How communal farming can end hunger

There was a time when cooperation and food security were the cornerstones of farming. It was a way of life I once lived, witnessed and participated in as a child during school vacations in Okopedi, Okobo Local Government Area of Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria, with my maternal grandmother of blessed memory, late Mrs. Mary Godwin Anso, who passed away on the 20th November, 2022, at the age of 94.

Communal farming is the practice whereby members of a community collectively cultivate land they jointly own and manage to strengthen community ties and enhance food security. Okobo was predominantly a farming community, where communal farming was the hallmark of agriculture. Most of the farmlands in Okobo were located in what is now the site of Victor Attah International Airport, Uyo, Akwa Ibom State.

The establishment of the airport broke the chain of communal farming culture that had united the people of Okobo for generations. The unity with which they fought hunger gradually disappeared with it. At that time, farming was the heartbeat of the community. I remember asking my grandmother why she no longer sent foodstuffs to us. She replied, “Kokoma, they have taken my farmland from me and other women”. It was not just the farmland that was taken, but the loss of an established way of life.

Every farming day, by 5am, grandma and the other women packed their hoes, cutlasses, shovels, spades, kerosene, matches and food into farming baskets balanced on their heads before setting out with lanterns. Each of them usually carried a cutlass in one hand to clear the bushy pathway leading to the farm. The farmland was far from home, so we trekked there every morning. Along the way, conversations about the growth of crops, market sales, church activities and the day’s farming plans filled the cool morning air. The distance never seemed burdensome because human companionship made the journey enjoyable and worthwhile.

After trekking for about 30 to 40 minutes, depending on the distractions encountered along the way, we arrived at the farm. It was a vast expanse of land with dry leaves and tall trees serving as natural boundaries. The women entered their respective portions of land with their grandchildren, placed their farming baskets on the ground and changed into their farming clothes. They cultivated cassava, maize, yam, cocoyam, water yam, melon, pumpkin, okro or okra, pepper, tomatoes, plantain and leafy vegetables such as waterleaf, afang, atama, bitterleaf and editan. By the time we settled down to commence the day’s work, daylight had fully broken and the lanterns were no longer needed.

Children were assigned tasks according to their ages and abilities. Grandma loved assigning me with the responsibility of processing ripe melons while she harvested cassava during the harvesting season. During planting, she made the holes while I dropped the seeds into the soil. We weeded the farm together with great care following her instructions. As work progressed, the women frequently called out to one another to ensure everyone was safe, alert and making progress. Even though each person worked on her own farmland, no one truly worked alone.

We even had our own “fridge” on the farm. To keep the drinking water cool, grandma carefully observed the direction of the sun until she found a shaded spot. She dug a small hole, placed the bottle of water inside, covered it first with fresh green leaves and finally with dry leaves. Hours later, the water remained refreshingly cool. As we worked, the sounds of cutlasses striking trees, hoes turning the soil and occasional conversations blended into a rhythm that became the music of the farm.

We had a simple kitchen built with stones and blocks and roofed with zinc to protect it from the rain. Everyone ate lunch at the same time. The women lit a fire and roasted yam or cocoyam. When it was ready, it was eaten with palm oil mixed with salt, pounded crayfish, onions and pepper. Our main source of protein was snail. The snails were roasted, after which we carefully scraped the shells with a knife before eating them. Sometimes, we ate mushrooms seasoned with pounded pepper, onions and salt, wrapped in plantain leaves and roasted over the fire. Most meals came directly from the farm, fresh, natural, and nourishing.

After eating, each person went to the spot where the water had been kept cooling beneath the ground. The leaves were gently-removed, the bottle was brought out and everyone drank the refreshing cool water. After a reasonable period of rest, farming resumed with renewed strength. Although many of the women had little or no formal education, they possessed remarkable indigenous knowledge of agriculture. They understood which crops grew well together and which parts of the farmland best supported healthy growth. They treated the crops with respect because they knew that the continuity of life depended on a good harvest and a steady supply of food.

No woman was left to labour alone. Whoever finished her portion of work immediately joined another until every farm had been attended to. In this way, they moved from one person’s farmland to another until everyone’s work was completed. Strength was reluctant to fail because at the smell of exhaustion, a hand came to revive it. Their unity transformed difficult labour into a shared responsibility, and no one carried the burden alone. We even had a mini clinic on the farm. It consisted of a bed made from baboon sticks where anyone who sustained an injury could lie down for treatment. The women knew the appropriate leaves to use, depending on the nature of the injury.

Some leaves served as antibiotics, some stopped bleeding, others reduced pain, while other hastened healing. It was through farm accidents that I came to appreciate the significance of medicinal leaves. Their herbal remedies were truly remarkable. There were no mobile phones to check the time, nor was there any need for wristwatches. Instead, there was a particular leaf that the women used to determine when it was time to leave the farm. The plant grew on each woman’s farmland, and they would call out to one another to confirm what the leaf indicated. Once everyone gave the same response, it was a signal that the day’s work had come to an end.

When it was time to leave, the women gathered firewood, cut leaves for the goats, harvested vegetables for cooking and loaded cassava onto the heads of us, the grandchildren. The children walked in front while the women followed behind, carefully directing us along the safest paths. Whenever a child’s load became too heavy or unbearable during the journey home, the women stopped, reduced the load and shared it among themselves. No woman returned home without something to cook. If a particular woman’s farm was not yet ready for harvesting, she received food from another woman’s farm with her consent. To cushioned the effect of sun or rain on the grandchildren, cocoyam leaves or plantain leaves served as umbrella.

As soon as we arrived home, the goats began bleating at the sight of the leaves we had brought for them. Their bleating was the first signal to everyone that the farmers had returned from the farm. The women gently lowered the firewood and cassava from their heads before helping the children with theirs. Afterwards, my grandmother would place both hands beneath my cheeks and gently lift me upward. It was her way of easing the strain on my neck after carrying a load on my head throughout the journey home. The exercise always produced a sound, and she did the same for the other children because a grandchild to one woman, was a grandchild to other women. It was one of the many expressions of care that completed each day’s farming experience.

They observed proper farming seasons for weeding, planting, ridge making, harvesting, processing and selling their produce. Ill health or temporary absence was never allowed to cause another person’s farm to suffer neglect. Whenever my grandmother travelled to visit us in Oyo State, her farm never suffered because other women ensured that it received the same care as their own. Livestock faeces served as manure, but they were applied only where the soil required them rather than the entire farmland. This thoughtful practice reflected their understanding of the land and their desire to preserve its natural fertility.

Kindness was their watchword while farming, yet they understood that generosity should never become bondage because human wants are insatiable. My grandmother planted far more than crops; she planted values of hard work, unity, resilience, compassion and selflessness that continue to bear fruit long after the harvests have ended. It is true that, “Vita mortuorum in memoria vivorum est posita”, which means, “The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living”. A memory that money cannot buy.

Although communal farming has largely disappeared from my community, the lessons it taught remain relevant. At a time when food insecurity continues to challenge many families, perhaps the greatest harvest we can recover is not only from the soil, but from the spirit of cooperation, selflessness and shared responsibility that once united communities against hunger. If we can preserve that legacy of communal farming, it will nourish generations, yet unborn. Food security begins with communal farming, not just policy making. Or, have the beautiful ones already come and gone while we continue to wait for them to be born? Farming is life, and in her words, “Tanku”.

Esther Pius Ekong, a legal practitioner, can be reached via, idangbenedicta@gmail.com