***
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 afford 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 12Five 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.
Winston climbed out of the mud. “I will walk to town for help,” he said. He knew most villagers walked this road to town, so it was not an impossible feat. He estimated it would probably take him half a day.
“No Masta, let me walk to town. It’s too far. You stay wit the jeep,” Ige argued.
“I would prefer to go,” Winston said. He didn’t want to be trapped in the jeep, waiting for hours on end. Waiting, he had learned, made one feel powerless.
Winston started walking back in the direction of the town. With any luck, he hoped he might run into a bush taxi, a Japanese-made minibus crammed full of bodies, bundles, and the odd chicken, the necks and backs of people contorted and bent to fit in the tight space.
He walked in the hot sun for about two hours, but there was no sign of anyone. He reached for his water bottle, but it was empty. His shirt was soaked through with sweat. Monkeys called out to him in the trees, jumping from branch to branch above him. Suddenly, an old man appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.
“Who are you?” the man called after him from the edge of the forest. The man had yellowed eyes, but his face was clear and unwrinkled, despite the gray hair and stooped demeanor of someone much older. There was something about the tone of his voice that seemed menacing, almost threatening to Winston.
“I’m a friend of Simeon Balewa, son of the chief in the next village.” Winston introduced himself, trying to sound calm and unafraid.
“You, eh? De one causing trouble!” The old man moved closer and grabbed Winston’s arm, rubbing leaves of some sort on his skin. Winston struggled to break free. The man mumbled something. He couldn’t understand what the man had said, but he sensed it was a spell of some sort.
“I go give Simeon juju. Dis is why he had de robbers come to his hut,” the old man said.
Winston had heard of the power of juju magic or witchcraft. In Nigeria, death and misfortune were often attributed to spells cast by enemies through juju doctors or witches. Witchcraft and the supernatural explained these random events. Why had misfortune fallen on one and not another? The answer was simple: a spell had been cast.
“We’ve come to…help Simeon,” Winston said, struggling to speak.
“Help? You people help?” the old man said, gesturing at him as if he were mad. “You help, you will die. Stay away from de village. Or I will give you juju too. You hear me, eh?”
The old man let go of his arm, and Winston started running down the dirt road toward the town.
“Bad tings going to happen,” the old man called after him.
What bad things? Suddenly, Winston felt his throat start to close up, and he couldn’t breathe. He wondered if it was some kind of allergic reaction to the plant the man had rubbed on his skin. This was not good, he thought. He hoped it would pass. He had some antihistamine back in the jeep, but not with him. If it was more serious than that, he had nothing out here in the jungle. He had to get to town.
Winston didn’t want to admit it, but deep down, he had an awful feeling about the old man. Throughout Winston’s childhood, his mother had planted superstitious fears deep in his mind. No amount of Western rationality, PhD or otherwise, could stamp out this raw, intuitive fear. Suddenly, his breathing became more difficult. If he helped the villagers, death would be waiting for him. This is what the old man was trying to tell him. The choice was clearly his, if he wasn’t already dying. This was his last thought before he passed out.
***
When he woke up, he was lying on a wooden slab fixed to the axel of two old truck wheels, some sort of a donkey cart driven by a boy.
“What happened? Where am I?” he asked the boy.
“Sah, I find you lying on de road.”
Winston touched his throat. His breathing was back to normal, whatever had happened had passed. He still wondered if he should go to the doctor.
“Did you see…was anyone with me?” Winston said.
“No, sah. Just you.”
“Did you see an old man in the forest?”
“No, sah. No old man.”
Winston felt relief and confusion at the same time. Was the incident with the man just a hallucination, perhaps brought on by the heat and dehydration or had it really happened?
At Winston’s request, the boy took him to a local car mechanic in town. The mechanic’s shop was by the roadside—a graveyard of auto carcasses rusting on the oil-blackened dirt, many of the useful pieces already reused. A patchwork of corrugated iron and tree branches served as a covered working area for the mechanic. The hand painted green and white sign read “Good Health Mechanic.” Winston wasn’t sure what health had to do with fixing cars. Did the sign mean to imply healthy engines or was it an attempt to convey that the mechanic himself was a strapping lad and in good health, capable of fixing cars?
Winston and the mechanic returned to the forest in an old Datsun tow truck that looked like something pieced together with mismatched parts. Winston wasn’t too sure if the truck could make it, but there wasn’t much choice in the matter. He paid the boy with his donkey cart to follow them just in case. As they made their way slowly along the muddy dirt road, Winston scanned the forest, nervously expecting the man with the yellowed eyes to reappear. But he didn’t see anything, and fortunately, they found Ige and the jeep intact.
Winston asked his driver to return with the jeep and tow truck to town to supervise its repair. He then jumped on the boy’s donkey cart contraption, instructing him to take him to Simeon’s village. He felt safer with a witness about him. It seemed the juju man or whoever he was wouldn’t approach him with witnesses.
The robbery had been a serious setback. But what else lay in store? Winston felt anxious. Superstitions and prophecies had guided his mother’s life. He remembered she had fretted about such things, consulting a Chinese fortune-teller for the most auspicious day before she scheduled anything important. Before their planned escape from China to the island of Taiwan, his mother had wanted to go into town to consult with her fortune-teller about the date of their leaving. But his father had laughed, ridiculed her even, saying there was no time for that sort of thing. And so she had not checked her calendar. The day they had fled had sealed their fate. She would die because his father had not abided by her superstitions.
As the donkey cart approached the village, Simeon’s children waved him down. They were smiling. Winston wondered if this meant good news. But then again, children were perhaps more resilient than adults, always finding something to smile about.
The children were followed by their mother. She looked worried.
“Simeon he go to town,” his wife Abike said. “He go see about da money. He come back tomorrow.”
Winston knew it would be easy for him to just buy the bag of seeds for Simeon, but he didn’t want to hurt the farmer’s pride. He knew what it felt like when the white man gave you hand-outs. But still, as a last resort if the loan hadn’t materialized, Winston knew he would have to consider this option.
Due to the condition of the road, Winston decided to stay the night in the village and wait for Simeon’s return. Abike made up some sleeping mats on the floor of their guest hut. That night, Winston had a vivid nightmare—the menacing face of the yellow-eyed juju doctor in the background, his mother in the corner quietly dying, a boy crying, he couldn’t tell if it was him or his son.
He woke up at dawn, feeling exhausted and unsettled. He hadn’t dreamed of his mother and those last days in a long time. It felt so real to him, as if it had happened yesterday, not two decades ago. He heard the crowing of the roosters and the echo of the women pounding yam with the large wooden mortar and pestle. His body was stiff from lying on the straw sleeping mats on the dirt ground. He got up and came out of his hut but almost tripped on something at his feet. He looked down at some chicken feathers, drenched in what looked like blood, tied to a bone. He stepped away quickly, wondering if it was some sort of fetish. Simeon’s wife Abike approached his hut balancing a bucket full of warm water for him on her head. When she saw the bloody feathers and bone in front of Winston’s hut, she gasped, spilling some of the water. Suddenly, the village broke out in a commotion, and no one would touch the thing.
“What is it?” Winston said, fearing it was somehow related to the man he had encountered in the forest.
“It no good,” Abike said.
“What does it mean?”
“It no good,” Abike repeated, covering her mouth with her hand but refusing to explain.
Winston turned to a male villager standing next to him. “Please explain. What does it mean?” He sounded desperate now.
“Someone go give you juju,” the man said. “It mean death.”
Abike started screaming and hitting the man. Winston had not stayed away from the village as the old man, possibly a juju doctor, had advised. A spell on his life had been cast. The blood-soaked fetish was meant for him. Fear pumped throughout his body, each limb breaking out in sweat. A part of him wanted to flee, but he stood rooted to the spot.
Winston went to the enclosed bathhouse behind his hut. He used a pink plastic cup to pour the warm water over his body. He breathed in deeply, trying to calm himself. He poured the water carefully, trying not to waste it. He knew Abike had carried the water from the stream earlier this morning while he still sleeping. He had watched how people in the village washed their faces and hands, using the water with such frugal economy. There was no wasteful sloshing of water all over the place.
As the warm water ran down his face, he couldn’t stop thinking about the disturbing offering outside his hut. What should he do? Run like his heart was telling him? But why? He was not afraid of death. After his mother’s death, he had secretly coveted death. He had tried to jump off a tree once, but he had just broken his arm. He drank some soap, but that just meant a trip to the hospital. Life had stubbornly clung to him. And now, here was death offered up to him. So why was he so frightened? He thought of his son—sweet, innocent Thomas.
After breakfast, Winston followed the village men as they went to work in the fields. A few villagers had taken the free bags of Cole Agribusiness miracle seeds. But Oluwa, Simeon’s brother-in-law had not, planting his fields with seeds leftover from last year’s harvest as he had always done. He scowled at Winston as he walked by. It was him, he thought, he had cast the spell or whatever it was against them.
It was overcast, but the humidity was intense. Winston was drenched in sweat from helping the men hoe the ground. The soil here was dry, sandy, and infertile, not at all like the rich, black volcanic soils in Asia and Latin America where the Green Revolution had been successful. The only solution to this soil, stripped bare of its nutrients, was to add more fertilizers, but Winston didn’t know if that approach would work.
He saw Simeon approaching the fields, coming to find him. He was swinging his arms and walking with large strides. Winston noticed he carried a large envelope in his hand. They counted the money together. Some
nairas
had been shaved off here and there from what Simeon had originally requested, but Winston couldn’t back out now. And it wasn’t just because of Simeon. Despite his fear, Winston had his own battles to fight.“Tomorrow we will go and buy the seeds. My jeep should be fixed,” Winston said. He tried to exude confidence, making no mention of the juju spell, even though inside he felt hounded as if someone were pursuing him in the dark forest.
“But sah…de juju magic,” Simeon said.
Winston looked up, fearing Simeon would back out.
But Simeon continued. “It’s all mumbo jumbo. Dese people dey believe it. Dey backward. I don’t believe in dis things. I Christian. I go to English school.”
Winston didn’t know if being Christian would ensure objectivity in the matter. He had seen Simeon’s church, a one-room, tin house affair. The minister incited his congregation with fear of witches and the devil while exacting “fees” to be rid of such evils. Winston also had noticed the minister’s nice, new Mercedes-Benz parked outside the tin-roof church, the only car in the area.
“You aren’t afraid?” Winston asked, not sharing Simeon’s indifference.
“No,” Simeon looked sideways at him. “And you, sah?”
“Me neither. I agree, it’s all mumbo jumbo,” Winston said quickly, although he sounded less sure of himself than Simeon.
Winston and Simeon walked back to the village through black clouds of smoke rising above the circle of huts and the surrounding forest. A little way outside the village, the women were firing a mountain of pottery on top of a huge bed of branches, covered with straw and then lit. Winston imagined how easily the wind could blow this fire into the surrounding bush and the village itself. In the distance, he watched the people—small stick figures—walking around the village. He thought again of the juju doctor’s words.
Bad things will happen.
Winston continued to walk back to the village with Simeon. The smoke from the fire stung his eyes.