₦airaland Forum

‎# SWEAT, SPIRITS, AND SOLDIER FLIES: My Crazy Journey Through the World of Nigerian Farming
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‎## Part 1: From Ibadan to the Barracks: The Beetle and the Injection Wahala
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‎They say that where a man crosses the river is where he remembers the depth of the water. For me, Jimi, the founder of Lusekere Ade Farms Ltd, my journey with resilience and survival didn't start on a vast 4.5-acre plantation in Osun State, nor did it begin in the high-stakes laboratory setups of modern commercial agriculture. No, it started in the ancient, historical, brown-roofed city of Ibadan, Oyo State, where I took my very first breath of air.
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‎As a proud Yoruba man from Southwestern Nigeria, there is a deep, foundational proverb my people use to describe how a tiny, seemingly insignificant occurrence can spin a man’s life around and lead him down a massive, life-altering path:
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‎> *“Kòkòrò kékeré ní ń sọ adìẹ d’ọlọ́jà; ìbẹ̀rẹ̀ kì í ṣe oníṣẹ́.”*
‎> **Meaning:** It is a tiny insect that turns a common chicken into a wealthy merchant in the marketplace; the beginning of a journey is never the absolute master of its final destination.
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‎When I look at where I am today—breeding thousands of insects, managing biological lifecycles, and standing proud as an agropreneur—I cannot help but laugh out loud because my own childhood beginning was as far away from farming as humanly possible. I only spent four short, brief months in the city of Ibadan before destiny packed my tiny baby bags. My mother was not the type of woman who waited around for public transport vehicles or stood by the road waving down commercial buses. She was a woman of immediate, decisive action.
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‎She packed myself, my elder sister, and all our early belongings straight into her own personal, blue-coloured Volkswagen Beetle car. She slammed the door, put her hands firmly on the steering wheel, and drove us all the way from Ibadan straight into the heart of Lagos.
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‎We were heading to the military barracks to join my father, a commissioned naval officer working under the accounts department. Eventually, our family grew into a bustling, active household consisting of my father, my mother, and four children—my elder sister, myself (the second child), and my two younger brothers.
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‎Growing up in a naval barracks permanently shapes a child’s psychology. It is a unique world where even the compound breeze seems to blow in a strict, rhythmic "attention" format. We were allocated a standard three-bedroom flat as our official residence. Because of the intense nature of his job under the military accounts department, my father was barely around the house; he was constantly posted out to southern naval bases like Calabar and Port Harcourt. But whenever he was around? Ah, life was beautifully interesting! Discipline was premium, order was constant, and the rules of the house were absolute.
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‎My formal education kicked off at Stepping Stone Nursery and Primary School in Satellite Town, Lagos. Those of you who know the old Satellite Town layout very well might remember where the old Satellite Baptist Church used to stand. Well, I am told that was my very first school, though if you ask me for a single personal memory from that campus, I would be lying to you. That specific part of my childhood brain is completely blank.
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‎My real formative years—the era where my actual life memories began to permanently lock in—started the exact day I stepped into the gates of Nigeria Navy Primary School.
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‎Because my father was a commissioned naval officer and my mother was a teacher in that exact same primary school, we, the children of teachers, mistakenly thought we possessed some sort of invisible, untouchable immunity card. We foolishly believed we could escape any school policy or uncomfortable event. Oh, how wrong we were!
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‎I remember a particular afternoon vividly. The school authorities were conducting a massive, mandatory vaccination drive for all the students. Now, back in those days, they didn't use the small, polite, painless syringes they use today. No! They brought out a terrifying, silver, heavy, gun-looking injection machine that made a loud, echoing *clack!* sound every time it violently pumped a vaccine into a frightened child's arm. To a young boy in Nursery 2, that machine didn't look like medical equipment; it looked like an instrument of pure, unadulterated, military warfare.
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‎When it was finally my turn to step up, my pure survival instincts kicked in. I broke away from the waiting line, slipped past the distracted junior teachers, and ran as fast as my tiny legs could carry me toward the staff parking lot. My targets were clear: safety, isolation, and the very same blue-coloured Volkswagen Beetle car that had carried us all the way from Ibadan.
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‎I managed to scramble into the car, curling up into a desperate, small ball on the floorboards, breathing heavily in the dark, thinking I had successfully outsmarted the entire Nigerian Navy.
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‎But as our elders say:
‎> *“Ọmọdé lo mọ̀ ọ́n jẹ, kò mọ̀ ọ́n rà; àgbà l’ọmọ̀ rẹ́ dídùn.”*
‎> **Meaning:** A child only knows how to consume the sweet fruit, but the elder knows the exact hidden spot where the sweet roots grow.
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‎My mother was not just an ordinary mom; she was a tough-as-nails, no-nonsense barracks school teacher. She knew exactly how my mind worked, and she wasn't about to stress herself by walking down to the parking lot under the hot sun. Instead, she spotted my elder cousin, who was then a tough, senior boy in Primary 6, and issued a classic, military-grade instruction. She made it beautifully clear: either he goes to fish me out of that blue Beetle immediately, or he would be the one to get a brutal, unforgettable taste of her legendary teacher's cane.
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‎Faced with the immediate terror of my mother's cane, my cousin didn't care about family loyalty, he didn't care that I was his blood cousin, nor did he care about my ocean of dramatic tears. The law of survival of the fittest kicked in. He tracked me straight down to the Beetle, dragged me out of my hiding spot by my shirt, and marched me like a prisoner of war straight back to the execution line to receive my heavy gun-injection. I gave my mother a hell of a *wahala* growing up.
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‎One minute I would be as quiet and calm as a sleeping baby, and the next hour, she would be frantically rushing me to the hospital over one sudden medical emergency or another.
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‎Yet, even amidst the strict, regimented barracks life, the subtle call of the soil was always pulling at my spirit. At the back of our official residence, we had a mini-jungle of sugarcane and banana plants. Even as young children, we were assigned heavy, non-negotiable house duties. Over the weekends, I would be drafted to sweep the vast sandy areas surrounding the house or scrub the frontage that was flooded with cement. Sometimes, I’d be standing at the kitchen sink on my tiptoes, my small hands barely able to reach the running tap, washing a mountain of family plates.
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‎Because of this constant labor, clearing the wild bushes at the backyard and manually planting corn felt less like exhausting chores and more like a grand, liberating adventure. I loved watching things break through the dirt. I loved the unique smell and touch of the soil. As a boy growing up completely surrounded by brave men in uniform, I always thought I would wear the military uniform too when I grew up. I didn't know that God had a completely different field for me to conquer—a field made of green crops, massive fish ponds, and mysterious, wealth-yielding soldier flies.
‎But my very first real, devastating heartbreak on the soil was waiting for me just a few years later in Junior Secondary School class 3, and it taught me a brutal lesson about human jealousy, agricultural sabotage, and why a hasty revenge plot never yields a good harvest.
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‎**What happened when Jimi tried to cultivate his very first official beans farm project in JSS3?

Who targeted his placard, and what was the crazy military-style revenge plot that completely backfired on him?**
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Good one! I am trying to motivate my last son into farming but the boy is adamant.

Wish I had this opportunity growing up.

Farming is indeed the future.

In all sincerity, if he isn't interested, he can't be forced..he should have a passion for it, before taking interest in it, then he would develop in it..i grew up in a barrack in lagos, but Farming has brought me to osun state..it is just the passion

faoogoke:
Good one! I am trying to motivate my last son into farming but the boy is adamant.

Wish I had this opportunity growing up.

Farming is indeed the future.