Special Feature
by Chukwudi George Ozalla
After the gubernatorial election in my state of Anambra, I decided to linger a little longer in my hinterland. There is a special kind of peace and joy here I often enjoy that the city cannot offer. Birds move lightly from branch to branch, singing their morning songs with a rhythm that seems to echo the heartbeat of the land. Trees stand tall, their leaves breathing out a fragrance that fills the air with freshness so pure it feels as though each inhale cleanses both body and mind. I love this rhythm of nature, the slow unfolding of life. I love the fruits that hang patiently on trees, ripening in their own time. I love walking barefoot in the soft, warm sand, feeling the earth beneath my feet and reconnecting with the ground that sustains us; it evokes my boyhood memories of playing in the sand.
But in the middle of this calm, something happened that dampened my spirit. I discovered that someone who helps take care of the compound had unintentionally cut down two well-grown masquerade trees I had carefully nurtured to fair growth, then pinned them back into the soil as though they had withered on their own. When I pulled them out and saw the clear matchet cuts, it pained me deeply. Maybe it happened accidentally while cutting grasses around them, but it still affected my mood. I really don’t joke with my flowers and plants; they mean a lot to me.
Two days ago, drawn by a sudden impulse after my morning workout, I went to my nearby farm to check on the cassava I planted last year in June. I thought I might pull just one or two sticks. What I saw stopped me in my tracks. The cassava had grown massive, each stalk strong, healthy, and proud, as if celebrating the miracle of its own growth. I felt a joy that only comes from watching something you planted flourish. There is a deep satisfaction in seeing life you nurtured reach its potential.
Even my grafted dwarf German mango, planted three years ago, now fills me with amazement. I had almost given up on it when it seemed stunted and refused to grow. Since then, I have visited often to check on it, making small adjustments and tending to it when I could. Today, seeing it flowering and attracting tiny pollinators, I marvel at God’s work. The tree has also become a shelter for a bird that nested on it, which gave me special joy. I intentionally sat under its shade and laughed in my mind, thinking that I am able to sit under the shade of a tree I planted. I know I will continue planting more, knowing that others may grow under its shade long after I am gone to rest beneath the mother earth when God has decreed. The mango is a hybrid, crafted to yield well, and now it is alive with blossoms and promise. Life unfolds in its own time, and when it does, the results are breathtaking.
Walking through the farm, I feel part of a timeless cycle, filled with nostalgia for when my paternal grandmother of blessed memory, Mrs. Elizabeth Nwogbo Ozalla (née Okafor), would wake me and my younger brother very early in the morning to go to the farm. It was usually a long walk and we returned in the evening. The cassava, the mango, the small patches of vegetables all show that life nurtured with care thrives. Even the soil, warm and fertile beneath my feet, seems full of energy and potential. There is satisfaction in participating in this process, in seeing growth unfold and knowing your hands played a part. Each plant is a small miracle of creation.
I earnestly encourage everyone to plant something, no matter how small. It does not necessarily have to be for profit or display. Even a few plants for personal use bring lessons in patience and care. Planting is hope, patience, and quiet joy. Watching plants grow teaches lessons that books or screens cannot. You see the effort, the rhythm of life, and the reward of tending to it. Plants can survive without humans, but humans cannot survive without plants. I have always advocated that beyond your profession or whatever you do, learn to or support farming in one little way or another because everyone eats. You don’t have to be practically involved; even if it is in your courtyard, let there be nature.
So come and enjoy my cassava. I have succeeded in making parboiled sliced cassava flakes (abacha mmiri) with it. Life is sweeter when shared, and nothing tastes better than the fruit of your own labour. Sitting under a mango tree, feeling the soft sand beneath your feet, and tasting homegrown cassava is an experience that makes you appreciate the beauty of creation.
This farm is more than soil and plants. It is a space where patience is rewarded, and God’s creativity is visible in every stalk, every leaf, and every blossom. Come, walk with me through the farm, hear the birds, feel the warmth of the sun, and taste the fruits of effort and care. See my big cassava; it is ready and waiting for you to enjoy it.
Publisher and Editor-in-Chief, NEWSCOUNT.
