I (didn't) have a farm in Africa: Farewell, Part 4
- Bernd
- Nov 22, 2023
- 6 min read
Updated: Jul 22, 2024
Mitwirkende:
Laura: Managerin der Villa Massai, Seelsorgerin, Farmerin
Hickson: Manager der Villa Massai, Seelsorger, Farmer
Bernd: Sozialarbeiter, Unternehmer, Blogger, Traveller, Investor
The sinful shisha
The coastal region around Mombasa, Kenya's second largest city, is characterized by Arabic culture. The Sultanate of Oman defeated the Portuguese in 1699 and conquered Mombasa. The profits from trading were too tempting. At the same time, they brought culture and religion to the country. To this day, the majority of Mombasa's population is Muslim.
Shisha bars are mainly located on the north beach of Mombasa. Too far away for a short detour. (You know, the ferry.) Turns out Hickson is eager to try smoking hookah. In fact, there is a place on Diani that doesn't appeal to me at all. The newly built Manyatta Resort is a soulless nightclub made of concrete, glass and steel, complete with bar, sports bar and spa. An ugly block, right on Diani Road. A shisha on the beach, that would have been it! But there isn't. Hickson gets nervous. He would like to try it out.
We had to reschedule our appointment several times. Only Saturday remains, his half day off. "No problem!" he says. We arrange to meet in the evening. On this day there is a football match between two English teams at the same time. The background noise is enormous. We sit a little apart.
The shisha tastes surprisingly good. Marko and I were prepared for the worst. We smoked the worst shisha in Malaga, Pablo Picasso's birthplace. We quit smoking after just 10 minutes. I have no idea what kind of tobacco they used there, maybe camel dung. At least that's how it tasted.
Hickson relaxes, almost loosens up, gets a taste for it. "You can smoke a shisha with friends. Then you can share the costs. It's also more fun," explains Marko. Hickson briefly goes to the car and comes back with a big grin on his face. I ask him if the grin is from the shisha. He says no. On the way he was approached by two ladies asking if he could get in touch with both of us Mzungus. The business of emotions is omnipresent. We ignore the offer.
The following Monday, at our breakfast together, Laura asked how our weekend was. We proudly announce our visit to the shisha bar together, which initially causes her horror and then loud laughter. Hickson is suddenly surprisingly quiet and pale, which is actually impossible because of his skin color. Both Laura and Hickson are good, committed Christians in their communities. You work on a voluntary basis for the church in social community work as a dispute and conflict mediator. What our social workers do, just more authentic.
"Papa," she is still grinning, "our priest says that smoking and drinking alcohol in our community is a sin? Except red wine!" she closes one eye. Of course, she had long since seen through the church's double standards. My favorite answer to this is the reference to life before death. Only Hickson remains tense. He explains to Laura, with the air of someone caught out, the difference between smoking cigarettes and smoking shisha. As Marko and I recommended, he didn't inhale the smoke at all. (Wasn't there even an American president who said the same thing?) Besides, he continued, the meeting was a business meeting with his boss that he couldn't refuse. Laura is a real African mom, with a big heart. She takes it with humor and assures him that she will remain as silent as the grave. Hickson sticks with it. Because you don't inhale with shisha, there can be no question of smoking.
Farewell
Hickson, Laura and I meet for a late breakfast at Kokkos, a café-restaurant with delicious breakfasts, cakes and smaller dishes, right on Diani Beach Road, opposite the shopping center. You can sit comfortably here. Marko had already left a few days earlier with a heavy heart for work reasons.
Hickson orders a flat white, a hearty Morning Glory and a smoothie; Laura pancakes, coffee, juice and I have a smoothie, eggs Benedict and also a flat white. We have a lively conversation about the last few weeks. All necessary work in and around the house has been initiated. Today is a nice day to relax. The sun is pleasantly warm, not too hot. Although for some Kenyans it's a bit too cold and so they walk around with a sweater or jacket. Laura will take a few days vacation and go to her husband in northern Kenya, where they do some farming. Hickson actually planned to do the same, but is busy renovating the house. A few years ago I bought an acre of land for them and me - that's around 4086,856 square meters - which they cultivate.
I inquire about the income from this. The answer is sobering. First came the locusts, then Corona. They talk about their friends and neighbors who lost their jobs during the pandemic and talk about the options for keeping animals. Goat's milk and chicken eggs would be worth it, says Laura. A friend built a coop with several floors for keeping chickens. "
To date, none of my investments in Africa have paid off. Not the house, not the tuk-tuk, not even the country so far. I have something against factory farming anyway." Hickson confirms my concerns. He has heard about the use of various medications in factory farming. That makes people sick. (Breakfast takes a long time. Actually a good sign in a restaurant.
At least the drinks are coming. They like the Flat White.) “Ok, no floor and cage farming!” Laura agrees. We agree to manage the properties together. You build the stables, I finance the animals. (Now they serve my eggs Benedict. Hickson stares at it hungrily, sips his coffee.)
We are aware that we cannot generate wealth with the little land we have. But there is some profit. My share goes towards the house anyway. Laura promises me that she will create a “business plan” together with her husband. (Now Laura's breakfast comes. She enjoys it with great appetite. Hickson shifts nervously in his chair. He's really hungry.) Hickson asks how my Benedict tastes. I nod at him in agreement. "And how do you see that, Hickson?" "The combination of livestock farming to sell the meat, cheese, eggs and at the same time grow some vegetables and fruits is a good idea!" he says. (His breakfast finally arrives. He grabs a knife and fork and cuts at his food somewhat disgruntledly. He doesn't seem to like it. Laura and I are almost finished.) "Then let's try it out. It can't get any worse. "
Hickson now makes an angry face, puts down his knife and fork in frustration and says that's not what he ordered. The omelette is sweet. But he ordered something hearty with eggs and bacon. He looks at Laura with envy. As it turns out, the waiter mixed up the orders and gave Laura Hickson's breakfast. He pushes the plate away in a bad mood. Laura is taken aback. "Say, Laura, you ordered a pancake! This is a pancake. You're just about to finish my order!" Hickson is outraged "Oh, sorry, Hickson!" As pragmatic as she is, she takes the plate and digs into the pancake. Hickson pauses and looks at me for help. We order another Morning Glory for him, which arrives shortly afterwards. This would save the situation.
Something seems to be bothering them both. It is Hickson who breaks the silence and wants to know whether I will sell the house to the interested party from Somalia. You overheard my meeting with the real estate agent. She knew I was selling at a bargain price. The decision was in my stomach the whole time. A constant weighing of the advantages and disadvantages. The interested party was eager to purchase the property, announced that her lawyer would be visiting from Nairobi, and repeatedly contacted Hickson to ask if I was in Kenya. In the end I decided against selling, telling myself that my story wasn't over yet, that the price was too low. However. Laura and Hickson are relieved. This means you have a job, a task. Every day in their communities they see what a lack of prospects does to people, destroys families and drives them to alcoholism. Or some other drug.
The next morning, Hickson picks me up. We reach the ferry just in time - before rush hour. We say goodbye warmly at the airport. Nobody knows exactly what the future will bring us. Diseases come and go. Hopefully no more pandemic. A new migration of peoples is underway, climate changes, religious blindness of the eternally underexposed, who murder their way into paradise again and again. Crises everywhere. And the old men of the world fight their wars.
It's good to have a place like this, a piece of home for a homeless person like me. I have a house in Africa.
"Hakuna Matata!"
Africa always grounds me. Until next year!
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