Louisa April

@KitsoThato_ I was registering a local domain. I sent out emails end of last year for quotes to plan. By Jan, selected and paid and everything is set up. One of them called yesterday to ask if I was assisted with a quote😂 I said yes. Everything is set up, with someone else though.

I just got an email reply from a designer in Botswana. I sent the email in August 2025.😭

✨ Applications are open for the #AIDS2026 Prevention Ambassador Fellowship! Fellows will: 🔹 Lead a digital #HIV prevention content project 🔹 Attend AIDS 2026 🔹 Take part in networking opportunities ⏰ Apply by 15 February #RethinkRebuildRise 👉 iasociety.org/sites/default/…

The lightning didn't come to play today🥴

We are paying for the head massage and hot towel that comes with it. And not having a single razor bump appear after. 😅

The rooms exist and we are in them 🤍 #GMGSF #UNEA7 #YEA25

Adding to my list

@Kanyo_M This is so true. O gata no 40 k not going anywhere in particular and not feeling the distance. Everywhere is art. Every corner is a photobooth waiting for your smile.

A re "Darling hold my hand....." 🤣🤣🤣

When we speak of initiatives, we tend to miss out because we show up, and people take these trips as vacations instead of doing the work they were assigned to do. Imagine the funding that could have been provided had we mobilised people.

I was told people had come for training a few weeks before, on how to participate in the program. However non of Botswana's schools were on the map.

While in Barcelona I attended a session on internet connectivity across schools on the world. They had done work across Africa and I particularly inquired about Botswana.

Nna I want to know gore CCTV e nna kae when it's like this.

Tiro e ntsi thata💔bana baka pasa jang go ntse jaana

It is always time for new Lianne La Havas.

The process of cheating is too long to be a mistake. It is a hallway of small doors you open on purpose, one after another, telling yourself each one is nothing. It starts quiet. A message answered faster than it should be. A laugh that stays in your throat a second too long. The first lie is not about bodies. It is about time. You say good night at 1:14 and stay awake until 2:37. You hide the blue light on your face with the blanket. You learn the choreography of the dimmer. Then come the edits. A name in your phone becomes a last initial. A thread moved to archive. Location turned off because the battery is low, which is also true. Truth is a tool here. You use just enough of it to make the lie stand upright. There is the outfit you say you wore yesterday. There is the perfume you swear belongs to a lobby. There is the receipt you fold until the ink cracks and then you throw it away at a gas station across town. The car smells like mint gum and something you cannot pronounce. Your mouth does not taste like yours. The body learns the route. At 18:09 you text I will be late, a sentence built like a bridge no one inspects. At 18:22 the elevator mirrors show you from all sides and you practice a face you can bring back home. At 18:37 a door that is not yours opens and the air rushes you like it has been waiting. Your hands know the lock before your tongue knows a prayer. Inside, nothing is accidental. The glass of water because thirsty is the one honest word you still respect. The way you put your phone face down and then face up, as if a screen could bless you. The way you keep the music low so you can hear a hallway. You are not falling. You are arranging furniture in a room you told yourself you would never enter. Cheating is logistics. It is a calendar you learned to bend. It is a shower that runs too hot because you believe heat erases. It is a story that keeps changing shoes. I was with a friend. I was working. I was near my phone but charging. The story never limps because you keep feeding it time, and time is meat. Cheating is also a rehearsal of the sentence you will use when you are caught. You practice it in traffic. You practice it while the pasta water tries to boil and fails for a minute. You practice it in bed with your back touching the person who thinks you fell asleep in a movie. You craft a version of yourself that looks tired. You forget that tiredness has a smell and you do not. People say it was a mistake as if they tripped. No one trips into a second toothbrush. No one slips into silence this precise. You made a map and then called the road a surprise. The only accident here is how much of yourself you did not plan to lose. Because cheating does not start with someone else. It starts when you cheat your own house. It starts when you leave your longing outside in the cold and pretend it will not break the window trying to get in. It starts when you swallow a need until it becomes sharp, then blame the cut on the glass instead of your refusal to speak before you bled. There is a cost ledger that arrives slowly. Your inside jokes at home stop accruing interest. You pick fights you do not care to win because distance needs fuel. You become generous in public and cheap in the kitchen. Your laugh sounds like a language you do not speak. The person who loves you learns to read barometric pressure in your eyes. Storm. Storm again. Not all betrayal looks like sheets. Sometimes it looks like a phone you keep cleaner than your conscience. Sometimes it looks like contempt, which is a quiet rope saw. Sometimes it looks like the way you stop seeing the person who knows your middle name and start looking for a mirror that makes you taller. Infidelity is not only sex. Infidelity is any place you move your truth without telling the one who would have helped you carry it.

Saw these locally🇧🇼 produced KATLEGO sanitary pads yesterday and immediately made a purchase🥺. They retail for a reasonable price as well👌🏽. I love it when a fellow Motswana’s work/name is up there on the entrepreneur map!

Late replies do not bother me. Most of life is not urgent. Text me when the kettle has cooled and the day stops shouting your name. I have learned the shape of waiting that is not personal. The phone sleeps face down. The little dots come and go like fish. I load the dishwasher. I fold a shirt that will wrinkle again in ten minutes. The world does not burn because a bubble did not pop on my screen. Take your time if we are not in love and you do not owe me money. Walk your dog. Miss your stop and laugh. Close your laptop and remember your own temperature. Answer me tomorrow or next week, with crumbs on your sleeve and a screenshot that makes sense of nothing. We are people with spines and errands. I am not a court. You are not on trial. There are two places where silence grows teeth. Love. And debt. If we are in love, delay is a weather report. I listen for thunder in the gap. My chest reads your absence like a map with a torn corner. Text me when you can, and if you cannot, let me know you are alive. A single word will do. Here. Breathing. Later. Lovers live inside each other’s nervous systems. Small pauses are not small there. The body counts. If you owe me money, time is respect with numbers on it. You do not have to write a poem. You do not have to explain your childhood. Tell me a date. Tell me an amount. Keep it. Or ask for a plan that will not bruise you. Ghosting is expensive. It charges interest in distrust. Pay with words first if you cannot pay with cash. For everyone else, I vote for mercy. I answer when I can and I forgive when you cannot. At 09:14 I am in a queue with a loaf that still remembers the oven. At 12:31 I am in the sun outside a pharmacy, counting my breaths to eight so the day will let me back in slowly. At 23:06 I am a person with a book and a lamp and a face that does not belong to a screen. Your blue bubble can wait. Mine can too. Late replies are proof that a life is being lived off camera. A seat on a bus. A spill wiped with the good towel by mistake. A kid calling from the other room. A pan that needs two more minutes. It is not neglect, it is oxygen. We are not notifications. We are weather that changes without asking for applause. When I finally reply, I want to bring a real minute back with me. Not an apology written to impress. A plain sentence that carries heat from a stove or wind from a street. Sorry, I was making soup. Sorry, I was not sorry to be away. Here I am now. What did I miss. Where does it hurt. Where do we begin again. If we are not braided by love, if we are not tied by debt, take your time. Take it fully. Give it back clean. I will meet you where the day lets us both breathe.

I have seen “co-working” spaces going for P150/hr in Gaborone. I use the free library at MYSC building in CBD. Great wifi, mostly empty and quiet.

Lol.

My people, that city bus thing was bought and launched to be parked by CBD? Or are there others that are running around?

Bathong, do allergies come with the 30's? 😭😭😭