Arrays of Agricultural topics 👉Choose-Write-Post#29

Agricultural Diaries

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Every day on the farm don’t ever feel the same, even when I do almost the same thing over and over. Morning come quick, cock shout “cucurrere galli” before the light even rise, and I know sleep is gone. The rooster is like my alarm clock, but his own don’t need battery, only food and pride. Sometimes I wake tired, sometimes strong, but the land no dey wait, it call me always.

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First step out, the cold air rush at my face, fresh and wet. I walk barefoot on grass, it sting small because dew cover everywhere. The ridges of yam stand quiet like soldiers, I go between them one by one, bending low, touching leaf, checking if insect bite them again in the night. Sometimes caterpillars hide under leaf, greedy little things, chewing like no tomorrow. I pull them out with finger, smash them on stone. While doing this I whisper to myself, “labor omnia vincit,” which mean work conquers all.

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The goat already crying at the pen, hungry mouths waiting. The chicken scratching sand, their noise rising like choir, and the cow wag tail as if cursing me for being slow. I scatter maize grain for chicken, I fetch grass for goat, I pour water in broken clay pot. Animals no get patience, but me I no vex. They depend on me, and I depend on them too. Sometimes I even talk to them, like they my friends. Maybe they understand, maybe they don’t, but it makes me feel better.

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Sun climb higher, heat begin to touch my back, then I hold my hoe and enter cassava field. Weeds never rest, they grow faster than cassava itself, so I must cut them away or everything spoil. I bend long hours, sweat wet my shirt, hand pain me, back heavy, still I continue. In my mind I say “nil sine labore,” nothing without labor. The land only give if I give first. Sometimes my hoe cut root by mistake, and my heart pain, but what can I do, farming is full of mistakes.

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At midday the sun is cruel. I hide under the mango tree, sit down, and drink water from my calabash. The taste of cold water after sweat is like blessing. Sometimes I crack groundnut, chew slowly while staring at sky. Cloud drift, bird sing, and I tell myself farming is suffering and joy together. If you don’t like both, you can’t farm.

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After resting small, I return back. Dry season no mercy, so I fetch water from stream, pour carefully around plants. My hand shake from carrying heavy calabash but still I pour till last drop. In rainy season I don’t bother, rain do the work, and that time is lighter. Afternoon also good for planting. I press maize seed inside soil with finger, cover it gentle like I hide treasure. Sometimes I talk to seed, telling it to grow fast. It sound foolish, but the earth hear. Terra mater, mother earth, she listen even when we don’t know.

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Evening come slow but sweet. Sky turn orange, breeze carry smell of dust and leaf. I harvest little vegetable for soup: ugu leaf, pepper, sometimes okra. I put them in woven basket, carry home on head. My palm smell like green, soil stick under nail, but I feel proud. Even if I don’t get plenty money, at least I know my dinner is from my sweat.

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When night fall, after eating, I sit with small lamp and write in my book. I write how many yam sprout, how many egg chicken give, which cassava look weak, which one strong. The diary is not only for record, it is my memory of the day. Tomorrow when I open it, I can see how far I come. If the crop die, I will remember why, if harvest is good, I will remember joy. This book is my quiet friend.

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Farming is not always smiling. Sometimes rain fall too much and wash seed away. Sometimes sun burn everything. Pests come without invitation. Some days I cry alone in the field because everything look hopeless. But other days basket full, yam big like drum, cassava plenty, maize tall, and my heart dance inside me. That is the balance of farming, the give and take, the sweet and the bitter.

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I look at the land like my mother, Terra mater. She can be harsh, she can punish, but upon all she is still my mother, she also feed me, clothe me, give me reason to wake each morning. Each sunrise is chance to try again. That is why even when my body weak, I still stand, because if I don’t farm, nothing will grow.

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So every single day, I rise, I sweat, I bend, I feed, I write, and I hope. This is my agricultural diary. It's not ot just all about words, not only chores, but life itself. Farming is not about work alone, it is living, breathing, belonging to the soil, and trusting it will give back someday.

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I invite @promisezella @etoro @kwinberry to participate in this contest

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Cc,
@hive-118902

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