My Niece Had Been Selling Honey Under My Apiary Permit for Two Years

The Hill County Agricultural Trade Show opened at seven in the morning.

The air in the fairgrounds pavilion smelled of spun sugar, hot asphalt, and livestock.

I carried my canvas bag over my right shoulder.

I walked past the rows of folding tables.

I am a retired homemaker.

I am a South African-American grandmother.

I make peach preserves for the St. Jude’s church bazaar.

Thandi calls me “Aunt Maggie.”

She says I am very practical and have a very green thumb.

I am here to support her.

“Come support me,” she had said on the phone. “I’m setting up a booth.”

Thandi’s booth was in the center aisle.

It was decorated with yellow gingham fabric and a large chalkboard sign.

The sign read: “Dube Gold Honey – Locally Sourced, State Certified.”

She was arranging jars in a pyramid when I arrived.

“Aunt Maggie!” she said. She stepped out from behind the table and hugged me.

“It looks wonderful,” I said.

I looked at the pyramid of jars.

The honey was a light amber color.

I reached into my bag.

I was carrying a jar of my own.

I had brought it to give to her.

It was a familiar weight. Exactly sixteen ounces.

I left my jar in the bag.

I reached out and picked up one of Thandi’s jars from the table.

The label was professionally printed.

A stylized bee hovered over the words “Dube Gold Honey.”

Below the business name, in small block letters, was a permit number.

TX-0847.

I looked at the number.

I did not blink.

I set the jar down on the table.

I picked it up again.

I rubbed my thumb over the printed letters.

TX-0847.

That was my number.

I had renewed it twenty-six times.

It belonged to Margaret Nkosi, doing business as Dube Apiary.

It did not belong to Thandi Dube.

It did not belong to Dube Gold Honey.

Different handwriting. Different business name.

I looked at Thandi.

She was smiling at a couple who had stopped to look at the chalkboard sign.

I did not say anything to her.

I put her jar back on the table.

I turned and walked toward the main entrance.

The TAIS inspection table was set up just inside the pavilion doors.

A man in a state-issued polo shirt was sitting behind it.

He was looking at a tablet.

His nameplate read: Ray Garza, Inspector.

I watched as Thandi approached the table carrying a cardboard flat of her jars.

She set the flat on the folding table.

“Just dropping off my samples for the compliance check,” Thandi said.

Ray Garza picked up one of the jars.

He looked at the label.

He tapped his tablet screen.

“Dube Gold Honey,” he said.

“Yes,” Thandi said brightly.

Ray tapped the screen again. He waited for a moment.

He frowned.

“This permit number doesn’t match the business name,” Ray said.

Thandi stopped smiling.

“I’m authorized,” she said quickly. “It’s my aunt’s permit. We’re family.”

I stepped forward.

I stood three feet away from my niece.

I looked at the inspector.

I got my first hive in 1997.

It was a single Langstroth box sitting in a corner of our property in Hillsboro.

My husband Thomas thought it was a phase.

“Margaret is trying out farming,” he would tell his friends.

Eight years later, I had forty-seven active hives.

I was producing twelve thousand pounds of honey a year.

When my first state permit arrived in the mail, Thomas looked at the number.

“TX-0847,” Thomas had laughed. “Sounds like a government ID.”

It was a government ID.

I treated it like one.

A permit is not just a piece of paper.

It is a promise that the product has been tested, that the hives are clean, that the extraction process meets the standard.

It is a legal document.

In 2022, I went to the church bazaar.

Thandi had a small table set up next to my preserves.

She was selling jars of honey.

I picked one up.

The label was handwritten. The permit number TX-0847 was written at the bottom.

I put the jar down.

“You should talk to someone about the permits,” I told her quietly.

I had meant: talk to me.

She had said: “Okay, Aunt Maggie.”

I had not followed up.

I had assumed she understood.

Last month, Marisol showed me Thandi’s online shop.

The shop had over forty reviews.

There was a photo of the jars.

The professionally printed labels were clearly visible.

TX-0847.

On every label.

I had seen the photo.

I had set my phone down.

I had meant to call her. I had meant to tell her clearly.

I had said ‘talk to someone’ and assumed someone would be me and we would have the conversation and she would understand.

I had not had the conversation.

I had let the church bazaar pass.

I had let the online shop accumulate.

After my sister Bisi died in 2019, Thandi had lived with me for a year.

I had taken her out to the hives.

I had taught her how to smoke the bees, how to lift the frames, how to check for mites.

I had meant to give her something to build on.

I had not meant to give her a way to use my name without asking.

Standing at Ray Garza’s inspection table while Thandi said ‘I’m authorized,’ I understood that my patience had become Thandi’s assumption.

It was time to replace the assumption with the regulation.

“Ma’am?” Ray Garza said.

He was looking at me.

“You’re the aunt?”

I looked at Thandi.

Her face was flushed. She was nodding.

“Aunt Maggie,” Thandi said. “Tell him it’s okay.”

Ray pulled up the permit file on his tablet.

He turned the screen toward me slightly.

“Nkosi, Margaret,” Ray read. “TX-0847.”

“Yes,” I said. “That is my name.”

“And you hold this permit?”

“Since 1997.”

“Did you authorize the business name ‘Dube Gold Honey’ under this permit?”

The pavilion was loud with the sounds of people arriving.

A tractor engine roared to life somewhere outside.

At the inspection table, it was very quiet.

I reached into my canvas bag.

My hand found the familiar weight of the sixteen-ounce jar.

I pulled it out.

I set it on the folding table, right next to the jar Ray had taken from Thandi’s flat.

Two jars.

Same golden color.

Same permit number.

One label was professionally printed with a stylized bee.

The other was a simple white sticker.

The writing on the sticker was my own.

“Dube Apiary, TX-0847, Spring Wildflower 2024.”

Ray looked at the two jars side by side.

Thandi looked at my jar.

“Aunt Maggie,” Thandi said. Her voice was small. “I thought you said it was okay.”

“I said you could use the hives,” I replied.

I did not raise my voice.

Thandi’s flush deepened.

“What’s the difference?” Thandi asked.

Her tone shifted. It became defensive.

It escalated from a misunderstanding to a challenge.

“The hives are family property,” she said. “The permit is just paperwork for the hives.”

Ray Garza looked up from his tablet.

He looked from Thandi to me.

“Verbal permission to use the hives,” Ray said slowly. “That’s what she gave you?”

“Yes,” Thandi said. “Which means I’m authorized.”

Ray frowned.

He tapped his tablet screen again.

He was uncertain.

Family businesses were always messy.

Sometimes verbal permission was enough to slide by on an inspection, if the primary permit holder was present and nodding along.

I was present.

I was not nodding along.

I looked at Ray Garza.

He was wearing the standard TAIS uniform.

He looked like a man who wanted to make the easy choice.

“What does the regulation say, Mr. Garza?” I asked.

Ray Garza looked at his tablet.

He opened a different application. The TAIS inspector handbook.

He scrolled down.

He stopped.

He read the text on the screen.

“Permit use by a secondary business entity requires written authorization from the primary permit holder,” Ray read aloud.

He looked at Thandi.

“That authorization must be on file with TAIS prior to product distribution.”

Thandi opened her mouth to speak.

Ray held up a hand.

“Verbal permission for hive access does not constitute permit authorization,” he continued.

He closed the application.

“This is black and white in the regulation.”

He picked up Thandi’s jar.

He placed it back in the cardboard flat.

“These products cannot be sold at this show,” Ray said. “You are operating under an unauthorized permit.”

“But she’s right here!” Thandi protested. “She can just tell you!”

Ray shook his head.

“The protocol requires written documentation,” Ray said.

“The protocol says,” Thandi mocked softly. She glared at Ray.

Ray’s eyes narrowed.

He looked back at his tablet.

He pulled up my permit file again.

He scrolled down past my address and the forty-seven registered hive locations.

He stopped at the bottom of the page.

“Yes,” Ray said. “The protocol says.”

He looked at Thandi.

“The 2016 Texas Apiary Inspection Service contamination testing protocol.”

He turned the tablet so Thandi could see the screen.

“Co-authored by Mrs. Nkosi.”

Thandi stared at the screen.

She looked at the name. Margaret Nkosi.

She looked at me.

“You wrote the rules?” Thandi asked.

She sounded like someone who had just discovered the floor was made of glass.

“I helped write them,” I said. “So people would know what they meant.”

The show coordinator, a woman named Linda Marsh, had been standing nearby.

She had heard the exchange.

She stepped forward.

“I’ll have to pull your booth assignment, Ms. Dube,” Linda said. “Pending permit resolution.”

“I paid for that booth,” Thandi said.

“And I will refund your fee,” Linda replied smoothly. “But you cannot exhibit unpermitted agricultural products at a state-certified show.”

Thandi looked at the flat of jars.

She looked at my jar sitting alone on the table.

The secondary arc was resolved.

The regulation was clear. Verbal permission was insufficient.

My name was on the protocol. My authority was absolute.

Ray Garza picked up my jar.

“Which of these is the permitted product?” Ray asked, even though he knew.

I pointed to my jar.

“Dube Apiary,” I said. “TX-0847.”

Ray nodded.

He handed my jar back to me.

“Have a good day at the show, Mrs. Nkosi,” he said.

I put the jar back in my canvas bag.

I did not look at Thandi.

I turned and walked away from the inspection table.

I walked through the pavilion for an hour.

I looked at the prize-winning pumpkins.

I looked at the tractors.

I did not buy any spun sugar.

I drove home to Hillsboro.

The house was quiet.

I went into the kitchen.

I set my canvas bag on the counter.

I took the jar out of the bag.

I set it on the shelf with the others.

There were fourteen jars on that shelf.

Each one had a white sticker label with my handwriting.

The one I had brought to the fair was the same.

I had made it the same way I had made all of them.

I had not used Thandi’s label.

I had not needed to.

I stood at the shelf for a long time.

I was thinking about Bisi.

Bisi had died four years ago.

She had been my partner in everything.

When she died I thought I would stop keeping the bees.

The hives were too much for one person.

Then Thandi had come to me.

She was twenty-three and learning.

I had wanted to give her something.

I had given her the hives.

I had given her the work.

I had not given her the permit.

I had assumed she understood the difference.

She had not.

The phone rang.

I let it ring twice.

It was Thandi.

“Auntie Margaret.”

Her voice was careful.

“Ray called me,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

“I didn’t know it was wrong,” Thandi said. “I thought because you gave me access—”

“Access to the hives,” I said. “Not the permit.”

Silence on the line.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I truly didn’t know.”

I believe her.

Ignorance is not the same as forgiveness.

She used my name without asking.

She sold products under my permit for two years.

She brought those products to a state-inspected fair and put them on a table next to mine.

I had to learn about it from a state inspector I had known for twenty years.

“I know you didn’t know,” I said.

“I won’t do it again,” Thandi said.

“No,” I said. “You won’t.”

I told her I was going to write something up.

An agreement.

What was hers to use and what was not.

What she needed to apply for on her own.

The steps for that.

The timeline.

“Okay,” Thandi said quietly.

“I’ll send it to you this week,” I said.

I hung up.

I sat down at the kitchen table.

I took out a sheet of paper.

I uncapped a pen.

I had given Thandi access to the hives because Bisi was gone and I wanted to give her something.

The hives were mine to give.

The permit was mine to authorize.

I had given the first and assumed the second.

That assumption had cost us both something.

I began to write.