Farming Life Starting in Africa

By the time we finished eating the skewers, it was completely dark.

There was no moon, but there were countless stars, densely packed across the sky, like someone had scattered a handful of crushed diamonds onto a black cloth.

Patrick got up to clean up the mess, Miao Feng dusted off his pants, called Hassan, and left.

As the two walked to the gate of the courtyard, Miao Feng suddenly stopped, as if he remembered something, and turned back.

"Xiao Luo, I almost forgot, give me another bag of witchcraft potion. The mosquito repellent kind."

Rosen took a small bag off the door frame next to him. It was wrapped in black linen and about the size of an egg. He tossed it over casually.

Miao Feng caught it, weighed it in his hand, and said, "This thing is still quite useful."

"Of course." Rosen leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. "I've already stocked up on quite a bit of stock. Can you help me promote it? I'll give you a fifty-dollar commission for every bag sold."

Miao Feng was completely taken aback after hearing this, and rolled his eyes in a very standard way.

Rosen sells this small bag of witchcraft for three hundred dollars.

When Miao Feng first heard about the price, he almost thought Rosen was joking with him.

But after he used it, he found that this thing was really useful!

I don't know where Lawson got the formula from, but as long as you hang this little bag on your body, mosquitoes, flies, ants, centipedes, scorpions... all those creepy little things will stay away from you within a two-meter radius.

In Africa, mosquitoes, snakes, and ants are more terrifying than bullets. You can dodge bullets, but can you dodge mosquitoes? You might wake up one morning to find yourself infected with malaria before you've even had your fill of mosquitoes. That's why this witchcraft remedy is practically a lifesaver in the wild.

The problem is, in this poor place, there aren't many people who can afford to spend three hundred dollars on a bag of medicine.

Those willing to spend this money are either reckless adventurers traveling here, executives of some company, or members of some prestigious-sounding conservation organization. These people can barely afford it, but they still need someone to recommend it to them, right?

Anyway, in Miao Feng's company, apart from the two top leaders, none of the ordinary employees were willing to use this. It's too expensive; three hundred US dollars is enough to eat well here for two months.

"Alright, alright, I've done my best." Miao Feng stuffed the bag of witchcraft potions into his pocket, waved his hand, and said, "I'm off."

"Are you coming for dinner again tomorrow? Tomato, potato, and beef brisket."

Hearing Rosen's words, Miao Feng, even though he was already full, still swallowed hard.

Their company cafeteria is always a mixed bag, but at least the management only outsources it to relatives, so at worst the food is just a little unpalatable. Unlike a certain construction company next door, which outsources to local Black people to save money, many of their employees are now incredibly thin and bony – a godsend for dieters.

"No, I'll go see Dr. Pan tomorrow."

Rosen waved his hand dismissively, "Take care, be careful on the road."

Miao Feng and Hassan's figures disappeared on the dirt road outside the courtyard gate.

There are no streetlights here, only the faint glow of a bonfire in the distant square, which dyes the horizon orange, as if someone has lit a huge fire there and burned it to the ground.

Rosen went back inside and grabbed a baseball cap, pulling the brim down so it covered most of his face. Then he slung a huge black backpack over his shoulder, filled with the supplies he'd prepared for Old Zhou that evening.

He strolled slowly, heading southeast of Uller.

Uller is not a large city, but every African city has one thing in common—a huge square.

During the day, the square is where vendors set up their stalls. In the afternoon, after the stalls are packed up, it becomes a place for children to play football.

But the square changes at night.

Someone would always light a bonfire in the center of the square. As soon as the fire started, people would slowly gather around, as if summoned by something. Someone would start playing drums, the rhythm gradually becoming faster and more intense, like the muffled thunder before a downpour. Someone would start singing, someone would start dancing; no rehearsal, no choreography needed, everyone could do it, everyone's body could do it.

And so the bonfire party began.

In this place of ramanla and AIDS, strangled by war, plague, and poverty, the locals see little future. But if there's a fire, drumbeats, and songs, then the night is good. Add a bottle of wine, and it's heavenly.

As for what tomorrow will bring, who cares? People born in this place have to find some happiness to make themselves feel less miserable.

When he arrived at the square, there were already several hundred people gathered, and the number was still increasing.

The campfire blazed fiercely, flames leaping nearly two meters high, and the heat could be felt dozens of meters away. The dark skin of the people glowed with a reddish-brown light in the firelight, casting long, twisting shadows on the ground, as if they were alive.

Rosen didn't push his way into the crowd. He turned into a teahouse run by Arabs on the edge of the square.

The teahouse was small, with a few worn-out plastic chairs set up at the entrance, and several tables of customers sitting outside drinking tea and smoking hookahs.

The room was dimly lit, with several Arabic-style tapestries hanging on the walls, their patterns intricate and their colors faded considerably. A strong aroma of spices and fruit tea filled the air.

In the innermost corner sat a very conspicuous person.

What makes him stand out isn't his black hair and yellow skin. While Asian faces are not common in Ullr, they aren't so rare that they draw attention.

The reason he stood out was that he was wearing sunglasses late at night.

The black aviator sunglasses covered half of his face. The room was already dark, so for this person to wear sunglasses in this light wasn't just faking it; he was practically cultivating immortality.

Rosen walked over to him, pulled out a chair, and sat down. A waiter came over with a tray, but Rosen waved his hand, indicating that he didn't need it. He placed his large hiking backpack on the table between them.

"You're here pretty early," Rosen said.

Zhou Weijie took off his sunglasses, revealing a pair of tired eyes with bloodshot whites. Without any pleasantries, he went straight to the point, "Is everything ready?"

He speaks with a very broad accent, and he draws out the word "mei" (没) in a long, drawn-out way, like a sheep bleating. His accent is so distinctive, it's like he has his own background music.

Rosen nodded, patted his backpack, and said, "It's all in there. Want to take a look?"

Zhou Weijie glanced down at the bulging black backpack but didn't reach out to touch it. He picked up the lemonade in front of him and took a sip. The lemonade was no longer cold, and the glass was covered in water droplets.

"No."

Rosen didn't speak immediately, his gaze subtly sweeping around the teahouse. Several Arabs sat at the bar smoking hookahs, the air thick with smoke.

Rosen looked away and lowered his voice: "Having troubles lately?"

Zhou Weijie paused for a moment, holding the lemonade, then sighed, nodded, and didn't continue the conversation.

Do you have any guns left? I need cheap ones. And a batch of bullets too.

Rosen raised an eyebrow.

The number of people asking him to buy guns in the last two days is more than the total number in the previous two months combined. This is not a good sign.