Living the Earth: my garden

They say the earth listens when you treat it like family. That’s exactly how I’ve come to see the little space in my compound not just dirt and roots, but something alive. Something that feels. My small garden has turned into more than just a place to grow food. It’s become my teacher, my therapy, my little sanctuary. It’s where I’ve been planting a mix of corn, cassava, and water yam just like my grandmother used to do. She called it “wisdom planting.”

I didn’t get the idea from books or YouTube tutorials. It came from watching my elders how they made something out of nothing, how they treated the land with respect, not as a tool but like a partner. I’ve heard all the hype about AI it can write poems, make music, even control machines. But can it feel the soil between its fingers? Can it understand the joy of watching something grow because of your care? I doubt it.

So, I went barefoot, stood quietly on that patch of earth, and let my instincts take over. I didn’t overthink it. I just listened. And I started planting.

The first thing I noticed was how everything needed to work together.
Corn? That one’s the show-off. It grows fast, tall, proud—always reaching for the sun. If corn were a person, it would be the bold firstborn child, the one who takes charge and never backs down. I planted it along the edge of the garden where the sun hits strongest. It stands like a fence now, strong and confident. Later on, I knew its stalks would help the yam vines climb.

Cassava is different. Quiet, patient. It’s like an old soul—you put it in the ground and let it be. It doesn’t scream for attention, but when it’s ready, it gives plenty. I planted them a bit apart from the corn, giving them space to breathe. They don’t need much fussing over.

Then comes water yam the wild one. It doesn’t grow straight like corn or just sit calmly like cassava. No, yam likes to stretch, twist, and explore. It’s got a mind of its own. I gave it enough room to crawl, and it took to the corn stalks like they were made just for it. The cassava helped too, loosening up the soil so the yam could burrow deeper.

I didn’t realize it at first, but this little trio was a perfect team. Corn grew up high and gave shade to the yam. Cassava dug deep and kept the ground loose. And the yam, in its own quiet way, helped hold in moisture and kept the earth cool. None of them competed. They just... worked together.

Every morning, I walk through the garden, no shoes, just me and the soil. Sometimes I talk to the plants—not in some mystical way, just soft words, like you would to a pet. I check their leaves, pull out weeds, water them gently. It’s become a routine I look forward to. Some days, I swear the corn rustles like it's laughing. Other days, the yam vines cling to my legs like a child asking for attention.

People pass by and wonder how my plants are doing so well in such a small space. I tell them it’s a mix of love, timing, and knowing how to let each crop do its thing. Corn goes in first, when the rainy season starts. Then cassava. Water yam waits until the ground is warmer. I don’t rush it.

When harvest time comes, it’s not just about pulling up food. It’s a kind of celebration. I thank the soil, the sun, the rain. I thank the plants too for growing, for teaching me patience, for reminding me that even a small place can hold something beautiful.

This garden in my compound? It’s more than a garden. It’s a relationship. And in that relationship, I’ve found peace.

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