The Farmer in the City

It was ironic, they said a talented farmer with green hands, yet boxed into a cramped compound in the middle of the city. Every inch of soil I had, I used. Old buckets became tomato pots. The fence was a vertical garden. Chickens clucked behind a bamboo screen. I made it work. My little oasis thrived.

But the neighbors? They didn’t share the vision.

“Too noisy,” one said.
“It smells!” another complained.
“This is a residential area,” they snapped.

I apologized at first, even tried to reduce the compost pile. But complaints kept coming, louder than the crowing rooster. Then, I decided silence not of my voice, but of their judgment was the only way forward.

So I invited them all on a Saturday morning. Reluctantly, they came. I served them omelets made from my hens’ eggs, fresh tomatoes still warm from the vine, mint tea from the garden corner. They sat under the shade of a pawpaw tree I planted three years ago.

When their plates were empty, I showed them how their children could pick strawberries after school instead of staring at screens. I offered them fresh basil every Sunday. I even gave Mrs. Okoro some aloe vera for her skin.

By noon, complaints turned to compliments.

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By the next week, Mr. Benson offered to build me more plant stands. The same neighbors who once hissed at my garden now whispered about how “peaceful” it was.

I didn’t shout. I didn’t argue. I let my farm speak for me lush, kind, generous.

And so, I silenced the neighbors not with words, but with harvest