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thirty-eight f

Farmland

O buya left us a message to meet him in the lobby the next morning.

“ Habari za asubuhi. Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose.”

“Good morning, Obuya,” I replied.

“My friend Waititu has a message for you. He will be traveling the next few days to find what you need for your business,” he said.

“Great, thanks.” Mike slipped Obuya a ten-dollar bill.

“My pleasure. Please let me know if I may help you further,” Obuya said.

Once Obuya was out of earshot, I turned to Mike. “We could be in big trouble if Waititu told him why we’re here.”

“Don’t sweat it. ’Course he knows. What could go wrong?”

“Famous last words,” I said.

“Obuya’s not gonna blow it. He’s gettin’ rich offa us.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling,” I said.

“Trust me. It’s all good.”

Maybe Mike was right. He’d spent more time with the bosses and knew more about the operation than I did.

We spent the next few days playing tourist. We’d scored some pot on the beach and used up our supply of cocaine.

“Maybe Waititu can turn us on to some local blow,” Mike said.

“You’re putting a lot of trust in the guy,” I warned him.

“What’s your problem?”

“Nothing, I guess.” I shrugged off my concern.

“Mr. Ambrose,” the desk clerk called to Mike. “I have a letter for you.”

The handwritten note was from Waititu.

I have located some farmers. I will meet you tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Please to wear comfortable shoes and clothes.

“Looks like we’re in business!” Mike said.

“ Habari za asubuhi. Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose,” Waititu greeted us the next morning.

“Please call us Mike and Ava. And habari za asubuhi to you, Waititu,” I said.

“Shall we go?”

“Wait, man. We ordered food from the hotel for the trip,” Mike said.

“We can buy food at a shop along the roadside,” Waititu said.

Mike and I looked at each other.

“I understand. You have American stomachs. May I suggest we buy food so we do not offend the villagers. One day soon you will have Kenyan stomachs.”

I visualized myself puking or worse behind an acacia tree while a lion waited to devour me. I laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Mike asked.

“Nothing. C’mon, let’s go.”

We took the Mombasa-Malindi Highway north through tourist and residential neighborhoods before leaving Mombasa. It may have been the fastest route out of the city, but it took us nearly an hour to travel fifteen miles. At a nondescript point in the road, Waititu made a left turn. Within seconds we were in the countryside.

The paved road turned to dirt. Sparsely treed plains slowly gave rise to soft hills and farms. We saw men and women bent close to the ground working the soil. Everyone stood to wave as we drove by.

“They’re so friendly,” I said.

“Very friendly,” Waititu said. “They do not often see a car—or Americans.”

Eventually, we came to a paved road, a few shacks made from corrugated metal, a market, and gas station.

“We need gas,” Waititu said. “I will also buy Pepsi and food.”

Mike handed Waititu some Kenyan money and an American twenty-dollar bill.

“Did you think Kenya would look like this?” I asked Mike.

“Don’t know what I thought, but this ain’t it.”

“We are so blessed—” I began, then looked around. The few people I saw wore second- or third-hand clothing, lived in shacks or worse, yet they all smiled and looked at peace.

“Yeah, we’re blessed,” Mike said. “I’ll be more blessed when we get back to the hotel and into the pool.”

Waititu returned and handed us each a can of Pepsi. “Here is your change, Mike.”

“Keep it.”

Freshly fueled, we drove farther into Kenya’s farmland. Then, in the middle of nowhere, we came to a village. Nothing prepared me for the reality or the uniqueness of this tranquil community. Villagers lived in round mud huts with grass roofs. Each had a single open door. Apparently, they felt no need to lock their homes.

A few elderly men and women sat in the village center with young children; I assumed everyone else was working in the fields. None of them wore traditional garments. Instead, they dressed in T-shirts, skirts, and shorts.

Waititu waved to an elderly man, who motioned for us to sit next to him under a tree. Mike and I greeted him in English.

“This is Amara,” Waititu said. “He speaks no English.”

“ Habari za asubuhi. ” I had no idea if it was still morning but wanted to attempt to speak his language.

Amara smiled a toothless grin. Maybe our dollars would bring him out of poverty, but would it make him happier?

Waititu and Amara spoke in what I assumed was a dialect of Swahili. Occasionally, Waititu would translate for us.

“He is asking about seeds for your crop,” Waititu said.

“Tell him we’ll send for seeds and pay the farmers once the seeds arrive,” Mike said.

More Swahili was spoken.

“Amara knows the crop is illegal,” Waititu said. “He wants to know what protection they have against the police.”

“Tell him we’ll pay the police to keep quiet,” Mike said.

Amara nodded. Two small boys ran to him. He hugged them and motioned us to stop talking. Waititu and Amara spoke playfully to the children before Amara shooed them away.

Should we be involving these innocent farmers in our illegal activities? What if they get arrested and we can’t help them? I lived with enough guilt about my own family. I didn’t want to be responsible for destroying their harmonious lifestyle.

Waititu turned to Mike. “Amara wants payment before the seeds arrive. He says it is a promise to keep the farming with his village. When the seeds arrive, he wants another payment.”

“What the—” Mike began.

Maybe they’re not so innocent. I motioned to Mike to talk to me in private.

“Mike, honey, I think we should do what Amara wants.”

“They’re takin’ advantage of me,” Mike said. “I don’t like it.”

“These people have nothing. You’ll be getting rich off their labor. It’s Ben’s money, not ours.”

“You know I don’t like it when somebody gets over on me.” He paused. “Well, okay, seein’ as we’re the ones makin’ the big score.”

Mike, it’s about you—always.

We rejoined Waititu and Amara.

“It’s a deal,” Mike said.

I left the men to work out the details and joined the two boys playing a game in the dirt. “Game?” I asked.

One boy understood. He made motions with his hands to show how to play.

“Marbles!” I smiled. The boys used nuts and stones and were perfectly content.

Waititu and Mike discussed the farming operation on the ride home. The village could devote five-hundred acres to growing marijuana. Mike didn’t think it was enough land.

“Let us see how it goes with Amara before we speak to another village,” Waititu suggested.

Mike had enough sense to take Waititu’s advice.

They sat in silence for a while before Mike asked the question that had been on both our minds.

“Me ’n Ava wanna buy some smoke for us. Bought some bangi at the beach but it ain’t quality.”

“I can get you the best bangi tomorrow,” Waititu said.

“What about cocaine?” Mike asked.

“It is not so easy to buy, and not so good. Do you like quaaludes?” Waititu asked.

“Sure, man. Downers, uppers. It’s all good.”

Mike gave Waititu a handful of cash when we returned to our hotel.

“I will see you tomorrow my friends.” Waititu waved goodbye.

Back at the hotel, Mike wired Ben for seeds and money. I was curious how the seeds would arrive but asked no questions. The less I knew, the better.