This first part of a two-part reflection takes us back to the soil, to the quiet miracles that unfold beneath our feet, to the stories of corn, yam, rice, and cassava that bind us to the rhythm of the earth. It is a journey through the language of harvest, of patience, and of the age-old covenant between humans and the land.

In a world that often races ahead, there are still moments when time seems to slow, when the land itself calls us to pause, to dance, to give thanks. In recent weeks and months, much of Nigeria and indeed parts beyond have been agog with celebration. From the green stretches of the North to the fertile plains of the South, drums have rolled and songs have risen to the sky, marking the end of the farming season. It is that time of the year when gratitude overflows, when communities gather in color and unity to honor the land’s bounty.

In many places, the celebrations take the form of lively cavalcades, thanksgiving services, and communal feasts where laughter and roasted maize fill the air in equal measure. Children run through village squares clutching tubers of yam bigger than their arms, women trade recipes and stories over steaming pots, and elders lift their hands in thanks to the heavens and to the soil. It is more than a festival, it is a language of gratitude spoken through dance, food, and fellowship.

Take for instance the story of a single seed of corn, so small it can rest on your fingertip, so ordinary that it’s easy to overlook. Buried in the soil, it disappears for weeks, unseen and silent. Yet within three short months, that same seed rises as a proud stalk of green, heavy with golden cobs that sway gently in the wind. From one tiny seed, nature multiplies abundance a miracle repeated countless times across our fields. That is the quiet power of the earth: to turn little into plenty.

The story of yam is just as wondrous. A farmer plants a small seedling, a piece no bigger than a fist, pressed gently into the ground and after five months of waiting, tending, and faith, the earth gives back in multiples. From one vine come three or four tubers, thick and nourishing, feeding homes and marking festivals. Every yam harvested carries the memory of patience a reminder that good things, like the best harvests, take time.

Rice, too, tells a story of endurance. What begins as a handful of fragile grains scattered into watery fields becomes, after six months, a sea of gold. Each stalk stands tall and proud, bending only under the weight of its own fruitfulness. The rice farmer knows the rhythm of patience, the early flooding, the tender weeding, and the long wait under the sun. And when the time of harvest comes, there is joy not just for the yield, but for the journey from seed to sustenance.

Then there is cassava, humble yet mighty. Unlike the others, its story is slow and steady. From a mere stem cutting thrust into the soil, life begins to stir beneath the surface. It takes nearly fifteen months before the reward is revealed: thick, firm tubers pulled from the earth like treasures long hidden. Cassava teaches endurance, resilience, and trust in time. It reminds us that not all gifts come quickly some require patience, consistency, and faith in the unseen work of nature.

Each of these; corn, yam, rice, cassava tells a chapter of the same truth: that the land gives, if only we care for it. The miracle of farming is not just in what we harvest, but in what we learn patience, humility, respect for time, and gratitude for the earth’s silent labor. Every farmer, knowingly or not, partakes in an ancient covenant: to plant, to wait, and to believe.

Yet, amid the joy and the abundance, there lies a gentle reminder we must not forget: to give back to the land that made all this possible. The earth patient, generous, and enduring has fed us once again. But how often do we pause to return her favor? The celebration of harvest is not just a feast; it is a covenant between humanity and nature. A covenant that says: as you give, we too will nurture you. This tradition, this age-long culture passed from generation to generation carries within it a wisdom we must guard fiercely. Our ancestors understood that thanksgiving was incomplete without renewal. They left portions of the land to rest, planted trees where they had felled, and poured libations not merely as ritual but as respect. They knew the earth was not property, but partner a living force deserving of care and reverence.

Today, as we celebrate with modern flair with microphones instead of flutes, and motorcades instead of foot processions we must still remember the essence of it all. Let us not only dance to the rhythm of harvest but also listen to the heartbeat of the earth beneath our feet. For every seed we sow, every fruit we eat, every joy we share is tied to that soil. To forget it is to forget ourselves.

There was a time when humans lived by the rhythm of the earth. The rising sun dictated the day, the rains announced the seasons, and the soil answered with abundance. We listened to the world around us not just as observers, but as part of its heartbeat. Today, however, that rhythm feels faint, distant, almost forgotten. Modern life has taught us to believe that we are masters of nature, that our cities, technologies, and economies have freed us from its reach. Yet, every flood, drought, wildfire, or trembling of the earth reminds us that nature is not conquered; it is merely patient. It waits, it watches, and when it moves, it speaks with a voice louder than any government or machine. We have mistaken comfort for control. We build higher, dig deeper, consume faster and in doing so, we lose the memory of balance. The forests that once purified our air are vanishing. Rivers that once sang through villages now carry plastic and poison. The air that once filled our lungs with life is heavy with the breath of our own excess. And yet, we continue to live as though the planet is infinite. But nature is not merely a backdrop to our story, it is the story. Every leaf, every gust of wind, every grain of sand carries the quiet power that sustains us. When we destroy it, we destroy ourselves. The earth can survive without us; we cannot