I’ve just entered into a long-term relationship – with a farm. And I only have six weeks left until I go home. Oops.
First, I have to say that the use of the word ‘farm’ instead of ‘garden’ for any plot of cultivated land is one of my favorite Nigerianisms. That and ‘bum-bum’ and, more generally, the proclivity for swearing at the Nigerian state.
Ok, now to my point: on Saturday, Abigail, Precious, Praise and Prosper helped me clear a (very) small plot for a farm in our side yard. I mostly wanted to start a farm so that I would have an excuse to swing a cutlass. And swing I did! (Not before Praise warned me not to cut off her foot or my own.) Also, I thought that it would make a good blog post. Nigeria. Growing food. Having deep cultural insights (hey everyone: kids anywhere in the world will work for candy!) . . . it all fits the theme.
Now my farm and I have six short weeks to get to know each other. The greens and okra that we planted have already sprouted, so we’re off to a good start. If only a taco salad and a glass of milk came shooting out of the tropical soil, we’d really be in business!
(Sorry about the weird color of the pictures - they were taken with a (much appreciated) loaner camera. My own camera recently took a nosedive from my arms onto the concrete floor of Kenneth Dike Library. Sarah, my housemate, suggested that the camera might have purposely taken the dive after witnessing the decrepit state of the archives. I have to agree.)