CHAPTER 12 - FAMILY TIES
Never in a million years did I ever think I'd be riding in a taxi, with two guys I barely knew, in the middle of Gabon. But there I was.
Thankfully, the road wasn't to bumpy, so I was able to get some sleep. When I woke up, we were just entering Owando. According to Zane, we'd driving for about nine hours, but thankfully, I didn't remember a moment of it.
As we entered the city, there was a very old - very faded - sign that read: WELKOM BY FORT ROUSSET.
Zane leaned forward in his seat. "I thought you said this was Owando."
"Hulle is op dieselfde plek," Esek said. "Owando is Fort Rousset."
"Oh," Zane said, glancing out the window. "Drop us off anywhere you want."
Esek began to slow. He parked the car by an old building - probably a church or temple of some sort - and we all got out of the car. We all stretched too.
"That car is way to small to be crammed in for so long," Zane said, cracking his fingers.
"That's really bad for you," I pointed out, but Zane ignored me.
I glanced around. There weren't very many people. One was walking a strange-looking dog. One was playing with her child. And one was coming out of the temple. The buildings were kind of shabby, like the ones back in Port-Gentil. The only diference I could tell was that you couldn't smell the salty sea.
It was about three o'clock, and I was starving. We barely had any food left in my bag, and I didn't want to use it all up. Not when there were shops with food, no matter how discusting.
Owando, unlike Port-Gentil, was very sandy and hot. There were a few scattered trees, but mostly it looked like the sun wouldn't allow anything elso to grow. It burned all the plants that tried to grow.
After a few minutes of stretching and looking around, Esek made his way over to the car. He untied the ropes - and man were those good knots - and lifted our bags off the car one by one. When that was done, he stuffed the rope in the car, in the back seat, and made his way over to us. "Dit sal vyf honderd Dollard, asseblief."
Grabbing my bag off the ground, I pulled out the money and handed it to him. The good news: we had enough to pay him. The bad news: we only had six dollars and thirty cents left.
He smiled at me in thanks.
Esek glanced down at the money and began to count. When he was done, he looked mad. His fists were balled, and he moved closer to us both in a threatening way.
"What?" I asked, a little scared. "Is it because it's American? Because that's all we have. We don't have any African money," I tried to explain, but he wouldn't hear any of it.
"Is jy probeer om te rob me?" Esek asked. "Dit is net 'n honderd! Ek wil my geld!"
Zane glanced at me. "We don't know what you're saying," he said as slowly as he could. Drawing each word out, so it sounded like: "Weee Dooon't knoooow whaaat yooou're saaayiiing!"
"Why," said the man coming out of the temple, "do all Americans think we will understand their language if they speak it slowly?" He - like Zane - spoke with an English accent. He had dark hair, blue eyes, and looked like he belonged on the streets of London, not Owando.
I sighed. "Sweet English." It was probably the best thing I'd ever heard in my life.
"He's mad because, according to him, you promised to pay him five hundred dollars, and have only payed him one hundred. He says he will not be robbed."
"Uh," Zane bagan, but apperently couldn't finish. His eyes were wide and he was watching the man intently.
"We thought he only wanted one hundred. We didn't know. We weren't intending to rob him. You have to believe us," I reasoned with the guy, keeping one eye on the enraged Esek.
The man smiled. "I do not have to believe anyone, child. (Again with the child thing?) But, as it turns out, I do. Do you have the money?"
I shook my head.
"No, sir," Zane said, apparently angry.
The man took out a small bag from his coat and handed the man four paper bills. "Dankie vir jou diens."
Okay, I recognised that word. I'd heard it before. Dankie meant thank you in Arfikaans.
"Dankie," I told him.
"Thanks," Zane said as Esek got back into his car and drove away.
"Come," the man - or shall I call him our savior - said. "Follow me. You look starved. And like you could use a good wash."
He was right. Esek had apparently left the windows open the entire ride, and both Zane and I had sand in our hair and on our skin. I felt - to say the least - discusting.
The man began to walk, and I followed, but Zane did not move. "Aren't you coming?" I asked, causing the man to turn around.
"Is there a problem?" he asked.
"I don't know. Zane, what is it?"
Zane's face looked merderous. He hadn't taken his eyes off the man since he'd first appeared. He just stood there, staring at the man.
"Zane?" I asked.
Finally, Zane spoke. "What are you doing here?"
He was talking to the man, his fists balled and looking more angry than he had the time we met Grizzle. He wouldn't look at anything else, and I could tell that he wanted to give this guy a good punch.
"I live here," the man said plainly.
Zane spit in the sand. (Eeww! I thought to myself. That's gross.) "So, this is where you went? To this - this wasteland. This," he looked around, "is where you ran off to?"
Ran off to? How did Zane know this guy? There must have been some mistake.
"Zane (Nope. No mistake.) you don't understand," the man began, but Zane cut him off.
"No," he yelled. "I don't understand. I don't understand why you'd leave us for this! I mean, if you had some mansion or if you were rich or something... Then I could understand. Never condone it, but I could at least understand why you left. It was always about money, wasn't it? But we loved you. Was it really that horrible? Being home?"
This was the first time I'd heard Zane talk about home, or family. I wasn't sure who this guy was, but I knew one thing: I was on Zane's side.
"Won't you at least introduce me to your friend?" the man asked.
Zane growled. "Payson, this is Brian. Brian, Payson."
The man laughed. "It's Brian, is it?"
"Don't," Zane warned.
The man called Brian smiled at Zane. "I don't presume to know what you're talking about. Now, come. My wife," he he winked at Zane, and I could tell that Zane wasn't happy about that, "has prepared dinner."
I could tell Zane was reluctant, but he slung his backpack over his shoulder, grabbed my suitcase, and began to follow Brian. "Coming?" he asked.
I began to walk beside him, Brian in the lead.
"You know him?" I asked, not intending to pry, but just out of curiosity.
Zane nodded. "Unfortunately."
I didn't say anymore. I figured it was his business, but Zane continued.
"He'll probably "let it slip" anyways, so it's best you hear it from me."
I waited, but Zane didn't say anymore. I figured he had decided not to tell me. That was fine with me. I was open to letting people have their privacy.
Finally, Zane spoke. It was hardly above a whisper, and as he said it, a small tear escaped, sliding down his cheek. "He's my Father."
