Nadia Knox and the Eye of Zinnia

by Jessica McDougle

  From under the table, someone's foot tapped my shin, interrupting my thoughts. Coming out of my daydream, I could see that Minwa had been talking to me, and I hadn’t been paying attention. Embarrassed, I said, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  "Miss, are you ready to order?" she said, tapping her pencil on her notepad.

  I looked down at the menu, chose the first dish I saw, and hoped for the best.

  Next it was Teddy's turn.

  “Hmmm…" he said. "What should I order? Let me see. What about luwombo?”

  As soon as the words left Teddy’s mouth, I could hear Bantu take a deep breath.

  Looking as though she has just been shot in the heart, Minwa's face crumbled for a brief second. Taking a few deep breaths and rubbing her hands on her apron, she tried to force a smile. "I'm sorry, luwombo is not available today."

  Teddy frowned, disappointed, and slumped in his chair. Folding his arms as if he were debating on whether or not to make a big deal about it.

  Mrs. Haynes interrupted, "I'm sorry, he'll have what I'm having, the stewed chicken and coconut rice."

  As Bantu's mom finished taking the orders, I saw on her mask of concentration slowly cover the hurt. Once she had our orders, she quickly disappeared into the kitchen.

  "Did I do something wrong?" Teddy asked quietly. "It wasn't a big deal about the luwombo; I wasn't really mad. I didn't mean to make your mother upset."

  Smiling weakly, Bantu answered. "You did nothing wrong. Don't be upset." Bantu shook his head slowly from underneath his Sherlock Holmes hat. "My mother's luwombo was the best in all of Fort Portal."

  “Then why can’t we ask for it?” Teddy said. “Did somebody come along and make it better than her?”

  “No,” Bantu said sadly. “That would be a reason for her to rejoice. My mother loves to share recipes, and to find someone with a better recipe for her specialty would only make her work harder. It is much more than that.”

  “What happened?” my mom asked.

  Bantu said, "It was my older brother's favorite dish. My mother would make it for him every Saturday when we were children. Then one day my brother disappeared. Ever since then, my mother has been heartbroken. She never recovered from the loss. She stopped cooking for a long time, leaving it to my older sisters to feed the rest of us."

  “Oh, how terrible,” Mrs. Haynes said.

  “What made her start cooking again?” Chris said.

  "My sisters wanted to open a restaurant with our family recipes, and they needed my mother to help them. Somehow they got my mother to put on her apron, and she's been helping them for the last five years. There are days she seems like her old self, and there are others where it seems like she's reliving losing him all over again. You never know which mood you will get."

  "Wow," my mom said, "I can only imagine how hard it would be for her to make that dish—the memories it must drag to the surface. I don't blame her for being upset."

  While we were waiting for our food, Bantu’s mother walked by our table, concentration mask in place again. “Mother, do you have a second? I would like to introduce you to some friends of mine,” Bantu said. After he'd introduced us all by name, we sat quietly, waiting for someone to say something.

  “It was very lovely to meet you,” Minwa finally said, turning to leave.

  “Wait. My friends are here in Fort Portal doing research,” Bantu said quickly.

  Minwa turned around and looked at Mrs. Haynes. “What kind of research?”

  Mrs. Haynes said, “We're trying to get a nomination for the prestigious FISH award. It stands for Finding Inconsistencies in Science and History. Groups of scientists, archaeologists, and anthropologists research unfinished theories, try to prove established ideas wrong, or show that legends are real. We are searching for the Kamju tribe—long thought to be extinct—trying to prove that they still exist.”

  “I see,” Minwa said slowly. “But what makes you think this so-called legendary tribe wants anything to do with your modern society, if they do exist?”

  “We are hoping,” my dad said, “that the modern world can learn something from them. And, if certain protocols are met, it’s possible they might benefit from the modern world, too.”

  “So you’re going to try and find a people who weren’t looking for you, offer them advice they didn’t ask you for, and try to transform them to fit a society they want no part of?” Minwa asked.

  “Now mother, they are just looking. Who’s to say that they’ll find anything?” Bantu said, placing his hand on hers.

  “Well, isn’t that what you’re here for? To help them uncover people who don’t want to be found?” Minwa said, snatching her hand away.

  “There’s no guarantee that anything will be found,” Mrs. Haynes said. “I can understand your concern. People you don’t know, looking around where you live, trying to find something that no one wants them to see.”

  Shaking her head, Minwa said, "You know nothing of my concern for my home, or for my people." Turning to Bantu, she added, "Nothing good will come of you picking through tragedies long past. Let it be. Let these people be on their way."

  Dropping his head, Bantu said quietly, "Yes, mother."

  “I’m going to go get your food," she said quietly, heading towards the kitchen.

  My parents and the Hayneses were looking around at each other like they hadn't understood what had just happened. Looking across the table at Charlotte, I could tell she was just as confused as I was. Moments later, Minwa returned carrying a tray of piping hot food. Everyone was excited to try their new food, except Charlotte, who'd ordered fried chicken with a side of yams.

  “Of course you would come all the way to Africa and order something you could get from the Sizzler back home,” Chris said, indignant.

  “Well, if you’re so sophisticated, what did you order?” Charlotte said.

  “If you must know, I ordered the maguru,” he said.

  “And what is that?” Charlotte asked, wrinkling her nose.

  “It’s stewed tripe,” Chris answered with a grin.

  “No thanks, you can keep your sheep stomach on that side of the table,” Charlotte said.

  "That's enough, you two. We are not going to spend this entire trip listening to you go back and forth about nothing. Why don't you just sit quietly and enjoy this lovely meal?" my mom said in a stern voice.

  With that, none of us said another word. The adults took over the conversation, discussing the coming adventure and what to expect. As Minwa set our plates in front of us one-by-one, even the adults got so distracted by the delicious smells that they stopped talking. Everyone was bent over their plates, shoveling food into their mouths as fast as they could. Everyone except Charlotte, who was staring down at the simple chicken and yams on her plate, looking like she wished she'd ordered some coconut rice. She stared as Teddy scooped up a heaping spoonful of rice and stuffed it into his mouth.

  “That sure looks good,” she admitted glumly.

  “Yeah, I bet you wish you had some,” Teddy said, eating another spoonful.

  “Can I have some of yours?” Charlotte asked hopefully.

  “Nope. Next time maybe you’ll try something new,” Teddy said with a grin.

  “Whatever.” Charlotte poked at her yams with her fork unenthusiastically.

  After dinner, we all did our best to climb back in the minibus, given our full stomachs. I made sure I sat next to Charlotte, all the way in the back.

  "Why do you think Bantu's mother doesn't want us looking for the Kamju tribe?" I whispered once the engine had started.

  “I don’t know," Charlotte said. "It did seem weird that she got so upset.”

  “And the way she looked at Bantu when he said that he was helping us. It was like she was worried about what he’s going tell us. Or has already told us.”

  “Maybe," Charlotte said.

  "It sounds pretty odd to me," I said. "There's definitely a secret Minwa doesn't want Bantu to tell us." I crossed m
y arms. "There's something I don't trust about Bantu," I said, leaning closer so no one else would hear. "I don't think he is who he says he is."

  “What do you think he’s hiding? Who do you think he is?”

  “What if he’s not really from the foundation?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  "First of all, he's way too young. All the other guides we've had have been twice his age."

  "True," Charlotte said.

  "Second, how could he not have any details about our assignment? The foundation would never send us someone without telling them what they’re supposed to help us do."

  "You never know," she said. "They put us on that horrible plane. Maybe they're running low on cash."

  I ignored her. "I don't even believe Bantu's from Africa!" Somehow that seemed like the worst crime of all. "He's a fake Sherlock Holmes!"

  Charlotte burst out laughing. "Great, he'll help us solve the whole mystery."

  "It's not funny," I hissed. "This is Uganda, not Baker Street."

  "Where's Baker Street?" she said.

  I sighed. Sometimes Charlotte could be just as bad as the cool kids at school. "It's in London, but that's not the point. There's something fishy about all of this," I said, looking out the window.

  "Was that a bad joke?" Charlotte said.

  I looked at her in her stupid yellow sweatshirt. "I'm not talking to you right now," I said.

  The farther south we drove, the more the green outside the window began to disappear. The thick trees became smaller and more spread out, until there were hardly any at all. The narrow red clay road got wider and wider until it wasn't just a road, but the landscape itself, chasing the green grass to the edge of the horizon. We bumped along at a quick pace.

  “How much longer?” Chris asked from up front, in a voice I knew too well. He doesn’t just get airsick. He gets carsick, too, and there weren’t any paper bags on the minibus.

  “We’ll be at the campground any moment now,” Bantu said.

  Every time we go to a campground, I get a certain dread. It isn’t like camping in an RV park in America, where there are bathrooms and a playground. Most times we weren’t even lucky enough to have actual toilets and showers. As soon as the van pulled in the small clearing, I could tell this trip wouldn’t be any different.

  Charlotte groaned, “Not even an outhouse.” I had to admit I was disappointed, too.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll all be so busy that you’ll forget all about modern conveniences,” my mom said as we climbed out the van. “Besides, we’re close enough to the river that we’ll be able to clean up.”

  “So where are we going to pitch the tents?” I said, trying to change the subject.

  "There's only one tent, but it's big enough for twelve people. There will be plenty of room for everyone," my dad said optimistically as he and some of the other adults began unloading the minibus. "Why don't you two go with your mothers and scope out the area. Grab some wood for tonight's fire. Chris and Teddy can help unload the equipment," he said.

  As Charlotte and I walked down the trail to find our moms, I got an eerie feeling. “I don’t think I like it here,” I said. I looked at Charlotte, wondering if she felt the same way.

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “First you don’t like Bantu, now you don’t like the campgrounds. You’re not going to make this an easy trip, are you?”

  Trying to ignore her, I kept talking. “No, I mean something feels really off about this place, almost like we’re being watched.”

  Charlotte stopped in her tracks. “Nadia, I think you’re being a little dramatic. Aside from having to bathe in the river and pee in the bushes, there’s not much else to this place.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, even though I didn’t want to. Charlotte, Miss Dramatic herself, was telling me I was being dramatic! But looking around at the savanna, almost treeless and covered in brown grass and tree roots, I started to think that maybe she was right. Maybe I was overthinking things. As usual.

  Finally, we caught up with our moms, who were crouched near a tree, whispering.

  “What are you guys doing?” I said, looking around, half-expecting to see something chasing us.

  "We found something," Mrs. Haynes said. "It looks like some sort of tribal marking."

  I got closer and squinted. They didn't look like much to me, but Mrs. Haynes pulled out her digital camera and snapped several pictures. "I'm going to show these to Bantu," she said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “He’s familiar with the area,” my mom explained. “He might know what they mean.”

  “How is he familiar with the area?” I said. Charlotte shot me a warning look.

  “He grew up nearby. He’ll be able to help us navigate through the area and properly follow the customs. Things could go very badly for us if we are caught not following the customs properly,” my mom said, looking pointedly at us both over her purple-rimmed glasses.

  “But why him?” I said. “Why not someone else? He doesn’t even look like he’s old enough to have experience in anything. How are we supposed to believe he knows what he’s doing?”

  "Well, for starters," Mrs. Haynes said, "the foundation sent him. Bantu's a top university student in Fort Portal, and they must feel that he's the best person to help us find what we're looking for."

  “This all sounds a little too perfect. How can you be sure that he was sent by the foundation?” I demanded.

  My mom kept looking at me over her glasses, this time with a confused expression. “Nadia, I don’t know what you’re getting at. Why don’t you just come out and say whatever it is.”

  Taking a deep breath, I said, “I don’t trust him, Mom. I don’t think he’s telling us the truth about himself. He’s got secrets.”

  "Don't be ridiculous, Nadia. We don't need Bantu's entire life story to work with him," Mrs. Haynes said, rearranging her headscarf in annoyance.

  Charlotte gave me a look that said told-you-so.

  My mom said, "The foundation is funding the documentary, so they're calling the shots. And if we're successful, this could mean more funding and bigger projects."

  “Not to mention the FISH award,” I recited, rolling my eyes.

  “Exactly,” my mom said, patting me on the shoulder. “This could be big for all of us.”

  “And besides,” Charlotte added, “you don’t have any evidence that Bantu is hiding something, or that there’s something wrong with him. Other than that stupid accent.”

  "I did wonder about that," my mom said, continuing down the trail.

  I decided to let it go for the moment and started gathering sticks. I didn’t have any evidence as to why I felt suspicious of Bantu, but the fact that everyone else seemed to be okay with him didn’t make me feel any better. Soon my arms were full with sticks. Charlotte’s were, too, plus she also had sticks poking out of her hoodie pocket.

  “It’s not just for looks, you know,” Charlotte said.

  Looking at Charlotte, I shook my head and laughed.

  “Come on girls, I think we’ve got enough for a fire. Let’s head back,” Mrs. Haynes said, motioning us back towards the campground.

  By the time we made it back to camp, the tent was up, and they were getting together AV equipment for the documentary. I glanced at Bantu, who was sitting alone on the ground, looking around like he wasn't sure what to do. His hat was off, and he seemed to look even younger. Straightaway Mrs. Haynes began setting up her video camera, while Mr. Haynes began hooking microphones to the adults for a sound check. I knew the drill. Bantu was about to get interviewed, and I wasn't about to miss any of it. Even though it would be on camera, sometimes things get cut out of the final documentary, and I never get to see the interviews again.

  I went to my knapsack and pulled out a brand-new journal. Every time we go on a trip, I start a new journal. One day I'd like to have my traveling journals published, but at the moment I just wanted to take notes on everything Bantu said to see if he would sli
p up or change his story. I wanted proof that Bantu wasn't who he said he was.

  “Alright, we’re almost ready to roll,” my dad said. “We’re going to start by interviewing Bantu. He’s going to open up our documentary by telling us a little bit about himself.” As the sun began to sink lower in the sky, my dad started adjusting spotlights so that the camera would pick up everything around us.

  “Careful in front of that spotlight, Charlotte,” Teddy said.

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?” Charlotte said, turning around.

  Laughing, Teddy answered, "You already look like a highlighter in all that yellow. With that spotlight on you, you might turn into a solar flare."

  “Oh, very funny,” Charlotte said, pulling her hood over her head and ducking into the tent. As the adults fiddled with the lights and sound equipment, I found a seat near the tent to watch the interview.

  “Okay, Bantu,” said Mr. Haynes, pointing the camera at him. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Get him a chair, dear,” Mrs. Haynes said. “You can’t very well interview the man while he’s sitting in the dirt.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Mr. Haynes said, rushing off to get a camping chair. As soon as he left, Mrs. Haynes stole his place behind the camera. She wanted to be in charge of all the cameras, all the time. I felt bad for Mr. Haynes when he rushed back with the camping chair. He unfolded it and put a bottle of water in the drink holder. “There now,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Bantu said, sinking into the chair. “I am grateful.” He looked fidgety and nervous sitting there in the spotlight with everyone staring at him. I thought it was a sure sign he had something to hide. Charlotte crawled back out of the tent and sat next to me. I got my pen ready.