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thirty-nine f

Weeds and Seeds

W hen the seeds arrived, Mike left me at the hotel while he went off with Waititu. I spent most days at the pool reading magazines. Hotel guests came and went, providing little distraction.

After several weeks, I approached Mike. “I can’t take much more of this. Can I come with you and Waititu on your next trip?”

Mike hesitated. I knew him well enough to know he was hiding something. Had he met another woman?

“You really wanna go back out there? I’m lookin’ out for ya, doll, keepin’ ya safe.”

Now I knew he was cheating on me.

“I do. I’m part of this operation.” And I promised Ben I’d keep an eye on you.

“Well, okay. To be honest, things ain’t goin’ good with the crops. The seeds won’t grow.”

“Why haven’t you told me? Does Ben know?”

“Waititu said to give it another week,” Mike mumbled.

“I’m calling Ben today.”

I’d never seen Mike panic before. “Don’t—”

“He deserves to know,” I said. “It’s not your fault. It’s gotta be something wrong with the seeds or the soil.”

We called Ben with the news. He said he’d fly Maurice, Mike’s buddy and one of The Crew’s horticulturalists, to check on the fields.

Several days later Maurice joined us at the hotel. I was overjoyed to see someone from home. Waititu said he would drive us to inspect the crops.

Maurice joined me in the back seat of Waititu’s Toyota on the way to the farmland.

“Is your family into farming?” I asked him.

“I grew up on a dairy farm in Mississippi, but my relatives back in Jamaica grew pineapples, avocados, and other fruit crops,” Maurice replied.

“Do you know anything about growing pot?” I asked.

Maurice smiled. “I thought you meant legal farming. My brothers and I have been growing pot for Ben for a few years. First, we grew only outdoors, now we have greenhouses.”

“Maurice’s the best,” Mike said from the front seat.

As we left the city, Maurice peered out the car’s rear window. He shot me a worried look. I turned and saw a late-model gray Toyota driven by two large white men.

“Shhh,” Maurice whispered.

Were we being followed?

The car followed us when we left the Mombasa-Malindi Highway, then slowed to leave more distance between our two vehicles. The two men were either inept at tailing or wanted us to know they were there. If Waititu was aware of them, he didn’t let on. Mike was oblivious.

“I will stop for gasoline before we go to the village.” Waititu pulled into the row of businesses serving Amara’s village.

The gray Toyota stopped on the roadside.

“I’m gonna get me some smokes,” Mike said.

“What’s going on?” I asked Maurice, once Mike was out of hearing range.

“Those dudes are Ben’s mercenaries,” Maurice said. “Ben said he needed somebody besides me and you to keep an eye on Mike.”

“Are they paid assassins?” I tried keeping my voice from rattling.

“I doubt it,” Maurice said. “You know Ben doesn’t support violence, but he does need to protect his investment.”

“What are we supposed to do?” I hoped Maurice didn’t hear the panic in my voice.

“Nothing,” Maurice said. “Pretend they don’t exist. They want us to see them—kinda like a conscience.”

“One thing Mike doesn’t have is a conscience.”

“Looks like he’s got one now,” Maurice said. “Don’t say a word. Let Mike figure it out for himself.”

The Toyota continued to follow us until we pulled off the paved road toward the village.

“ Habari yako? How are you?” I greeted Amara when we arrived at the village.

“ Sijambo, asante, ” he replied, telling me he was fine. He then spoke to Waititu.

“He is worried. Most seeds are not growing. Those that grow are tiny, sick plants,” Waititu translated. “He wants to take us to the farm. He hopes Maurice can help.”

Amara crowded into the back seat with Maurice and me. We bounced along dirt trails until we reached the fields. I knew nothing about farming, but even I could tell something was wrong. How did Mike let things go so far without intervening—unless he’d been lying and hadn’t been here with Waititu.

Waititu, Amara, and Maurice approached two farmers while Mike and I remained by the vehicle. We watched Maurice examine the soil and a few straggly plants.

The farmers nodded and smiled. Amara grabbed Maurice’s hand and gave it a squeeze. I felt the stress leave my body.

“Bad seeds,” Maurice said. “Soil this rich should grow anything. I’m no chemist but I bet if you get some different seeds, your plants’ll grow like weeds.”

We drove Amara back to the village and headed back to Mombasa.

“Does the village have more farmland?” Maurice asked.

“None to grow bangi ,” Waititu said.

“We’ll have to find more villages,” Maurice said. “We need at least twice as much farmland, maybe more. Can you help us, Waititu?”

“It will take money,” Waititu replied. “The larger the business, the more people we must pay, and the more chances we must take.”

“Money ain’t a problem,” Mike said. “The bosses send whatever we need.”

Mike loved to be the big man and often spoke without thinking.

Keep your mouth shut about money . The more the locals think we have, the more they’ll demand.

Back at the hotel, Mike and Maurice called Ben. After the call, they invited me to join them for drinks and smoke.

“I hear the coke sucks here,” Maurice said.

“Pot, uppers, downers, that’s about it,” Mike said. “Speakin’ of which, are ya interested in some ’ludes?”

Mike had developed a taste for quaaludes, or ’ludes, as he called them. Downers made him stupid and obnoxious and made me want a one-way ticket home.

“Business first,” Maurice said. “Ava needs to know what’s happening.”

“Okay,” Mike said reluctantly. “Ben’s gonna get in touch with Vinnie Lasseter in Hong Kong. Vinnie’s got contacts all over the world. He’ll send us as many seeds as we need.”

“How do you know they’ll grow?” I asked.

“Ben talked to some expert who says Hawaiian seeds are what we need,” Mike replied.

“How will the seeds get here?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about details, doll.”

“But I do worry. I don’t want to get busted.”

“We don’t know details,” Maurice said, “but Ben’s no fool. He’s gonna protect our operation.”

I decided to trust Ben. He hadn’t let us down yet, which was more than I could say for Mike.

While we waited for the seeds, Waititu scouted out more farmland. Mike and Maurice spent most afternoons and evenings away from me. Were they with Waititu or getting into trouble on their own? I didn’t know and didn’t ask. All I knew was we had higher quality pot and pills.

Speed made me edgy and magnified my loneliness, so I stayed away from it unless I needed a bump from the numbing effects of too much pot and alcohol. I was living in paradise with an unlimited supply of cash, yet unhappiness overwhelmed me. I thought about getting clean but couldn’t do it alone. Most people have family or friends for support. I’d never had the support of my family, and my friends were all back home.

Once we get home, I’ll get sober. My words felt hollow. I poured myself another glass of South African chardonnay and returned to our balcony. Who was I kidding?

Several days later, Mike and Maurice met me at the hotel pool. “They’re here!” Each guy held a large cardboard box.

“Shhh. Not so loud,” I warned.

“Get off it, doll. Nobody’s gonna say nothin’,” Mike said.

“We head to the villages tomorrow. We’ll be rich before you know it,” Maurice said.

Obuya and several other hotel staffers worked nearby. I caught Obuya’s eye and waved. His smile told me he’d been well-paid to keep quiet.

w

Our first trip took us to Amara’s village. The two mercenaries followed us, this time in a blue Honda. It was the first time I’d seen them since my last trip to the farms, but I suspected they’d been keeping a close watch on Mike. He had to be aware of them but never said a word to me.

In the village, several women in traditional dress cooked in the shade of acacia trees. Young children played nearby. One woman called to Amara, who exited one of the round huts.

Waititu handed Amara a box of seeds and an envelope of cash. The two men spoke like old friends.

“The best seeds on the planet,” Maurice said to me. “Just wait a month. The plants’ll be gigantic.”

“Hang here, doll. We’re takin’ the seeds to the fields,” Mike said. “Be back in a flash.”

I walked over to the women, who invited me to sit with them. They continued to prepare food, which included several types of greens and ground corn. We sat in comfortable silence while the children ran in circles around us.

The kids were curious about a white woman in their village, so I motioned them over. I made a soft fist with my left hand. With eyeliner, I drew black dots for eyes on my index finger and a red mouth on my thumb with lipstick. I moved my thumb up and down, which opened and closed the mouth.

We all broke into fits of laughter. I drew faces on each of the kids’ hands, which led to more joy. It was one of my happiest moments in Africa. Before we left the village, I gave the women my makeup case.

Mike was surprised to see me with the villagers when he returned. “What are you doin’ with those women?”

“They’re good people,” I said.

“Watch yourself,” he hissed.

They’re better human beings than you’ll ever be.

“We must go now,” Waititu called to us.

We piled into Waititu’s car, made our way back to the paved road, and headed north.

“Our next village is not far,” he said. “It is larger and more prosperous. They are excellent farmers.”

We came to a shopping area, somewhat larger than the one near Amara’s village. These buildings were wooden—some even had two stories. Billboards advertising cigarettes, Coca Cola, beer, and diapers hung everywhere. Food and household merchandise lay piled in front of each store. I wanted to take photos but sensed I’d embarrass the locals.

Waititu pulled into the gas station. He turned to Mike, who handed him a pile of Kenyan bills. After Waititu paid the attendant, he pocketed the rest of the money, something I’d seen him do several times.

We made a left at a faded wooden sign. This dirt road had fewer ruts and potholes. A village appeared in the distance. I saw little to distinguish this village from the last one until we drew closer.

Like Amara’s village, the walls of the round huts were made of mud, but many had been whitewashed. A few even had windows. The earth in the common area had been packed and cleanly swept. Trees gave the village a cool, peaceful energy.

Waititu parked in the shade and waved to a thin, elderly man, who stood to greet us.

“This is my good friend, Tumaini,” he said.

“ Habari yako? ” I had been studying Kenyan phrases but was not ready to practice more than, “How are you?” on a stranger.

“ Nzuri asante na wewe? ” Tumaini smiled.

Waititu translated, “Good, thank you, and you?”

We all smiled. As in Amara’s village, the men left me alone while they discussed business. I waved to a group of elderly women, who waved back but did not invite me to join them.

While I waited, I thought about the choices I’d made in my life that led me to this remote village in eastern Kenya. I thought about my mother and my little brother, who had to be in his twenties by now. Did they wonder where I was? And what about Tom and my kids? Was I lost to them?

“Hey, Ava? How many times do I gotta call ya? We’re leavin’ unless you wanna stay here.” Mike snapped me out of my daydream.

“Okay, Mike.”

We celebrated with joints and a bottle of Smirnoff vodka on the ride back to Mombasa, confident our new seeds would bring us success.