Wilmon took Kubu’s hand and responded solemnly: “ Dumela , my son.”
    â€œI have arrived,” Kubu said. “And I apologize for being early. The traffic was light.”
    â€œYou are welcome in my house. How are you, my son?”
    â€œI am well, Father. How are you and Mother?”
    â€œWe are also fine.” Wilmon’s voice was strong, but quiet.
    Then Joy reached the veranda, the girls in tow. She and Amantle embraced affectionately—­Amantle had long regarded Joy as a daughter. Then Joy hugged Wilmon—­a nontraditional greeting that always confused the old man. He obviously liked the touch but was uncomfortable with the intimacy. Tumi rushed around demanding to be picked up and kissed, and her grandparents reciprocated her affection with huge smiles. Finally, Joy introduced Nono, who was hanging back, apart from the proceedings.
    â€œCome, Nono. This is Kubu’s father, Uncle Wilmon, and this is his mother, Aunt Amantle. Come and say hello.”
    The girl came forward, accepted a hug from each of them, and then stood looking around. With her usual enthusiasm, Tumi said, “Come, Nono, let’s go to the garden. Grandfather has plants for medicine. I know their names!” She glanced at Wilmon for permission. He nodded, and they ran off.
    The women went into the kitchen carrying the provisions that Kubu and Joy had brought, leaving the men alone on the small veranda. Wilmon turned to Kubu and nodded thoughtfully.
    â€œI am glad you have another child. It is good for a man to have many children.”
    Kubu looked at him with surprise. “We can’t keep her, Father. We’re only looking after her for a few weeks.”
    Wilmon