f cassava leaves in the morning breeze and the quiet clink of metal buckets being filled at the stream. Born and rais

ernails, the scent of fried akara in the morning, and the echo of adhan bouncing off compound walls at dusk. The rhythms of that town had trained his se

led a life many overlo

of waterleaf grown in shaded areas differed - more tender, slightly sweeter - from those grown under the harsh sun. The grateful

ut to him, they

s father, once a civil servant with the Ministry of Agriculture, now spent his days listening to crackly broadcasts on his old transistor radio and reciting proverbs from a time when word

their son. And by the grace of

soil fertility map from memory, calculate yields in his sleep, and still kneel to press his fingers into the earth just to feel its truth. When his

in startin

motorcycle to the school each morning - twenty minutes of bumping over potholes, dodging goats and laughing children. The salary wasn't much, but he barely touched it. He

mplain. He h

four acres of fertile land near the village. It wasn't much in the grand sche

Ilẹ̀ Ayọ̀ -

prayer. That land wasn't just his investment

land - or close to

ickety motorcycle, returning from a nearby town where he'd gone to pick up bags of fertilizer. Sweat beaded his brow.

he sa

e it, a tall woman in a navy blue blazer - clearly not from around here - st

s he approached

ing sh

hings - but something like curiosity, like the sudden sense t

ike someone used to solving her own problems. B

, madam?" he

e called someone, but..." She looked down

uld you like hel

, something soft p

alked her through local shortcuts. Even helped calm her nerves after a truck

Poised. Hausa. Clearly educated and successful - ev

a roadside mechanic or a passerb

lmost surprised. As though kindness from a strang

n she w

behind. A spark. A wond

king about her - the tilt of her head when

room space. Mattress raised on a wooden platform. Books lined along cement shelves - farming guides, Qu

stew his mother had packed on her last visit. Then he l

hone

o E

Dayo - his NYSC friend

d. "Dayo. We

fic wan kee me. These Abuja people dri

ome Suleja join me for farming. N

But wait-how far that your fine madam from the othe

voice softened. "H

t name. Na ser

.. diff

erent

der, I think. Hausa. From Kaduna. Rich. Polished. Educated. The kind of woman who disc

ll person. Because you no get G-Wagon, n

s, not just worlds. I plant maize and cassava. She probably flies to Abuja ever

ch. You feed people. You employ people. You dey pay tithe, take care of your parents, and

Thanks, Dayo. But I don't want to be a project. I've seen how some women lo

But this one... you sa

e d

e you he

e d

decide what she wants. No dey disqual

say you no go abandon banking

e invites you out, just call me.

laughter only friends who've seen each o

hung like a quiet witness over the rows of cassava on Ilẹ̀ Ayọ̀. A fe

of this thing with Suraiyah.

knew on

omething

ed in cars and corner offices. But

, that was en