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?



