₦airaland Forum

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‎## Part 2: High School Sabotage: The Day My Bean Farm Died
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‎Growing up in the Navy barracks, surrounded by men in starched uniforms and boots that could double as mirrors, you quickly learn that life is a tactical operation. But nothing in the military handbook prepares you for the sheer, unadulterated wickedness of a junior secondary school agricultural science project.
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‎As a proud Yoruba man, there is a proverb my elders use to warn anyone who thinks they can outsmart the basic laws of nature and sowing:
‎> *“A fọwọ́ rọ̀ tẹnumọ́, ojú rẹ̀ á ríran; ohun tí a bá gbìn, òun ni a ó kà.”*
‎> **Meaning:** He who places his hand on the soil with dedication will surely see the vision clear up; for whatever a man sows, that exactly is what he will reap.
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‎In JSS3, my agricultural science teacher announced our final practical project. The mission was simple but high-stakes: every boy was assigned a small, designated portion of land on the school field. Our task? To clear our plot, cultivate the soil, plant beans, and care for them until harvest. To ensure there was no confusion, each small location had a wooden placard firmly planted in the dirt, bearing the student's name in bold letters.
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‎Because we were attending a military school, we were all boys, and we were trained as mini-personnel. We breathed, walked, and argued using the usual rigid military slangs. If you slack, you are "on a long thing." If you fail your duty, you are "defaulting." So, when that bean project landed, I didn't see it as a mere school assignment—I saw it as a full-scale deployment.
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‎I attacked my plot with the energy of a young soldier. Every single day, under the blazing Lagos sun, I was out there monitoring my beans. I memorized the way the tiny green shoots finally broke through the crust of the earth. I watered them, kept the weeds away, and defended my small perimeter with pride. My beans were thriving. In my mind, I was already visualizing an A-plus grade. I could almost smell the digital praise from my mother, the schoolteacher, and a rare nod of approval from my naval officer father.
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‎Then came the morning of the ultimate disaster.
‎I marched out to the field during practical hours, my chest puffed out, ready to inspect my green empire. But as I neared my plot, my heart literally dropped into my uniform boots. My bean farm was in complete, absolute disarray.
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‎Someone had walked onto my plot, stepped all over the delicate plants, and deliberately crushed my hard work into the dirt. The leaves were mangled, the stems were snapped, and my proud name placard was lying face down in the soil like a fallen soldier. It wasn't an accident; it was a targeted hit.
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‎In a military school, you don’t cry; you plan a counter-attack. The red mist of anger completely blinded my eyes. My mind didn't process the fact that I should report to a teacher. No, the barracks boy in me demanded immediate, swift, and heavy retaliation.
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‎I looked around the vast field. I didn't know exactly *who* had ruined my farm, but I knew that someone had to pay for this heartbreak. I looked at the plot right next to mine—a beautifully flourishing bean farm belonging to another classmate, complete with a neat, proud placard.
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‎Our elders say:
‎> *“Ìkanjú kò mọ̀nọ̀mọ̀nọ̀, bínú-bínú kì í ṣàjò.”*
‎> **Meaning:** Haste does not understand the deeper truth, and a mind full of rage never makes a profitable journey.
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‎Driven by pure, unadulterated revenge, I walked over to my classmate's neat plot, bent down, and began ruthlessly uprooting his healthy bean plants one by one. I pulled them up by the roots, flinging them aside, ensuring his farm looked just as devastated as mine. In my chaotic teenage mind, I called it "balancing the equation."
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‎But here is the hilarious and painful thing about a city boy trying to act like a rugged farmer: I had completely forgotten a basic biological fact that even a six-year-old should know. Once you uproot a bean plant from its life source, you cannot just stick it back in the sand and expect it to keep growing. The roots were exposed, the internal system was broken, and within minutes, the leaves began to wither and die.
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‎To make matters worse, I wasn't as stealthy as I thought. Just as I was tossing the final ruined plant aside, a shadow fell over me. I looked up, breaking into a cold sweat. Someone—a very senior authority figure—had been standing there the entire time, quietly watching my entire revenge operation from beginning to end.
‎That single, catastrophic afternoon on the school field ended my childhood agricultural career in absolute disgrace, and I swore I would never touch the soil again. I thought I was done with farming forever. I decided to pursue a clean, quiet corporate life where the only thing I would ever harvest was financial data.
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‎Fast forward several years later. I was no longer in the barracks, and I definitely wasn't pulling up classmates' crops. I was wearing a sharp corporate shirt, working diligently inside a prestigious auditing firm located on Toyin Street, in the bustling commercial heart of Ikeja, Lagos.
‎My boss at the firm was an incredibly reserved, deeply professional man hailing from Ejigbo in Osun State. He was doing exceptionally well for himself in the corporate world. He had a remarkably calm, low voice, but when he gave instructions, they were as firm and unshakeable as a rock. I respected him immensely.
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‎But as time went on, I began to notice a very strange, consistent pattern. Every weekend, while the rest of the Lagos corporate elites were busy attending lavish Owambe parties or relaxing in upscale spots around Ikeja, my highly successful, wealthy auditor boss would pack his bags and disappear from Lagos. Where was he going? He was constantly traveling down to Osun State to look over his farm.
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‎I was utterly baffled. Here was a man at the absolute peak of his professional career, making great money as a top-tier auditor in Lagos, yet his real passion—his true escape—was going back to the soil to farm. It didn't make sense to my Lagos-trained brain.
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‎Slowly, as I watched him balance the precision of financial auditing with the chaotic beauty of agriculture, a tiny spark inside me was suddenly reignited. The old smell of the barracks backyard, the memory of the sugarcane, and the wild pull of the soil came rushing back. The universe was whispering to me, but I was still resisting.
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‎I didn't know that tragedy, family legacy, and a massive inheritance plot in Osun State were about to collide, forcing me to leave Lagos finally and permanently for good.
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‎**What happened when Jimi finally left the corporate comfort of Toyin Street, Ikeja, to claim his grandfather's mysterious land in Osun State? What shocking family secrets did his uncles reveal about the farm?**
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‎*Drop your comments below! Have you ever taken a crazy revenge that backfired completely on you? Let’s talk in the comment section! Don't forget to like, share, and subscribe for Part 3!*