Page 14 of The Promise

Me: Interesting.

Lex-Dawg:She’s sweet and really sure about who she is and what she wants. I think she’s cute too with style. You want her number?

Me: Nah. I don’t know what she looks like.

Lex-Dawg:You want me to send you a pic?

Me: Nah. This Sunday I’m busy but I’ll pull up next Sunday..

Lex-Dawg:Damn. Okay.

Nowadays, pictures are the most deceiving tools of misrepresentation for women. Because of fucking filters you could think a chick looked like Brielle and when you finally got up, she actually looked like Ice T. Nah. I was good on the games. The old fashion route would have to be my method.

ChapterThree

Part III

February | Three Years Later

Thumbing through the pages of the profile he’d sent over to me before this video-conference, I stared into the screen at his hand and head gestures, the smirk that wouldn’t die on his face. Dark-skinned brother, clearly cultured and articulate. The evidence of his wealth could be seen in the background of his camera view, which was a private plane.

“And you’re interested in New Jersey agriculture?”

“Yeah, man,” his British accent was distinct. “It’s something I’ve been contemplating for a few years. As a businessman yourself, you know before you invest, you must research.”

“And that research landed you to theChâteau Blevinestate? Forgive me, but I ain’t following. According to your portfolio here, none of your businesses are in the American market. Why start with purchasing cultivated land and land that ain’t even on the market?”

“Well,” he swiped his nose with a thumb while readjusting himself in his chair. “Let me give you some background on my enterprises. I am the son of a Nigerian immigrant. Hardworking, diligent, and humble man who started from the real muds of the homeland. My father was a gold-miner in South Africa where he migrated to in order to find a better living. He worked hard in the South Deep off the Harmony Gold territories, risking his life. He did it long enough to amass a small fortune and move his family to London, where I was born.

“While in Peckham, he took on businesses in different regions, investing in many markets. He left for Wales for a few years, where he took up farming, finding a particular passion in cow and sheep husbandry. Wool, lamb, beef and other industries are a spoke under that umbrella. He then traveled over to Loire Valley and worked his way into a rare arrangement where a vineyard was about to close its doors due to consecutive dreadful seasons. He invested, brought a few of his men over, and turned the business around. That is unheard of for a Black man in that region.

Enough of my father,” he paused to square his shoulders. Something feeling off about his confident energy. Assurance wasn’t a trait I’d fault another Black man for. Posturing was. And with his considerable experience in investments and harvesting, the work should not require this much presentation. “I worked his businesses until I was able to figure out my own way. My first venture alone was in almond farming in Italy. The Italian market isn’t as profitable as the American, but it garnered me enough to add the pesticides and tech startups. I’ve been able to establish my own business in investments and cultivation. And to answer that last question, everything is negotiable if the price is right. That was one of the first principles in business my father taught me.” He winked.

Fucking winked…at me.

“I’m still waiting to hear why the American market. Why now?”

The smile in his dark eyes dimmed, but the one on his face never dulled.

“If I can be honest?”

My brows shot up as my phone chirped on my desk in my home office. Before Ava could make it over to address it, I’d silenced it. “Please.”

“That was my father’s teaching. Do not engage in the American markets. The whole country is made up of immigrants. They treat each other poorly…have no strong collective culture. There’s greed and division there. Enterprise exists all over the world; America can be easily missed.”

I nodded. “Says the immigrant himself—several times over,” I lowkey argued.

He gave a nod of humility, sporting the same untrusting grin. “I now see the light. I am my own man, looking to find my own way. I’ve heard your name in circles and thought this was a good place to start. I figured if the venture is successful,” His torso swayed expressively. “then maybe I can bring an American love home to my mother and please at least one of my parents.” And then came another damn wink.

Admittedly, I was not a well-traveled man. Most of mine happened with the mother of my child. So gestures and expressions weren’t things I understood in other cultures. But the winking shit was fucking weird to myHarlem Prideass.

“I’ll keep it a bean with you.”

“Please do.”

“My property in Central Jersey isn’t up for sale. The fifty-two acres we own may not all be utilized, but the amount of land was purchased for a reason. Plus, I’m not sure what you can cultivate with what’s unused. I don’t see a potential for a venture at all.”

He laughed. “I don’t agree. Remember, my name is Haris Elba. Haris means to cultivate. Black people in America are getting into transparent-grown produce. That means they prefer to know all about the soil their fruits and vegetables are being grown in. No lies or hidden pesticides or genetically modified organisms. The vegan lifestyle is one of the fastest-growing diets there. There’s so much we can do with even ten acres. I can flip that into fifty in no time.”

---