by Jennifer Juo
“De government dey try to fix dis big hole, but we don’t want it. A smooth, fast road would be bad for business, eh? De market vendors stood in de way of de construction machines. So de road neva got fixed. It’s good, eh?”
“Yes, you’re right, it’s good.” Winston smiled.
Winston pulled his jeep to the side of the road, parking beside the massive crater. A crowd started to surround his jeep, the unusual arrival of Abike had caught their attention. Most vendors balanced their wares on their heads and walked to the market. Others pushed wheelbarrows of chili peppers, the wheelbarrow serving as transport and stall. Another vendor rode on a bicycle with a stick of live chickens across the handlebars, the row of chickens dangling upside down, tied by their legs onto the stick.
Winston helped Abike carry the bags of maize, ground into a fine powder for the corn porridge that was a staple in this part of the world. She poured some of the bags into colorful enamel basins on the roughly-built wooden table of her stall, creating large mounds of yellow powder. Several women, dressed in their finest attire, batik wraps, and headdresses, came by Abike’s stall to gawk at the piles of maize.
“Ooooh, look at dis, you been busy busy woman, eh?” one woman said.
Abike and the woman fell into their usual gossip, catching up on the latest news of so and so. The market belonged to these women, dressed in their finest wrappers and headscarves, all vibrant pattern and lace—they were the backbone of the market economy. Winston realized the women in West Africa played a role as wife, mother, and most importantly, trader.
Winston took this opportunity to slip away and lose himself in the labyrinth of the alleyways that stretched back from the road. The market was a lot larger than it appeared from the road.
By the end of the day, the latest gossip was Abike’s mountain of maize. “She rich woman, eh?” the other women vendors said, laughing. “What is your secret, eh?”
“You go get dem seeds,” Abike explained, pointing at Winston. “Dey grow betta, plenty plenty.”
“You go give us some?” A woman asked Winston.
“Where is your village? I’ll come and show you.”
The woman explained she was only a few villages up the same nameless dirt road in the forest as Abike.
“I’ll come,” Winston said. “Next planting season.”
“Yes, you come. We go wait for you.”
He didn’t mention he had probably come before to her village, but no one had shown any interest in the seeds. Then again, he realized, they had talked to the men only. They needed to work on reaching out to the women, particularly since he now realized the women did the bulk of the farming and selling. He knew word of Abike’s mountain of grain would travel quickly, gossiping market women being the best form of advertising.
Winston helped Abike load what little maize was left into the jeep.
“Dere is not much to carry,” she said, grinning. “Only all dat cash here.” She patted the wads of naira bills hidden in the folds of her wrapper dress.
“You did well,” Winston said. Success felt close now, just around the corner, the steepest slope behind them now.
When they returned to the village, Simeon put Abike’s cash in an old pesticide canister in his hut until the next planting season when he would purchase the seeds and fertilizers from Cole Agribusiness. This was the way the aid project had been structured. The first bag of seeds was free and then the farmers were expected to use their increased revenues to purchase the next rounds of seeds. It all made perfect sense.
Winston asked a villager to take a photograph with his camera. Simeon and Winston posed next to the mud-walled granary used to store the rest of the harvest, the thatched roof made with a hole so that the maize could be poured in from the top. Simeon grinned, his arms hanging by his sides. Winston pressed his lips tightly together—the usual stiff pose he gave for photographs, but inside he was smiling ear to ear.
***
That weekend when Winston returned home, he was in a celebratory mood. Holding his four-month old son in his arms, his precious baobei, he suggested they go to a new Chinese restaurant that had recently opened in town. On the drive, Sylvia seemed excited about the prospect of some good Chinese food, and he hoped it was good.
When they walked into the restaurant, Winston felt oddly comforted by the gaudy, mismatched colors. The place was decorated with blue, imitation Ming dynasty vases and scrolls of Chinese paintings of birds and flowers—its thin paper already yellowing in the tropical humidity. There were also the usual fish tanks—big fat goldfish swimming in the front for prosperity and ugly catfish crammed in the back tanks for eating. The walls were painted a cheap coat of mint green, clashing with the red tasseled lamps and Imperial yellow cushions.
“Huanying huanying,” the Chinese manager welcomed them. He introduced himself as Mr. Lee from Shanghai.
“My wife is from Shanghai,” Winston said in Mandarin. “I’m from Shandong province.”
Sylvia and Mr. Lee exchanged greetings in their Shanghainese dialect.
“My fellow countrymen, I will order something special for you. It’s not on the menu. Sit, sit.” He pointed at the rosewood chairs huddled around large round tables. “Your son is so fat,” Mr. Lee said, pinching Thomas’ cheeks before he left for the kitchen.
Winston sat down, holding his son. He looked down at Thomas. He was the perfect baby, chubby-cheeked and almost always smiling. Holding his son’s small, warm body close to him, Winston felt choked up inside. It hurt so much when he thought much he loved him.
Mr. Lee brought out haizibi or crunchy jellyfish as an appetizer.
“Haizibi? In Nigeria?” Winston said, surprised.
Sylvia dived into the haizibi jellyfish, serving it to Winston. She gave a few pieces of the jellyfish to Lila, now two and half years old. Lila’s face wrinkled up, not wanting to try the unusual food. She was a moody, difficult girl, Winston thought. He still didn’t know quite how to interact with her.
Mr. Lee brought out more dishes. “Xiao long bao,” he said, uncovering the bamboo steamers.
“Shanghai soup dumplings? How I’ve missed these,” Sylvia said, smiling.
“Please join us,” Winston said to Mr. Lee.
“I will for a moment. Then I must get back to the kitchen,” Mr. Lee said.
“Do you have family here?” Sylvia asked.
“Unfortunately, my wife and daughter are in China.”
Winston knew Communist China kept families behind as collateral for overseas Chinese workers, preventing them from defecting.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Winston said.
Winston didn’t mention that his own family had fled to Taiwan before China had fallen to the Communists. It was understood, of course. But at the end of the day, they were all Chinese, especially here in this far-flung West African town. It didn’t matter that Mr. Lee was from Communist China, and Winston and Sylvia were from the other side of the political straits in Taiwan and Hong Kong. They shared a culture and language that superseded Cold War politics.
“What’s your business here?” Mr. Lee asked, as his waiters brought more food out. The last dish was a whole fish steamed in ginger, soy, and sesame oil.
“I’m with the Agricultural Development Agency or ADA’s Starter Pack 2000 project. It’s an international NGO. We have hybrid maize seeds,” Winston explained.
“Interesting,” Mr. Lee said.
“He’s just had his first round of record harvests,” Sylvia added, complimenting him.
“It was all uphill at first. But the project is taking off now. More farmers are signing up now that a few demonstration farmers had a record harvest. They see now what our seeds can do,” Winston said, enjoying this moment of happiness with his son on his lap, his wife by his side, and some excellent Chinese food. Who would have thought he would be eating xiao long bao here in Ibadan?
“And it’s due a lot to Winston’s hard work,” his wife said, genuinely happy for him. He turned t
o her, and she smiled. Mr. Lee returned to the kitchen, leaving them alone.
He looked at his wife across the table, she was a good wife, he thought. He knew he was fortunate, and he should count his blessings, but yet he couldn’t let himself enjoy this small happiness. He didn’t want to gloat because he feared what was around the corner. Anything could happen, he knew. He had learned that, it was the lesson of his childhood. The sweetness could sour like milk in a matter of hours. He didn’t want to savor the sweetness, instead, he did the opposite—he blocked it out, guarded himself from its sugary taste. Mr. Lee returned with a sweet red bean soup, a Chinese dessert, but Winston declined.
***
A week later, Winston received a message delivered by a fellow villager of Simeon’s. The news was not good. He immediately jumped into his jeep and was gone.
The previous night, a gang of armed robbers from the nearby town of Ife had descended on Simeon’s hut. They pulled Simeon up from his sleeping mat. They thrust a blinding flashlight into his stunned face and pointed a gun at his head.
“Where is de money? All dat cash you made at de market, eh? Where is it?”
A man punched Simeon in the face. His wife and four children cowered together in the corner.
“Where is it? Go now get it you,” the leader of the gang yelled harshly, waving his gun in front of Simeon’s family.
Fearing for his family’s safety, Simeon got up and with his hands shaking, pulled the wads of naira bills out of the old pesticide canister. A neighbor heard the noise and, knowing the armed robbers would pillage the rest of the village, rode his moped into Ife to get the police.
The men kicked Simeon as he lay on the floor. “Dat will teach you a lesson. Tinking you are betta than us. You are nothing but a white man’s monkey, eh. Dat’s right, eh.” The gang members laughed as Simeon curled up in pain.
Then the gang ran out of Simeon’s hut and paid a visit to every other hut in the village, including the chief’s house. They took whatever they found of interest—a pair of Levi jeans, a wireless radio, a grandmother’s life savings, which didn’t amount to much, but they took it anyway. When the police drove down the dirt road to the village, they moved slowly over the potholes and through the mud. The robbers, hearing the police sirens blaring in the distance, fled into the forest.
By the time Winston arrived, the men sat congregated under the thatched canopy, talking about the incident. Several had black eyes or bruised ribs. Most had lost something of value.
Simeon recounted the robbery, joking almost. “Tell me why do de police come wit their sirens so loud if dey want to catch dem? Of course, de robbers heard de sirens and ran away into the bush. If de police really want to catch dem, dey would come quiet quiet. Dat’s because dey don’t want to catch dem. De police and robbers are one and de same, eh?”
Other villagers agreed, laughing at Simeon’s comment despite their anger. Winston looked around for Oluwa but didn’t see him.
Winston was quiet. He suddenly felt nauseous, and the heat only made him feel worse. This whole business made him feel nervous. With no money, how was Simeon supposed to buy the next round of seeds from Cole Agribusiness? He feared what little progress they had made would be erased if Simeon could not replant. They had come so far and yet, they were still nowhere. A few successful harvests were hardly widespread success.
***
Winston drove up to the Cole Agribusiness offices on the plantation farm next to Simeon’s village. The offices were in a narrow, low-slung building with doors that opened onto a front porch. Each office had its own box air conditioner hanging from the window, dripping water and staining the cement floor of the porch. The area around the office had been cleared of any natural plants or flowers, so it had a barren, almost forlorn look.
Winston knocked on the door of Jim McCormack, the lead Cole representative in the region. He had met him briefly at a meeting between Cole Agribusiness and ADA. Jim opened the door, smiling, and invited Winston to sit down. Jim seemed nice enough, and he had a wholesome smiling face like a boy’s, Winston thought. He had seen many Americans with this face. He knew it was a face that had not known hardship.
“Coffee?” Jim offered. Winston accepted the offer, mainly because the room was freezing. Winston shivered as he sat down. It was a shock to his system, coming in from the balmy, tropical heat outside. He noticed the man was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt despite the temperature of his office.
“Well, nice to see you. What can I do for you today?” Jim asked. A secretary came and poured instant Nescafe coffees for them.
“I noticed when I visited last time, the work you’re doing out here on the plantation,” Winston said.
“Yeah, it’s going to be the biggest harvest these guys have ever seen. I’m amazed at how backwards they are. I mean, I feel sorry for them picking at the dirt with one rusty hoe. We’ve brought in tractors here. We’re really showing them how it can be done. If they had all this technology like we have, no one would be starving in Africa. We’re going to make this happen.”
The man spoke with a zeal that made Winston nervous. He sounded more like a sports commentator before a big game.
“We’ve had a small success with a rural farmer nearby. He had a good harvest. Through him, we were able to convince more farmers to adopt the new seeds,” Winston continued.
“That’s great to hear. These poor rural farmers really need to modernize their way of farming. It’s such an inefficient way to produce food, a patchwork of random little village plots. There are no economies of scale.”
Winston took this as a good opportunity to explain Simeon’s situation and ask for a possible second round of seeds, fertilizers, and pesticides for free. He couldn’t just give one of the many bags of seeds in the truck to Simeon. He had to ask for Cole’s sign off first. When each bag had been handed out during the “free” first round, they had recorded the names of the farmers.
Jim paused when he heard of Simeon’s trouble and said, “I would if I could. But I’m not authorized to do that. Problem is, Cole Agribusiness can’t keep giving out bags of seeds and stuff for free, we have to make money eventually, down the road, if you see what I mean.”
“I see,” Winston said, even though he knew in actuality, the US government aid money had been used to pay for the first round of seeds from Cole Agribusiness. Cole hadn’t given anyone anything for free although it may have appeared that way.
“There’s a rationale behind the way the aid agreement was structured. Give out the first bag free to get them hooked as paying customers. We’re trying to break into new markets here. We’re not a charity.”
“Of course,” Winston got up abruptly. He felt the coldness of the room invade his senses, putting him suddenly on edge. He would have to find another solution to Simeon’s predicament. Winston bid farewell politely and walked out into the African sunshine, the humid warmth for once felt inviting to him.
***
A month later in December, Winston returned to the village and met with Simeon under the palm-leaf roof of the village center. They ate lunch, moi-moi made from cowpeas, soaked until the skins had fallen off and then pounded and mixed with palm oil, red pepper, and salt. Winston opened the moi-moi, steamed in banana leaves.
“I think I have a solution to your problem,” Winston began, eating the moi-moi with his fingers. “A micro-loan program. The government just started it as part of the ADA 2000 program.”
In the distance, Winston could hear school children reciting their lessons in the cement block schoolhouse with its shiny, corrugated tin roof, recently installed to replace the usual thatched roof. On a sunny day like today, the so-called “modern” roof made the school unbearably hot. During heavy rains, the loud noise of the rain hitting the tin roof drowned out the teacher’s voice. Winston thought of Simeon’s sons inside, sweating and staring at the “blackboard,” the front cement wall of the classroom painted black in a rectangular shape. He wondered how Simeon could still aff
ord the school fees.
“What’s dis loan ting?” Simeon asked.
“It’s a new program. Established by the government. They’ll lend you small amounts of cash, enough to buy the seeds and things. You pay them back, with interest, of course, after the harvest.”
“Ma friend, we’re back in business, eh,” Simeon said, clapping his hands together.
“De government? I don’t like de sound of it,” the chief interjected. “I neva heard de government give away money. Heh! Dey full of tricks. Dey go be jealousing your success, dey will come and take your money just as easy easy as dey give it.”
“Dat’s right. Listen to your fatha,” Oluwa said. “He knows what he’s talking about.”
Winston noticed the chief looked older, more stooped, his voice slower. He had begun to suffer from dementia, repeating his words and forgetting things. His rants seemed more like madness. As the chief aged, Winston realized there was a power struggle brewing in the village between Simeon and Oluwa as to who would take the old man’s place.
Winston took Simeon to Ife to fill out the loan paperwork at the local government office. They were confronted by bizarre bureaucratic rituals, the legacy of the British colonial era seasoned with plenty of fiery, local flavor. Four times they had to circle around to various officials, each pointing to the other, until by the fourth time, they came back to the broad-faced and smiling official they had started with who finally helped, motivated at last by the flash of naira bills. Simeon’s paperwork changed hands many times, blackened each time by greasy fingerprints and the stench of greed. Winston began to wonder if they would ever see the money.
Chapter 12
Five months later in May 1976, after the rains had come, Winston and his driver followed the nameless dirt road toward Simeon’s village. It had become a muddy swamp during the rainy season, and the jeep got stuck in the mud. Winston and Ige stood knee-deep in the sticky mud, trying to push the jeep out. Winston cursed the viscous river of a road, annoyed at being held back. He wanted to reach Simeon’s village to find out if Simeon had received the loan yet, the ADA 2000 Starter Pack program hinged on this. Five months had gone by, and the new planting season had just begun, but still no word from the government loan agency.