Last summer, I had a completely different perspective on the farm. At dawn, the fields were very quiet. I used to imagine the farm being loud in the morning birds screaming at sunrise, goats bleating, and Grandpa shouting out orders. But that day, the golden light had spread across the fields, and everything seemed very still. Grandpa was already out with his old hoe. His back was bent. His face had aged, the lines were deeper. However, his eyes were brilliant, just like always.
"You're late," he said, grinning.
"I took the long way," I replied to him.
Actually, I needed time before looking at him. He had been sick last winter, and although everyone said he was okay, I could tell how much it had affected him.
We started planting in silence. The soil was cool. The seeds felt small and fragile in my hand. Each one carried a future food, money, maybe even enough to fix the leaking roof. Farming was never just about crops. It was survival and hope.
As we worked, Grandpa spoke quietly. He told me how he’d run barefoot across these rows as a boy, his father warning him not to crush the seedlings. He remembered the dry years when the rain stayed away and the good years when they fed half the village.
“Farming teaches patience,” he said, pressing a seed into the earth. “Even broken things can grow again.”
His hands were cracked and strong but they still had a bit of a tremor in the fingers. I am sure that those hands had planted more seeds than I can ever count.
On the porch, we watched the sun go down and the sky turn from orange to purple. The crickets were singing. The scent of the roasting corn was in the air. Grandpa reclined in his seat.
“You will get through school very soon,” he assured
“There will be something bigger waiting for you outside of here.”
“I really do not know,” I said.
“The city feels unbearable at times and is always a little bit cold. It feels like a lie but here is real.”
He nodded. “The land will wait for you. But don’t stay for me. Live your life.”
The new day, Grandpa was not in a hurry to get things done. He took breaks frequently. On one occasion, he signaled the old mango tree by the fence.
“I was your age when I put my initials there,” he said.
“After that, I added your mother's. Whenever I was tired, I used to take a look at that tree and remember my reason to stay.”
I saw the indentations at night when the moon was shining. The characters were weak and almost invisible due to the long time gone by. I ran my fingers over them and felt time passing by.
The season kept going and time was passing. Once in a while the sun was too strong and there were no rains for several days. Still, there were also some beautiful moments Grandpa smiling when my little cousin getting dirty in the mud, my aunt singing while she was weeding, the stars that were lying on the sky like seeds.
Then the storm came. The clouds had turned black and the wind was strong. The fields were struck with heavy rain. Through our front door, we saw the water flowing down into our beds like little rivers. Grandpa was standing still, holding his hat tightly with both hands.
The day after that, we checked the beds that were damp. Some of the seedlings had gone. I was sad.
Grandpa knelt beside a small, bent sprout. He brushed soil over it and said, “It’s not the end. The land heals.”
We replanted. My back ached, my hands were raw, but I felt steady. You can’t control storms. You can only plant again.
A week later, green shoots pushed through the soil. Grandpa smiled. “See? Life finds a way.”
The fields turned green again. Grandpa grew weaker. Sometimes I’d find him sitting under the mango tree, watching the land like he was memorizing it.
“Do you regret staying?” I asked him one evening.
“No,” he said. “This land raised me. It gave me your grandmother and all of you. Regret doesn’t live here.”
The harvest might not have been on time but it was still done. The corn and beans were both going to give us a good yield. My cousins, aunts, uncles, and Grandpa, who is a little slower now but still there, we all worked together.
I can tell you that after we were done with it, we had a great time. There was music and laughter. My mother prepared yam pottage. My cousins were dancing without shoes. Grandpa was telling stories and his laughter could be heard all over the fields. For a moment, I felt like a kid again.
I was standing on the porch that night, staring at the moonlit empty fields. The earth was still full of memories. Agriculture was not just about farming and harvesting. It was the family, survival, and peaceful charm.
On the following day, I was about to leave for the city but before that, I left a tiny mark below Grandpa's initials on the mango tree. Part of me will always be with him there. When I looked, Grandpa was standing at the door, the sun making a halo around his head. He raised his hand in a slight wave, I returned the wave, knowing that the golden fields of memory would remain with me.
There may be storms. The cracks may get bigger. Nonetheless, the roots are deeply embedded and even in harsh times, nature still finds its way to grow.