The Village Merchant, pt. 1

    The Old Man lowers himself onto the ground and places the hoe beside him. Above the sun shines, but below has shade and a moment of respite. Around his eyes lie the crisp wrinkles of a lifetime in the field. With his free hand, he scoops up some soil and slowly lets it loose. It is tired too.

In front of him are rows and rows of rustling corn. They wave like peasants to their king. Beyond is the new fence, worth a decade of patient saving. And beyond that is Tubabi, a cluster of homes perched on a little hill surrounded by fruit trees. The Old Man has sat often in the shade of this tree, taking in this view, as far back as when he was a boy.

Then, there were more fruit trees and less houses. Every year, more babies are born and the orchard must be cut to build a place for them to live. And then those babies have babies of their own. The trees could not keep up anymore. He scoops up another handful of soil and thought, neither can the land. He closes his eyes.

A motorcycle's grumble grows louder and louder. The Old Man prefers his horse, because it can work in the field too. It stands nearby, under a different tree, its tail swishing away the flies. Its ear turns towards the sound of the engine but she doesn't move.

With a click and a rattle, the Son dismounts. He shouts to the Old Man, "Father, how is the farm?"

I was just getting there.

"It is working. The weeding should be finished by the evening."

"The weeding is never finished," the Son laughs. 

"Yes, that is true too. How are your studies?"

"I am so busy father, so very busy. They have me studying all day and all night." The Son's face is still laughing though his words are delivered with the seriousness of a preacher. "I'm going home to get some lunch. Do you want to come with?"

"No, I need to stay. I was only taking a moment to rest."

"Okay, I'll bring something back with me then." And with that, the Son mounts the motorcycle and the grumble drives away.

The Old Man watches him leave, and breathes in deeply. The wind stopped at that moment and the sun grew hot. With a groan, he lifts himself up with the help of the wooden handle of the hoe. He pulls his hat lower over his face.

Up and down, the hoe chops. Silently, the Old Man works; the motion more familiar than the act of eating, of praying, of talking. He thinks, this is how I tell the field that I am here. That I am here to create in our particular partnership.

And, he thinks about his father, who talked to this field in the same way. And his grandmother, who worked it till she collapsed amongst her furrows. And he thinks about his brother, who took half of the family fields and shouted at the land until it stopped listening to him. And how that land was split among his brother's children who tried to get it to pay attention again. And he thinks on his children, who will each take a share when he is gone. At last, he thinks on his grandchildren, who are almost old enough to join him at the work. Can the land understand us when there are so many voices talking to it? 

He stops hoeing and looks down the row. The weeds are gone today and back again tomorrow. The trees on the hill are gone today and never return. Tubabi will continue to grow but what would happen when there's no more land for its people to use.

The corn watches the Old Man. His worn pants matched by a dusty shirt. The corn watches him turn toward the sound of a motorcycle and they watch him eat a simple lunch. If they could, they would reach out to him and clap the dust from his back. They would sing a song of praise for his labor. They would advise him. Instead, they wave.