Selfies of Life

#WarOfWords4 "What is Left..?"

Back to the Dirt

One of my favorite books to read as a child was GREEN FINGERS AND GRIT by Anita Davies. Mainly because I could identify with the lives of the young girls in the book.

They had goats, rabbits and vegetable patches to wander through each day, and I had similar animals and some local vegetable patches of my very own to wander through.

I grew up on a farm. Not the romanticized farms of country westerns complete with thoroughbreds and hunky cowboys in weathered tight jeans, but a farm all the same.

We lived in our own home, in Barnawa, Kaduna, with lots of land to spare, so my Father decided to become an earth whisperer.

And boy did he make the earth sing. If there was a god of subsistence farming, that god dotted on my Father. Plants loved him; domestic animals thrived under his care.

We grew Maize, millet, yams, cassava, beans, sweat potatoes, groundnut, okra, hibiscus, spinach, bitter leaf, waterleaf, pepper, tomatoes, papaya, mangoes, banana, guava, cocoyam and still had room left to grow flowers.

 It was that kind of farm.

We also had animals; Goats, pigs, rabbits, guinea pigs, pigeons, ducks and chickens. Needless to say, I grew up well fed, but with brown nails from mucking out coops and pens and from tilling and harvesting.

Fast forward to a few decades later and I’m craving the same life I hated as a child. I wasn't the sort of child whose parents came home with shop-bought veggies in fancy packets, I was the sort who had to chase the chicken or go into the farm and harvest spinach or tomatoes or okra for lunch.

The sort who had to winnow dried corn from the last harvest for milling so the family could enjoy organic pap, or corn meal to go with the okra from the farm.

I thought life was cruel and unkind, even though I never complained about the abundance of food in my plate.

Our farm was mainly the subsistence sort. There were at least ten mouths to feed at any point in time, three times a day every day of the year, so the farm was kept constantly on its toes, and the dirt under our nails remained a constant feature.

But I am so grateful for that life. Growing up with nature like that, seeing the earth transform dried seed into beautiful green shoots and later into delicious produce taught me more about how wonderful God is than the bible could have done.

I learned patience; how to wait for the harvest, how to put in the sort of effort required to produce a directly proportional harvest and I also learned how to deal with loss, with unmet expectations, when the harvest, despite your best efforts, just goes wrong, because the sun was too eager, or the rains were too lazy to fall. 

The lessons I imbibed are still growing within me, bearing fruit each in its season, and I can never be thankful enough to my father for choosing that way of life and making us live and learn the way we did.

Now I want to become a farmer and I’m making small plans towards it. Maybe it won’t happen this year, having lived on a farm a real farm I know the sort of sweaty effort required, so this desire to become a farmer is not born from some romantic whim, I know I have to be very ready or I might as well not bother so I’m planning on taking time off circular hustling to go to the Songhai International Centre in Porto Novo, Benin Republic for a beginners course in farming and related studies.

I found out during research that there’s a Nigerian version of the school here in Nigeria!

The programme was conceived when Cross River Governor Chibuike Amaechi visited the Songhai Centre in Porto Novo and decided it would work well in Rivers State.

Work began at the Rivers Songhai farm in 2010, before then a group of 105 young men and women drawn from the 23 Local Government Areas of the state had been sent to Songhai International Centre in Benin Republic for 18 months of training in various specialized Agric and Agro based areas.

The Cross River farm project sits on a 314-hectare land in Bunu-Tai, an agrarian community in Tai Local Government Area of the state and is about 20 times the size of the Porto Novo Songhai model (trust Naija to magnify the scale of any viable enterprise).

We are sadly letting the rest of the world leave us behind where agriculture is concerned. We have become a nation of wannabe White Collars, while reality is screaming that we need to explore the green and brown collar territories.

There’s money in the dirt, and Agriculture presents an amazing scope of opportunities which can be explored from tourism to journalism and from husbandry to processing.

For instance, this link- http://www.smarttravelsuperfan.com/amazing-agritech-africa-exhibition-conference-tour/  opened my eyes to how a savvy tourism company carved a niche for itself in the Agric tourism sector, instead of haggling for the dwindling market share of mainstream tourism.

The Agritec Africa Exhibition and Conference held in Nairobi, Kenya from June 23-25, 2014 at the Kenyatta International Conference Centre, Nairobi, Kenya. (I’m so sad I missed it.)

 I want to be ready to for the revolution that is coming, I won’t be on the sidelines when it comes, I will jump right in, both feet, and I’m sure my nostrils will revel in the rediscovered heady smell of fertile earth, and this time I won’t mind the satisfying sight of earth-brown nails.

Olufisayo Olanrewaju is a poet, lazy writer, shower-stall singer and trained Broadcaster on an indefinite sabbatical. 

She dreams of someday walking across a grain covered Africa, from Abuja to Zimbabwe, barefoot.

Those who choose Death

If you are terrified of dying you shouldn't read this. In fact, close your eyes and hurry away.

I’m sure that most of the people who know me will be calling me (if they know how to reach me personally, to find out if I’m okay or if I’m thinking of killing myself, or just to find out yet again, why I’m fascinated by the morbid.

So here’s the truth that I’m not afraid to share. It’s my truth, I’m not forcing it on you, so don’t hyperventilate; I’m not afraid of death.

There! I said it, and you have the right to think I’m enamored by the morbid. I don’t think I am.

Death is not my worry, it is the way I go that sometimes keeps me awake for one minute or less, some four times per year.

But I have to admit that I've somehow managed to gain some insight into how it must feel, for those who chose death.

Don’t ask me how I came by this insight. I’m not at liberty to divulge my sources.

Those who chose death are not necessarily weak, or ungrateful, or cowardly.

They just get to a point where they stop seeing the point to fighting a war that we are all born to lose.

Why delay the inevitable? We are all going to die anyway, so why waste money dressing up a walking corpse in the name of plastic surgery or health spas or vegan versus vegetarian diets?

When a person chooses to embrace death, they give in to end the war, at least for themselves.

Yes they are giving up by giving in, but really, what are they giving up on?

Here’s what: pain, hurt, sickness, the drudgery of waking up each morning to throw yourself in the line of fire for more physical, emotional, psychological and spiritual abuse and torture.

They ask themselves if they really must bother with all that. They usually find a bold NO at the end of that question.

Then they compare the other option. Giving in. That one promises undisturbed quiet and cessation of struggles and troubles.

They even have a promise from the Christian bible in Ec 9:10, where it says there is no work to be done in Sheol.

That option begins to look very good. It starts like a little crack in a generally accepted idea that had previously stood as solid as Gibraltar itself, and eventually grows from fission to chasm.

The option boldly challenges a conspiracy that has been force fed on every man, woman and child ever born; the conspiracy theory, that life if worth fighting for.

They wonder at the touted sense that supposedly underpins fighting to hold on to life when life itself and the living of it is one big machine that works assiduously at killing you with each second that passes.

What’s the point? How does that even make sense? Who started this conspiracy? Who is weaving this shroud?

Those who choose death find an irresistible peace in the thought of going to a place and finding some quiet at last.

Maybe they believe they've had more than enough of some trauma or just don’t feel inclined to take on some future discomfort. Who are we to judge?

So the lute from death begins to diffuse some irresistible melody.

Those who choose death decide to lay their burdens down, shed their mortality, close their droopy soul-eyes, and sleep. Deeply.

Those who choose death know that all death is, is letting the soul take a long, undisturbed slumber.

It is the method of exit that’s the problem.

Of course I realize that for many people, the terror of death is because they are not sure about whats on the other side. I am, but if you worry about hell fire, I'm not about to disabuse your mind of the notion, your welcome to hug the knowledge to yourself. 

Still, I'm tempted to ask you how you can think God to be loving and merciful on the one hand, then think him capable of burning souls for eternity because of a sin or sins they committed within 80 years or less.

I don't get that, and I doubt that those who chose death worry about that. 

Lifebuoy Help a Child reach 5

I usually skip those annoying adds on youtube. I couldn't skip this one. you HAVE to see this. If it doesn't touch you, ah, what happened to your heart???

The Eliphant that forgot

Elepha was troubled to the point of perplexion . This was bad, very bad. It was an 11 on the scale of one to ten type of bad.
He had never forgotten a thing in all of his 87 years. Until now.
Elephants are legendary for their recall ability.
All his memories from the time he was a wobbly calf with the biggest ears in his calf group till now were accounted for except one!
He knew he had forgotten something and that whatever it was, it was very important but he couldn't even figure out what it was.

His trek to Phanti's enclave was fraught with trepidation. He knew Phanti would bend his ears to no end over this, and he was, put it mildly,  very embarrassed about asking her for help,  but he had no choice.  If any Elephant could help him feel less like the world was about to end, it was Phanti. 

He had known her for more than Seventy of his years. Her family had joined his herd in 1938. They had trekked all the way from India.
He still remembered the scary tales her parents told his herd about life as circus Eliphants. How they were starved for days as punishment for missing routines during a show.
Their trainers were mean and desparate for money, fame and glory and would stop at nothing to get some form of obedience from the often very overworked and underfed Elephants.

Phanti's Father kicked a trainer one day. That trainer had been trying to  force Phanti's mother to do a stool balancing routine. Poor Ellie was too starved and dizzy to stand on one leg on a tiny stool, she knew she was going to fall off if she dared. So she just stared blankly at the trainer and pretended not to understand the commands.
The trainer went berserk and started to whip Ellie. Eli was going to do like the other Elephants and just watch, this was not the first whipping Ellie had gotten, the 'whip appeal' as they called it,  but that trainer chose the wrong day to go too far.
When he pulled out a gun after he figured out that whipping wasnt getting him anywhere, Eli didnt stop to think. He gave the most ear deafening bellow and lunged headfirst at the startled man.
Eli was furious. He later wondered if that extra kick was necessary, but it helped them all escape so he figured it was good.
Years of wandering followed. It was tough going but they were free and that freedom was a right they defended fiercely. 
By the time they wandered into Nigeria, Ellie and Eli had become a couple, and Phanti had been born.

Now Elipha hoped his old playmate could help solve his problem because they had at least seventy years worth of shared memories.

They hadn't become a couple, but they were fast friends.

Phanti was the only Cow who could cuss him out without fear of being gouged to death.

She was biting into a carob pod when he got to her. Her ears flapping like banana leaves being teased by a gentle breeze.

He stood by and let her fininsh chewing. He knew her well enough to know she would ignore anyone while she was chowing.

When she was done she pressed her head gently on the trunk of the tree then she walked round it. Next she rubbed her entire side along the tree as she whispered "thank you mother tree, your nourishment is good for me."

That was her way. She remembered to thank every tree she ate from.

"Elipha you creaky old sod, what brings you this way today? Don't tell me you've missed my tongue?" Her old eyes were twinkling.

"Phanti I wish I could say I had," he grumbled as he squinted into the young and eager morning sun, "but you already know that'd be a lie. I'm many things but I'm not a liar".

Phanti chuckled at that. "Thank the trees for that," she agreed "but that still doesn't explain the worry I see in your eyes." She looked intently at him, and realised, amongst other things, that his trunk was curled downward and was almost tucked between his knoby legs. The way it always did whenever he was trying to hide something embarrassing.

"Phanti can you help me remember what I'm forgetting?  I know I'm supposed to remember something important today but I don't know what it is."

Age and time had done something curious to Phanti. It had taught her empathy.
A younger Phanti would have laughed and teased him for doing the unbelivable; for forgetting.  Everyone knows Elephants never forget. Her friend obviously had. But she didn't laugh at him or tease.

Instead, she reached between his legs with her trunk and nudged his trunk back out.

Then she grinned. Remembered mischief climbing fleet-footed across her leathery face. "Remember when we disturbed that hive of bees in '39, and had all the grown ups flapping ears all day"? And that was how the rest of the day was spent.
They stood together under the carob tree and recounted seventy years worth of shared memories to see if he had forgotten any of them. He hadn't. He remembered each one.
Just as the moon began to draw shadows around the Nigerian nightlife, Phanti threw him a sideways glance and told him in her most nonchalant manner; "oh, by the way, this is the best anniversary of my parents' death yet."

The fog lifted! That was what he forgot! Today made it ten years since his best friend's parents both died in a tusk raid by poachers.
"Some friend I am huh"? He said, his trunk inching between his legs again in mortification. She nudged it back up. "You're here Elipha, you came to me like you've always done whenever you were worried. I didnt spend today weeping for my parents. You kept me too busy poring over treasured memories to be sad. That's a friend."

They stood there, the Elephant that forgot, and the one that wished she could, as the crickets began their nightly ode to the moon.

The Trashcan

It was not the best of feelings, being the go-to point for every discarded thought.

It felt more dribble than drool really, more decay than manure.

This is where thoughts come to be ignored till they disintegrate to become the force behind an irritating sneeze.

That didn't seem like the best of reasons to exist.

The thoughts that were usually sent to it were sad, depressed things at times. At other times they were gruff, snarling, angry bandits who didn't particularly like being relegated and were not at all shy about letting everyone know about their discontent.

The would create enough rocus to start a head-quake or start a civil unrest with help from other disgruntled elements in the system.

Those types of thoughts were usually the first to be quickly executed with any assortment of thought tranqilizers within ready reach.

Alcohol, drugs and other modes of escapist measures have been applied at various occasions to suit the size of the unrest.

It sighed at the tasking nature of its calling.

'I suppose it could be a good thing,' it thought to itself. 'Youre not entirely useless; there's some sort of need in there somewhere, so alow yourself todays ration of a smile old fellow, and enjoy delivering the cursed service of being the gaol that holds discarded thoughts... 

They all think they hate you, they all think youre useless, the thought hate you for existing and she regards you with all the love a mollusk would feel for salt,  but where would the useless thoughts live if you didnt exist? And just imagine how hopeless the thinker would be if she had no place to banish worn thoughts to...'

And with that spritely bit of pep talk, the Trashcan gave its "lodging available" sign a brisk rub, hung it on the tip of a sturdy thought tree and hunkered down to wait for its next inmate.