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“You know, Timo,” I said, “if you ever want to talk about anything, you can talk to me.”
“Ah, sir.” He cleared his throat. “You mustn’t worry. The test was negative.”
“I’m glad,” I said. I had no reason to think he was lying, but I knew, at his age, I wouldn’t have told the truth. “I’m not just talking about the test. I’m talking about anything.”
He nodded, and we sat in silence.
“I’m not going back to the village today,” I said. “There’s a friend I want to visit.”
“Sooo,” Timo intoned, looking at me sideways. “Is your friend a special friend?”
I laughed aloud and Timo whooped and slapped his thigh. He made such a spectacle that the cook turned and shook her head and laughed at him. I told Timo about Maya, a volunteer teacher at a nearby senior secondary school. One afternoon, I said, we sat on her porch for hours, drinking tea and talking.
“If you want her to be your special friend,” he said, “you must bring her something sweet.” He pointed to a stack of glazed fried bread in a plastic tub. I bought four rolls, and with a flourish the cook wrapped a fifth in newspaper, saying in English, “On the house.”
Timo and I shared a taxi east, and when the tar road curved south, the driver pulled over to let me out. “Yes, yes, Mr. Alan,” Timo said, “kala po nawa.” Stay well. I grasped the hand he held through the open window. As was customary, our left hands held our right forearms as we shook.
Now, years later, part of me wishes I had told Timo one more thing: that I would tell Maya about that night with Jennifer, the nights with the other women, the haunted nights alone with the STD, the HIV test. I imagine telling Timo, our hands still clasped, that before Maya and I spoke of a relationship and sex, I’d tell her everything, and that I knew she’d listen. Her eyes on mine, she’d grimace when my story called for grimacing, smile when I needed her to smile. Part of me wonders if revealing all this could’ve changed Timo’s life. Would my story have taught him to build meaningful relationships, be comfortable with vulnerability, and forgive himself his mistakes? In truth, I’m not so sure: had someone said this to me at nineteen, I doubt I would’ve listened. And perhaps Timo didn’t need me. After all, he was the one who’d initiated the test. I’ll never know, but what I do know: as a teacher in Namibia, I learned much more than I taught.
All I said was “Indaponawa,” go well, and we dropped each other’s hand.
The taxi merged onto the tar road and I watched it hurtle south, lights flashing and horn honking to warn animals off the road. Soon Timo would take the grade ten test. Soon my contract with Peace Corps would expire, two years passing in what seemed like the time it took me to cross the road. I followed a path through hip-high wild grass, careful not to disturb the goats that fed there and the boys who tended them, to Maya’s house, where we sat in the shade of her porch, with sweet bread and steaming cups of rooibus tea.
