Elyadirf1

SYNOPSIS 

I am held bound by the wonderful experience my Ground Mother,Madam Iyono Ajogo  bequeathed to me. 

A sound life nurtured by the way of nature. 

She is pragmatic,bold and down -to-earth. Instead of pampering as other grannies do. 

She was frank enough to tell me  to always go with her to the farm to drink the down dew, as we were sneaking through the wet ears of grass by the farm paths at dawn. 

She was telling me, ‘Fande’ , the derogatory pronoun of Friday. I loved that sound as it echoes through all the fabrics of my being. 

All my marrow resound the tone like thunder claps. 

She always say “Land has a language, listen to understand.”

"Child," she said, "the land is a living, breathing entity. It has a rhythm, a heartbeat that we must learn to listen to and respect." 

Claws Of Time, is a simple narrative, from one of her various pre occupations, farming. 

She was a trader, a herbalist and she has indulged so many women in her clime. 

The tribe she cultivated. She was highly honoured and respected in the community.
Through my granny, I was always full headed for every task.

 I began to see in the farm the interconnectedness of all things, how every creature and plant was inextricably linked, each one relying on the others for survival.

She brightened my horizon of viewing things on a new pedestals.

"This is a dung beetle," she said, holding it cupped in her palm. Making me see value in all things.

 She said,"It plays a crucial role in the health of our soil, breaking down organic matter and returning nutrients to the earth." 

This is my story of growing up under a firm granny, ain't I not lucky? She was a star. May her rest be blessed. 
Thank you, Mother Iyono Ajogo.

© El-yadirf Adokauhil.

CLAWS OF TIME.

In the pursuit of that wholesome, living farm is the place to be.

It's only in the farm one can tell what nature is communicating.

The land speaks with loud noise only the talented hearers understand.

Every gap melt away, by voices of nuture

The presence, and the electrifying touch⁰

Sensing deeply,when the sun bathes you

With a sense of yearning for  a hug

There, I always want to feel and be.

Our  farm was a sprawling expanse, with rows of crops stretching out as far as the eye could see.

The soil was rich and dark, nourished by the seasonal rains.

Grand-Mom had tended this land for as long as I could remember, coaxing the earth to yield its bounty through her tireless efforts.

As a child, I would often accompany her to the fields, watching in fascination as she guided the plow through the soil, her weathered hands gripping the worn wooden handles.

She would sing old folk songs as she worked, her voice carrying across the tranquil landscape.

I would trail behind her, my eyes taking in every detail - the flutter of a butterfly's wings, the chirping of the birds, the gentle sway of the crops in the breeze.

One day, as we were working side by side, Grand-Mom paused and turned to me, her eyes twinkling with wisdom.

"Child," she said, "the land is a living, breathing entity. It has a rhythm, a heartbeat that we must learn to listen to and respect."

She went on to explain how the cycles of the seasons, the phases of the moon, and the movements of the stars all played a role in the delicate balance of the farm.

I listened, entranced, as she shared her deep understanding of the natural world.

She spoke of the importance of crop rotation, of allowing the soil to rest and rejuvenate, of the intricate web of life that sustained the ecosystem.

I marveled at the depth of her knowledge, accumulated over a lifetime of working the land.

As the days turned into weeks and months, I began to see the farm through new eyes.

I noticed the subtle changes in the soil, the way the leaves on the trees shifted with the changing light.

I marveled at the diversity of the insects and birds that called this place home, each one playing a vital role in the larger tapestry of life.

One day, as I was tending to the young seedlings, I noticed a small, iridescent beetle making its way through the soil.

I watched, fascinated, as it burrowed and tunneled, its movements seemingly purposeful and deliberate. Grand-Mom, sensing my interest, came over and gently plucked the beetle from the earth.

"This is a dung beetle," she said, holding it cupped in her palm. "It plays a crucial role in the health of our soil, breaking down organic matter and returning nutrients to the earth."

She went on to explain the intricate dance of life that took place beneath the surface, a hidden world teeming with activity.

I was captivated, my understanding of the farm deepening with each passing day.

Claws Of Time.