Nadia Knox and the Eye of Zinnia

by Jessica McDougle

  But on the other hand, the thought of finding and exposing people who didn’t want to be found made me want to reach for a sick bag.

  Chapter Two

  “Finally,” Chris said eight-and-a-half hours later, stretching his arms and legs as we walked off the plane. Trying to sleep in an airplane seat was hard. I was starting to feel like I’d been turned into a pretzel.

  “Don’t get too excited,” Charlotte said, tightening her neon yellow sweatshirt around her waist. “We still have to go through border control and customs, and that’s going to take at least an hour.”

  “Everyone, make sure you have your passports ready,” said Mrs. Haynes, handing Teddy and Charlotte theirs. Mr. Haynes started feeling around in his pockets again. “First compartment of your briefcase,” Mrs. Haynes said again with a sigh. Mr. Haynes isn’t too bothered about being forgetful. He says he saves his brains for the important things. But when you’re going through customs, there’s nothing more important than your passport.

  “Found it!” he said, holding it up like a trophy.

  On most of our trips, we flew in little private planes the museums rented for us. Chris calls them flying taxis. The museums always paid for my parents to travel to far-off places to find new artifacts for their displays. This time was different. We’d had to fly on a regular airline, squashed in with everyone else, even though the plane was huge. It also meant we landed at the same airport as everybody else, which meant standing in line forever. I couldn’t believe how many people were traveling to Uganda. The Fort Portal airport was almost as busy as Disneyland on Memorial Day weekend, and just as hot.

  As we snaked through the line for border control, I noticed how different the airport in Uganda was compared to American airports. The people in Fort Portal were polite and cheerful, not elbowing through the crowds and running their luggage over your toes like in America. I didn't see anyone sprinting to the other end of the airport to catch an already-departed plane. In Uganda, even the food sellers smiled at everybody. The music playing over the speaker wasn't like anything you'd hear on the radio back home. It was traditional African music, the kind I'd heard when we'd traveled to Zimbabwe a few years ago. The marimbas tinkled like wind chimes in a summer evening breeze, and the bongo drums beat like the pulse of a lion lazing in the sun. It seemed like the music was relaxing everyone. They seemed to be floating to their destinations on their tiptoes like they were part of a slow-motion kick line on Broadway.

  “Listen to those drums,” Teddy said, doing a pretend drum solo drum in the air. “Man, I wish I could play like that.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes, but I couldn’t help smiling. Like his dad, Teddy was hardly ever bothered by anything. His glass was always half-full, even in the sweltering heat.

  It felt like we had been standing in line for hours when the agent motioned for me. I went up to the counter with my passport ready.

  “What brings you to Uganda?” she said in a thick accent.

  I stood there looking at her for a moment, caught off guard.

  “Uh…for research…I mean, for my parents’ research. They’re anthropologists,” I stammered, looking down at my boots.

  “Oh, is that right?” she said with a wide smile. “And what kind of research are they doing?”

  I wasn’t really sure how to answer. My parents always told me to be careful about how much we told others about our research because some people might be angry if they thought we were sticking our noses where they didn't belong.

  “Um…the Nile River,” I said. “They’re going to do research on the Nile River.”

  “Hmm….the Nile River,” the agent said, closing her eyes and smiling. “You can almost smell the dampness of the earth and hear the water flowing like the music of harp strings. It is such a beautiful sight. I’m sure you will learn many things there.”

  As she stamped my passport, she leaned in closer and whispered, “Those waters hold many secrets. Be sure that you can be trusted with them.”

  I took my passport back quickly and followed the arrows for baggage claim. Secrets were my specialty, but how could she know that?

  Once we'd all had our passports stamped, Mrs. Haynes rushed us to the conveyor belts where the suitcases swirled in a messy jumble. After everyone had fished out their bags, we walked out into the blinding sun to see a tall guy in faded t-shirt and jeans leaning against a pale green mini-bus, holding a sign that said "Bantu Awalk Alsheer." I thought that was weird. Usually, our guides hold signs with our names on them. He wore one of those hats like in Sherlock Holmes, the ones with a bill in the front and the back. When he saw us walking towards him, he put down the sign and took off his hat, revealing a dark, bald head that glistened in the sun like a polished gumball. I thought that was weird, too. He didn’t look much older than eighteen.

  Teddy started laughing. “He’s from England, not Africa!”

  “Teddy!” Mrs. Haynes said.

  “What? Look at the way he’s dressed—like someone from an old mystery novel,” Teddy said, taking a bow.

  “You can’t determine where a person is from by the way they dress,” Mr. Haynes said.

  “Grandma says you can,” Teddy said.

  Laughing, Mr. Haynes answered, “Well, look at me. My clothes don’t tell you where I’m from.”

  “You’ve got a point there, dad,” Charlotte said giggling.

  "Hello, my friends," Bantu said waving at us. Walking over to him, my mom introduced herself. "Hello, Mr. Alsheer. My name is Shannon Knox. It's so good of you to come along and help us."

  Smiling, he shook her hand. "Please, call me Bantu. I am happy to help you and your team in any way I can, Mrs. Knox."

  I stared at him with my mouth open. He didn’t sound like he was from Africa at all. He sounded like he was from England, right out of Mary Poppins. I looked at Charlotte. She just shrugged.

  Mrs. Haynes shook Bantu’s hand next. “Wonderful! I’m Joyce. Joyce Haynes, the team’s one-woman camera crew.”

  "I am happy to meet you, Mrs. Joyce," Bantu said, smiling brightly. Everybody introduced themselves one-by-one.

  “Greg Knox,” my dad said, holding out his big, strong hand.

  “Tim Haynes,” Charlotte and Teddy’s dad said.

  “My name’s Chris,” my brother said. “Are you from London?”

  Bantu smiled and shook his head. “I was born and raised here. I have never left Africa.”

  Charlotte walked up to him and shook his hand confidently like she'd been meeting strangers all her life. Well, I guess she had.

  I went up to him slowly, avoiding his eyes. "I'm Nadia," I said quietly. "Nice to meet you."

  "Hello, Nadia," he said. I didn't look up, but I could feel his eyes boring holes into me. After a few seconds, he said, "There is no need to be shy. Here we are all friends."

  I nodded quickly and stepped aside, making way for the last of the crew.

  “I’m Teddy!” he said, bouncing on his toes. “Can I see your hat?”

  Mrs. Haynes shook her head, but Bantu just smiled and leaned down.

  Before we get to the campgrounds, my parents needed to check in at the headquarters that the foundation has set up for us. "I'm really hoping that the order for the new tent has come in." Mrs. Haynes said. The foundation had arranged for us to receive our supplies and more details about our assignment in a small, hostile-type building. The room was pretty small and fitted with only a small bed and a desk with a broken chair. "Talk about luxury," Charlotte sneered as she dusted off the bed to sit down. "We're not here because this place is fancy, we are here because this place is valuable to our assignment,” Mr. Haynes said.

  Looking up from her laptop, Mrs. Haynes spoke, "We're in luck. We are just ahead of the rainy season. So we've got a couple of weeks before the flooding starts."

  "Flooding?" Teddy said. "I didn't bring my snorkel." Laughing Bantu patted him on the shoulder. "I don't think a snorkel would help you much. Besides we will have access to a boat. We w
ill be fine."

  "Oh, okay," Teddy said sounding relieved.

  As the grown-ups flipped through the maps that the foundation had sent with the assignment package, I stared out the window. A slight breeze was blowing small clouds of dust and puffs of dried grass across the slightly cracked pavement of the parking lot where we left the minibus. There were small shops and stores spread out as far as I could see against the glaring sun. Fort Portal was the opposite of deserted. There was a low-speed hustle and bustle all around us. People greeting one another crossing streets; looking busy. It was almost like being back in Fredericksburg, Virginia. Across the street there was a library, which is how, I'm assuming, Mrs. Haynes was picking up a WiFi signal. My hands were itching to get hold of some of the books inside. I bet it was filled with books that you couldn't just go pick up at a regular bookstore back in Virginia. But that would have to wait until another time. My parents were on a mission to win a FISH award, and I was almost certain they weren't going to allow for me to spend a couple of hours book browsing.

  “Bantu,” my dad said holding up a map with words scribbled in the margins.

  "Has the foundation given you a description of the areas they wanted us to look into?"

  Shaking his head, Bantu answered, "No, they asked me about my experience and knowledge of the area, but never gave any directions on where they wanted me to take you."

  That sounded really odd, I thought to myself, turning away from the window. Judging from my mom's face, she thought so, too.

  "Gee, they aren't going to make winning a FISH award easy are they?" Mr. Haynes said.

  "Well, I'm sure that everything will be fine once we reach the campsite." Mom said.

  "Speaking of which," my dad said looking at his watch, "we should get going so that we get there with enough time to get things set up."

  Quickly we dug through the stacks of supplies that the foundation had sent, using the checklist that my mom had given to each of us to stuff our knapsacks with canteens of water, first aid kits, ponchos, ropes, and flashlights.

  "This is the worst part about trips like these," Charlotte said holding up a tan colored t-shirt. "We're only allowed two changes of clothes, and none of them are all that cute."

  "Just be glad you're going to have clothes with UV protection," My mom said adjusting her glasses. “There was a time when you would have to decide between sunscreen that attracted mosquitoes or bug repellent that intensified the sun’s heat.”

  “I remember those days” my dad chuckled rubbing his arms.

  Once we were all packed up, we walked out of the room and back into the main lobby. While the adults were busy signing waivers for leaving the museums tools in with the hotel manager while we were gone, I tiptoed over to listen to their conversation.

  "Do you have any ideas on where you'd like to start looking?" My mom asked my dad.

  "I figured since Bantu is familiar with the area we should let him spearhead this one and follow his lead." My dad answered handing the receptionist back her pen.

  Shrugging her shoulders, my mom picked up her knapsack and headed for the door. I followed closely behind, ready to give her a million reasons on why dads plan was a bad idea. But as I caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window of the hotel entrance, I changed my mind.

  Once we were outside, we tied our supplies to the roof of the minibus and crammed inside. We spent the first twenty minutes looking out the windows, riding in silence, except for the occasional word from Bantu about the landscape. The scenery was different from what we'd seen in Zimbabwe but similar in some ways. There were trees and grass everywhere, but no water. It reminded me a little of our hometown back in Virginia.

  By looking at the grass, you could tell Uganda was about to get into its heavy rain season. Bantu pointed out that the small bit of rain they'd had a few days ago had washed away the layer of dust that tended to settle on everything in the dry heat. Soft blades of grass poked out of the newly-dried earth and swayed in the sunlight. Far off on the horizon, you could see the faded gray tips of an African mountain rage.

  “Uganda is beautiful this time of year,” Mrs. Haynes said, snapping a picture over Charlotte’s head.

  “It’s nice, but I prefer Zimbabwe,” Chris said. “The waterfalls reminded me of the swirl patterns in a Van Gogh painting.”

  “I see we have an art lover in our midst,” Bantu said, glancing back in the rearview mirror.

  "Bantu, what are your suggestions for where we should begin our search for the Kamju?" Mr. Haynes asked, unfolding his map.

  "I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that I don't have many details on your assignment," Bantu said with a little chuckle.

  No details? I looked over at Charlotte to see her reaction. She just shrugged again and adjusted her seatbelt strap.

  I couldn't believe the foundation would pair us with someone who had no idea about what we were looking for or why. Nothing like that had ever happened before. Usually, our guides were natives who spoke in accents so thick we could barely understand them, and who knew every detail of our itinerary and every "X" on the map. And I didn't get why they sent someone as young as Bantu. He didn't look older than a senior in high school. How much experience could he really have? How much could he really know? And why did he sound like he was a tourist from England?

  I found myself asking, suspiciously, “How did you get assigned to be our tour guide if you don’t know why we’re here?”

  “I’m a little more than a tour guide,” Bantu said with a smile.

  “How much more than a tour guide?” I said.

  Before Bantu had a chance to answer, Chris said, “I’m hungry.”

  I crossed my arms, annoyed and a little embarrassed. I don't usually speak up like that, especially with a stranger, but when I start to worry, "my nerves get the better of me," as my mom says. My mom hardly worries about anything, and she's always trying to make me be like her. She always says things like "trust the process," and "if it's meant to be, it will be."

  “I’m hungry, too,” Teddy chimed in.

  “Fantastic,” my mom said. “This is our chance to try some authentic Ugandan food before we start stuffing ourselves with granola bars and trail mix.”

  “Bantu, what restaurant would you recommend in this area?” my dad asked. Bantu laughed a deep, bellowing laugh. “Oh, you must try my mother’s cooking at our family restaurant. It’s delicious, authentic, East African food. You will enjoy it! I’ll take you there.”

  “What kind of food is it?” Chris said.

  “My mother has many traditional recipes, such as posho.”

  “What’s in that?” Chris said.

  As Bantu started describing the different dishes, Charlotte began wrinkling her nose.

  "I must warn you," Bantu said, looking at everyone in the rearview. "It is very good, but sometimes a bit spicy. You must be careful with what you ask for."

  Without another word, Bantu made a sharp left turn, taking us down a road that could have passed for a sidewalk. Eventually, we stopped in front of a small, square, mud-colored building. The windows were so dusty you couldn't see inside.

  "That can't be a good sign," Charlotte mumbled. "You know, a granola bar is starting to sound pretty good right now."

  “Dear, you mustn’t be such a close-minded eater,” Mrs. Haynes said as we all climbed out the van.

  “Yeah,” Teddy teased, “don’t be a food snob.”

  “I am not a food snob,” Charlotte said, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m simply a picky eater with very sensitive tastes.”

  Bantu bellowed another laugh as he led us to the door and turned to Charlotte. “Trust me, my friend, not everything is as it appears.” He turned around to look at the rest of us and smiled. “Remember, the most beautiful flowers grow in mud.”

  Chapter Three

  Walking into the restaurant was like walking into the dining room of a gold-painted palace. Chandeliers sparkled like diamonds from the ceiling. The chairs were ma
de out of dark carved wood with pillowy purple upholstery.

  When I sat down, I felt like a queen. The smells floating around us took my breath away. The scent of curry, pineapples, and unknown spices swirled around the room, grabbing me by the stomach. It was hard to tell what was on the plates of everyone around us because their food was disappearing so fast. Everyone was so busy eating it seemed like they’d forgotten about everything else, even sipping their drinks. I watched as waitresses hurried back and forth, carrying plates and refilling breadbaskets. As each one passed, she brought with her the smell of something wonderful. I was so hungry by that point that I was practically drooling.

  Since there were nine of us, our hostess pushed two tables together and placed a tray of plantains with an orange-mango sauce in the middle. Chris dug in first, but I wasn’t far behind. The tray was empty in a minute, with all eight of us licking our fingers, except for stubborn Charlotte. While we all looked at our menus, our waitress, a thin woman with wavy hair, came and stood over us. I could see that her eyes were sad. That's usually a telltale sign someone has secrets. Bantu suddenly looked up and said, "Mother! How wonderful it is to see you. I trust you're well today?"

  Bantu's mom nodded a little and took a small pencil out of her apron pocket. She spoke softly, "I am Minwa, your waitress. Would you like to hear the specials for today?" Her accent didn't sound anything like Bantu's. It's like they'd been raised in different countries. As everyone else listened to the specials, I studied her face. Her skin was a warm cinnamon color, with a mole under her left eye. The creases in her forehead looked permanent, like she was always concentrating. Her brown eyes looked tired like they were just seconds away from closing.