Juba Good Read Free Page B

pecked by birds and covered in flies. Edible fresh greens are nonexistent. Every once in a while the grocers run right out of something. Last month, there wasn’t a pat of butter to be found for love nor money anywhere in Juba.
    The avocados here are great though, huge and as soft as butter. I eat a lot of avocados. Also a lot of peanut butter on white bread. I might even start to like white bread someday.
    Today, I figured I deserved a treat. A late lunch at a nice place down by the river.
    I signed out a car and drove to the Blue Nile.
    The parking lot was mostly empty. The guard glanced at me as I drove in but otherwise didn’t bother to stir himself from his hut.
    The wind was high, and tent fabric rustled in the breeze. I took a table by the water, taking care to stay away from a grove of mango trees. Flying mangos can do real damage. Young boys, all skin and bones and gigantic eyes, snatched the fruit. A guard shouted at them to get away. Two women from the kitchen moved through the trees, picking mangos off the ground.
    My waitress was a short woman with dark brown, not black, skin. A foreign worker, likely Ugandan. She gave me a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. I ordered a beer and Nile perch with rice. It was nice in the shade, so I took off my hat.
    When she brought the drink, I said, “I’m looking for a woman.”
    A touch of disdain filled her eyes. I added quickly, “A particular woman, I mean. She might work here.” I described the dead woman. I pulled the red earring out of my pocket.
    Something flashed across her face. She lowered her eyes. She shook her head and scurried away.
    Past lunchtime, the restaurant was empty. A group of men, a mix of white and brown, sat at the bar. Judging by the noise, they’d been here for quite a while.
    A different waitress brought my food. I described the dead woman. I got the same shake of the head and quick departure.
    The beer was cold and the fish perfectly cooked. I watched the traffic on the river. Rickety rowboats, homemade canoes, a raft with a sail that might once have been a bedsheet, a rusty barge. A kayak rounded the corner. I recognized the two people paddling. Canadians who worked at the embassy. I grinned. Canadians and their canoes.
    They were moving fast with the current, paddling more to steer than to provide speed. The kayak rounded the bend and disappeared.
    â€œCan I get you anything more?” the waitress asked.
    â€œNo, thanks. Just the bill.”
    We looked up at a burst of laughter from the bar. The female bartender had turned away from the men, her pretty face set in angry lines. My waitress threw the men a scowl that would curdle milk.
    I put my money on the table, pinning it down with a salt shaker. I put my hat on my head and walked over to the bar. I stood at the far end from the group of drinkers. The bartender asked me what I wanted.
    â€œJust to ask a question,” I said. I tried to sound friendly and not at all threatening. Again I described the dead woman and showed the earring. Again I got a negative reply. She hurried back to her customers.
    I wandered around to the back of the building, following signs to the washrooms. I found them, and the kitchen, at the end of a dirt path.
    Not being at all shy, I stuck my head in the kitchen door. Two men were resting on plastic stools, chatting. Their eyes widened at the sight of me.
    â€œHi,” I said. “I’m looking for someone who works here. Maybe you know her.”
    Again I described the dead woman. I showed the earring.
    â€œWhat are you doing in here?” an angry voice said behind me. I turned to see a man with short brown hair and a brown goatee. His cheeks were round and his chin wobbled. His skin was tanned the color of old leather. The permanent tan that meant a life spent in hot places.
    â€œRay Robertson. I’m with the UN, assigned to assist the local police.”
    â€œI don’t care who you are, mate. Get the