Nobody had ever gone to The Munda Wanga Zoo in Chilanga, but we all heard of it. To us, the place was more myth than reality. I was so excited I could hardly sleep the night before we were going. The thought that I’d see lions, elephants, and monkeys felt too unreal.
I laid out my clothes the night before: clean trousers, a shirt that was in one piece. And a lovely, faded sweater I had planned to tie around my waist, just in case the day turned cold. On that day, I imagined looking my best and didn’t want to spoil the fun. I had a feeling it was going to be one of those days that you remember long after it ends.
“Don’t talk and stay with the group,” my mom said that morning. She handed me a small plastic bag with two hard-boiled eggs, a pack of dried bread, and a bottle of water. “And if it’s busy,” she continued, “hold Nathalie’s hand.”
Nathalie was my older sister. My mother always counted on her to be responsible for me. Nathalie was calm, mild-mannered, and although we were siblings, we often teased each other at home. But it wasn’t unusual to see us stick together on church days, like we were conjoined.
Everyone was positioned outside the church. Kids were dressed in fancy clothes for the outing and standing in small clusters. Some of the kids’ upper garments smelled like the detergent they were washed in. Nobody wanted to wear dirty clothes for an outing like this. The clothes showed the world that one was a part of a family that cared, even if the family had a shallow wallet. It didn’t matter if the clothes were patched; as long as they were freshly laundered.
It didn’t matter to us that the bus had a reputation for getting “sick” often. We were just thrilled to see the old machine arrive, grand as an airplane landing. The bus seats were old and rusty, and their fabric was ripped. They reminded me of metal-framed couches, the kind you see in waiting rooms. I was lucky enough to find a window seat, right next to Nathalie.
The bus had barely left the churchyard when a jubilant noise erupted. The bus rocked with the movement of the whole group as we sang Sunday school songs, waved to pedestrians through the windows, and shouted greetings to people passing by on the street. Teachers did their best to dampen the excitement and joy, but to no avail. Fortunately, they were not the type to discipline their children. I guess they understood the importance of such a trip, and soon they joined our singing and dancing, in the celebratory bus joy.
We drove by the stores, rolling hills and small houses of Chilanga. Every bump in the road sent waves of laughter through the bus. Every couple of minutes I asked Nathalie if we were there yet. Patiently, she kept replying, “Soon.”
A few kids here and there began leaning their heads gently against the windows, enjoying a brief moment of peace despite the noise. Some drifted off, but woke up again whenever the bus neared a stop, and joined in the rapture again.
The delicious smell of roasted groundnuts coming from the girl behind me made realize how hungry I was. I remembered the eggs my mother had packed and hoped to save them until lunchtime.
Finally, the bus stopped, and for a moment nobody made a sound. I stood in awe: the sheer size of the zoo, the trees stretching for miles, the paths meandering in every direction. The mixture of smells was indescribable. I smelled animals, dust, trees, maybe some scents related to food. I immediately understood this place was different.
The teachers attempted to keep us all lined up, but then a boy shouted, “I see a lion!” and the line instantly broke into a mad rush. Everybody sprinted to the enclosures, while the teachers commanded us to stay in groups.
I’ve always had a strong imagination. My mind was filled with images of the lions I knew from pictures and stories. But seeing lions in real life was very different. One of them lay still. Heavy and watchful, it barely lifted its eyes, while another lion paced slowly, its massive body swaying to the rhythm of its tail. Their presence felt serious, powerful, and real in a way books could never convey.
We moved to the section with the monkeys. They were lively, screaming, jumping, and pulling each other’s tails. One came up close to me. I made a silly face, but the monkey just stared back at me, undisturbed. I felt some sort of unity with the monkey. It kept its eyes on me the way I kept mine on it, both of us still, while the others laughed.
The giraffes were the tallest animals I had ever seen. Their movements were very deliberate and gentle, they seemed in no rush as they carefully considered each step. I watched them scan the ground with their soft, calm eyes for leaves before bending their long thin necks.
The zebras were quiet. They mostly remained in the shade together, chewing their food. From up close, their black-and-white patterns were so intricate they didn’t even look real. Who painted them like that? “It’s God’s work,” Nathalie said. I nodded in agreement.
When we reached the crocodile area, I felt a little nervous at first, expecting it would be boring, but I was wrong. The enclosure looked empty at first, but then I noticed a blinking eye. Suddenly I saw the others: they were lying perfectly still with their mouths wide open. One boy threw a rock toward the enclosure, but Mr. Bob quickly warned us to step back. We laughed nervously and made sure to keep our distance.
A quiet building housed the fish tanks. They were long, made of glass, and filled with fish. Some had odd, glowing faces. We saw turtles too, swimming leisurely. Within the tanks, we were quiet. We were never told to be quiet, but we were anyway.
One of the dazzling fish darted back and forth, sparkling under the light. I tried following it with my fingers. For some reason, the thought of it swimming in a basin at my home made me grin, even if I knew it was impossible.
By lunchtime, we felt the hunger creeping in. Beneath the shadow of a big tree we unpacked our bags. While some of the kids had biscuits and others some boiled maize, I just sat there and ate my bread and eggs without talking to anyone. I don’t recall it tasting any different, yet I was full and happy.
Some kids lay on the grass while others played tag. Nathalie and I and a few others discussed which animal we would take home if we could. I remember picking a giraffe. Nathalie would take a monkey with her because it could assist her in fetching things.
By then, it was time to go. The teachers asked us to pose next to the elephant exhibit, so they could take a group photo. The elephant behind us flapped its ears as it ate grass. “Smile!” our teacher shouted, before taking the photo. I didn’t know if I was smiling; I was too focused on the elephant.
On the way back to the bus, we walked past some stalls selling souvenirs. The tables were lined with necklaces, small wooden animal carvings, and painted drums. We weren’t allowed to buy anything, but I took my time looking. I imagined taking home a small wooden lion for my shelf to show that I had seen the animal.
The return trip was calm. Some kids dozed off while others just quietly stared out the window. The bus definitely felt like it was going at a slower pace. It was as if the vehicle itself was in no hurry for the day to finish, like the rest of us. As for me, I didn’t sleep. I spent the entire journey deep in thoughts of glowing fish, monkeys, and lions.
I didn’t want to let the memories fade away because days like this were rare. Next morning, we’d return to a normal day at school, chores, and routines at home. But I still had these animals in my memory: the lion with its heavy stare and the long neck of the giraffe, the powerful, calm elephant.
It was dark by the time we reached the church again. My mother was sitting on the steps, waiting for Nathalie and me. She waved at us as the bus parked. When we walked back home, she asked if I had enjoyed the trip. I just nodded. I should have said more, but there was just too much to explain.
