03/08/2025
🌾 The Boy Who Hated the Hoe
In the heart of a small African village called Udugbe, lived a boy named Omoruyi. He was the only child of his parents — two hardworking farmers who believed that “a child must know the language of the land.” Every morning before the rooster’s second crow, Omoruyi’s father was already sharpening his cutlass while his mother tied her wrapper, preparing for another day at the farm.
But Omoruyi hated the farm.
He hated the dust, the sun, and especially the hoe.
“I didn’t come to this world to be bending back like plantain leaf,” he would often say.
Instead of farming, Omoruyi would hide his hoe behind the yam barn and sneak off to the village square to play ayo, chase goats, or doze under the mango tree.
His parents scolded, begged, even flogged him — but nothing worked. “Farming is suffering,” he would say. “I want to make easy money. Maybe go to the city and drive car with AC.”
Then came the planting season. His parents left him at home and went to the farm alone. Day after day, week after week, they planted yam, cassava, maize, okra... but Omoruyi planted nothing — only laughter and laziness.
Harvest season arrived. The family rejoiced — baskets filled with food, barns stacked with tubers. That evening, as they sat to eat, Omoruyi stretched his hand toward a steaming plate of pounded yam.
His father stopped him.
> “No touch. You no follow us plant. Go chop from the play wey you plant.”
Omoruyi’s smile vanished. For three days, he watched them eat while he lived on dry garri and shame. On the fourth day, he walked to the farm by himself.
He dug the soil. It fought him. The sun burned his neck. Blisters painted his palms. But still, he worked. Something had changed.
From that day, Omoruyi went to the farm every morning — not by force, but by choice. He began to ask questions. He learned to plant in rows, to w**d properly, to read the sky before rain. Five years later, Omoruyi was not just farming — he was leading.
