Seeds of Plenty (8 page)

WINSTON

Chapter 11

The birth of Winston’s son coincided with Simeon’s record harvest in October 1975, the second harvest a year after planting the original hybrid seeds. Winston sat with Simeon and a group of villagers under the thatched canopy. He looked around at the smiling villagers, the mood noticeably changed since the first day he had met with them. A woman poured palm wine out of the old engine oil canister into enamel cups. Winston saw a few red ants floating in his milky palm wine, but he downed it anyway. The chief sulked on his front porch, not participating in the celebration. But the villagers didn’t seem to notice the chief’s silence. They passed around the gourd of palm wine, congratulating Simeon on his record harvest.

Simeon boasted, “I have four times more maize den before, you can see wit your own eyes, eh?”

“You a big man now, eh?” a villager said.

“I have dis big man to thank,” Simeon said, turning to Winston. Winston felt the palm wine going to his head.

“I take your seeds,” the same villager said, nodding at Winston. Other villagers also chimed in, requesting Winston’s bag of seeds. Luckily, Winston had anticipated this and brought a full truck.

Winston stood up, raising his chipped enamel cup, “
Ganbei,
it’s a Chinese toast. You have to down your cup in one drink.”

He felt buoyed by the good things happening in his life—his son and now this harvest. He made toast after toast. Most of the villagers shared one large gourd of palm wine, so it was mostly Winston that kept downing all of the liquid in his enamel mug, getting drunk on the milky, fermented alcohol. But it felt good to him. His body was warm, his mind hazy and unfocused, and for a moment in his life, he let himself enjoy this sensation, what others called happiness.

***

 

The next day, Winston helped Simeon’s wife Abike transport the maize in his jeep to the market in the nearest town of Ife. As they got closer, suddenly the road was full of potholes, and Winston slowed his jeep. In front of him, he noticed a massive circular pothole, its diameter covering the road. Cars and mammy wagon buses slowed to a crawl to negotiate the cracks and crevices of this large crater. Winston pressed on his brakes and drove carefully through it. Vendors took advantage of the halted traffic in the pothole and shoved bananas and Bic biro pens through his open window. He noticed stalls clustered around the pothole on both sides of the road.

“We are here, sah. De market,” Abike announced.

“I see the pothole
is
the market,” Winston said. The giant crater had created the market organically with vendors strategically placing themselves near stalled traffic.

“I noticed the road just before the market was in perfect condition, newly paved. Why hasn’t this part of the road been repaired?” he asked Abike out of curiosity.

“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 to 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.