I open my eyes. It’s morning already. I let out a long, widemouthed yawn and stretch, my bones aligning with my movements. I move to the window and pull the curtains apart, letting the brightness envelop the room. The wet smell of the earth wafts through my nostrils and I smile; rain means a bountiful harvest. My feet convey out of my room and I meet Mama in the kitchen, making breakfast. I greet her and she says, “You are a girl o, I don’t know why you wake up so late”.
If I remember clearly – and I do – the past few days had been tiring for all of us. We had worked twice as hard at the farm, burying seeds and roots and tubers in the ground as fast as we could, trying to beat the rains which could almost be squeezed out of the dark clouds that hung in the sky. I ignore Mama and go to brush my teeth.
Papa has gone to the monthly farmers’ meeting. His drinking horn is absent from its usual position in the kitchen cupboard. Whenever he is around, the horn will tell. This meeting is special because the farmers will celebrate the first rain of the month of March – the one that announces the rainy season – over kegs of freshly tapped palm wine. Last year, there was no celebration. The rain delayed, and when it finally came, it was like a visitor whose presence is not felt, who leaves almost as quickly as he comes. We did our best to feed the earth with water, but what nourishes better than the torrents of life that pour from above? The harvest was sparse and we knew that if things remained that way, there would be little to eat and nothing to sell the next season. The gods have heard our cry and sent the rains early, should they not also prepare us for the calamity ahead?
May has arrived with its blooming flowers. We go to the farm to root out weeds, and our expectation of the verdant, richness of green plants overshadowing brown land is slapped back at us. My three elder brothers look at one another’s faces and back at the field of sick-looking maize plants that are spread out in front of us. My father, aided by the shovel he’d stuck in the damp soil, lowers himself onto the ground. His countenance dimmed. I bet we could read each other’s minds; I thought of my school fees and my youngest brother’s. I want to pat my father on the shoulder, pull him up and tell him that everything will be alright, but the evidence of my lie would be staring back at us. Everything seems far from alright. After what seems like five minutes, Papa says, “Let’s take out the weeds, maybe the plants need space to access sunlight”.
When we return from the farm in the evening, other farmers share similar experiences. One man’s maize plant has not grown past his calf. Another says the leaves of his cassava plant have taken on a yellow appearance.
“Maybe the rains came too early,” says Chike, an elderly man.
“Maybe”, we all chorus.
I go to sleep wondering why the rain didn’t wash the crops away, what is in it that drops a yellow, almost brown colour on the tips of the leaves?
By July, it is clear to us that this year’s harvest will be worse than the previous year’s. We heard it in the news one evening, on Papa’s transistor radio, the broadcaster’s voice lowered as if he is afraid of telling the people that oil pipelines have broken and that the oil has seeped into the earth.
“I knew it!” Mama interjects.
“I knew it wasn’t the rain. Ah-ah, is this the first time the rains have come early, eh?”
Papa turns and gives her a deadly stare to let her know she is distracting his attention. She lowers her voice and mutters silently to herself. I try to focus and listen to the other things the broadcaster is saying about the measures the government has put in place to help farmers. It doesn’t help that every day I think about the farm, I think about school too. Now, I am wondering if the government will also pay the school fees of children affected by the accident. I remember Mr. Umuokoro, our fine arts teacher who always told us that even if we don’t play, our white uniforms will be dirtied by the spot emitted from the chimneys of Port Harcourt’s numerous factories. And the only thing I remember from the colour wheel he always drew on the board is that the colour brown is only four colours away from the colour green.
Read – Confessions of a Hopeless Romantic – A Short story by Oyinloye Michael Oluwatomisin, Nigeria
