What Mansa carries
Mansa is eight years old, lives in Maun — the gateway to the Okavango Delta, in northern Botswana — and every afternoon, when she's done with homework, she walks ten minutes to the Thamalakane river. She doesn't go alone: she goes with Lesego, her neighborhood friend, a year older, the one who walks without needing to talk.
In Mansa's backpack there's a sorghum bread sandwich and a handful of peanuts. Not because she's hungry: because she needs to know the food is there. If she goes more than four hours without eating, she goes quiet and irritable — more than usual, which is saying something. She also carries a book on African wildlife, loaned by Mma Kgosidintsi, her science teacher, who gives her a new one every week.
The walk to the river has no agenda. Mansa sits under a sausage tree — Kigelia africana, with those massive fruits hanging like lamps from an invisible ceiling — and throws stones into the water. She reads for a while. She watches birds. Lesego sits next to her and says nothing, or says something, and Mansa answers or doesn't. By six they're back home before dark. That's every day they're allowed to go.







