I’M NOT sure why I agreed when Adichie invited me to go for a picnic with him and his Norwegian friend. The combination of Adichie, a Nigerian PhD student at Rhodes and Peter, a professor in the Sociology Department, was usually more than I could bear at a time. It was impossible for those two to snap out of academic mode.

It was a clear November Sunday, with the sun casting its full warm rays on our seats. Adichie and Peter sat in the front of the car while I sat in the back with Peter’s two children.

I was quiet for most of the trip. My silence made them uncomfortable because they knew me to be chatty.

“Are you okay?” asked Adichie.

“I’m fine. Don’t mind me. I’m just a bit tired,” I said.

The truth was that I was intimidated by the two academics’ seriousness and lack of humour. I was not in the mood to fight intellectual wars. Nor did I want to be made to feel embarrassed by my ignorance. So I left them to eloquently contest one another from different points of view, even on topics they agreed on.

Since I had come to Rhodes University, I’d learnt to avoid academics as far as possible when I wanted to enjoy myself and unwind. I found it hard to relax while discussing theories and philosophies. I preferred uninhibited, simple conversations and would rather leave the theories for the lecture halls. I had just submitted my final essay and my head was still rattling as if there were tins and nails in it. My brain needed a break. I would have preferred to go and unwind in the township.

I sat there with the five-year-old twins, a girl and a boy. Their father kept on checking them in the rearview mirror and talking to them in Norwegian. They were born in South Africa and had only visited Norway during holidays. Peter bragged to us about how he had single-handedly taught them his home language. Every now and then he paused from his clever talk with Adichie to say something to the children.

I found myself envying the twins. I wished I could go back to my childhood and have a father that was this attentive. Or that I could return to my youth and re-conceive my two boys with a man this caring. I later discovered that Peter was separated from his Xhosa wife and his children were now living with him full time. I wondered about what could have caused the split. If I had a man who cared about children this much, I would never leave him, I thought.

I became lost in my thoughts, as the two men engaged in their intellectual gymnastics. As we drove through the green mountains that separated Grahamstown and the nature reserve, I began to explore the darker tracks of my life. There was a bitter taste in my mouth as my thoughts turned to my father and my children’s father.

I recalled how, when he was fifteen, my younger son, Gamza, ran away from home to look for his father. He hitch-hiked to Thohoyandou town, where Luvhengo, his father, lived. He went straight to the police station where Luvhengo worked and asked for him. He did not even know what his father looked like, as the last time he had seen him was when he was a year old. They told him that he was on leave and would be back in two days’ time. My son did not push to find out where his father’s home was, as he was afraid that Luvhengo’s new wife might not like him. He roamed around the town for two days, sleeping in the graveyard at night. In the meantime, I was looking for him everywhere, and I had filed a missing person’s case in Polokwane, where we lived.

On the third day, my son met his father for the first time. Gamza said he was amazed by how much he looked like him. Luvhengo took my son to KFC and bought him a Streetwise Two. They sat and he ate. The boy said he was happy to have met him and had all kinds of hopes for their newfound relationship.

“I want to come and stay with you,” my son told his father. “I am tired of my mother’s husband calling us luckless and fatherless bastards.” Gamza told his father everything, including the fact that my current husband was abusive and not contributing much financially in our home, which belonged to me. Apparently Luvhengo listened attentively, remaining silent for some time. When it was his turn to respond, he said, “Look son, I am happy that you have hunted me down.

It is a good thing that we now know each other. You see, life is more complicated than you think. I am a clerk at the police station. I earn very little. I am not as rich as your mother, who is educated.”

“Look at you: you are wearing clothes that I cannot afford, even for myself. Nike shoes, a Puma T-shirt … I know how much those things cost. You probably go to a private school. What I am telling you is that as much as I might want you to live with me, I could never afford to look after you. I have another wife with five children. Our house has two bedrooms, you see.”

“Another thing is that my wife fought a lot with your mother years ago. I don’t think she will accept you. I am sorry, but you have to go back to your mother. Life with her is much better than what I can offer.”

Luvhengo then told Gamza to give him my number, and took out his cellphone from his jacket. I remember how surprised I was to receive a call from him.

“Hello Mapula. It’s me, Luvhengo. I am with Gamza here. He said he hitchhiked—”

“What? Where?” I interrupted him. He then ran out of airtime and I had to call him back.

“You must come and fetch him. I told him you are a good mother,” said Luvhengo. I was so annoyed with him for rejecting my son like that. But I wasn’t shocked, because he had never cared enough to contribute a cent towards bringing up the two boys. I hadn’t even bothered to take him to the maintenance court.

I told Gamza to meet me at the Caltex garage. I warned him not to bring his father along as I might kill him. He couldn’t even make a plan to get his son back home. In the car Gamza was mute. I did not say anything either. I could see the hurt in his black eyes. I left him alone with his thoughts and focused on my own anger.