How A-Maize-Ing. - by Emmanuel Daniji

In the quiet outskirts of TwoCents Village, where gossip travelled faster than the dim light from a lantern at night and wisdom often wore wrappers and rubber slippers, there lived an aging farmer named Cyrus. Cyrus was once the strongest man in the village. They said in his youth he could lift a bag of maize with one hand and still argue about politics with the other. But time has a way of humbling even the loudest muscles. His back now bent like a question mark, and his hands trembled like harmattan leaves. His only son, John, was not in the village. John had made headlines two years earlier — and not the good kind. In a moment of sharp thinking but crooked judgment, he defrauded wealthy traders from nearby towns, collecting millions of naira through clever schemes. The village called him “Digital Bandit.” The court called him “Convict.” He was sentenced to seven years in prison. Two years into that sentence, the planting season approached. Cyrus stood at the edge of his farmland one evening, leaning on his hoe. The soil was dry but ready. The rains were whispering promises. But Cyrus? Cyrus was tired. That night, under the dim glow of a kerosene lantern, he wrote a letter to John. <blockquote>“My son,</blockquote><blockquote>The maize season is here. My body is weak. My hands can no longer dig as they used to. If only you were here to help me turn the soil. I do not know what I will do this season.</blockquote><blockquote>— Your father, Cyrus.”</blockquote> As custom demanded, the prison authorities read every letter that went in and out. The warden, a man who believed suspicion was a spiritual gift, read Cyrus’ letter and shrugged. Nothing suspicious. But when John received it, he smiled. Two days later, John wrote back: <blockquote>“Father,</blockquote><blockquote>Please, I beg you — do not dig the farm. That is where I buried all the money I stole. Leave it untouched.</blockquote><blockquote>— John.”</blockquote> Now, the prison warden was not a man who ignored words like “buried” and “money.” Within hours, whispers moved from office to office. Before sunset, over a hundred officers were mobilized. At dawn, TwoCents Village woke up to a sight that would trend for months if cameras were around. Police vans. Boots marching. Spades shining. Laseeee from the market abandoned her tomatoes. Deborah adjusted her headtie and stood at the roadside. Delight crossed her arms and whispered, “This village will not let us rest.” The officers stormed Cyrus’ farm like treasure hunters in a Nollywood epic. They dug. And dug. And dug. The soil turned. Sweat poured. Uniforms stained. By afternoon, Cyrus’ entire farmland looked like a battlefield between earthworms and ambition. They found nothing. No money.No box.No buried treasure. Only earth. The officers left quietly. Very quietly. The kind of quiet that carries embarrassment. Cyrus stood there, confused but grateful. His entire farm had been tilled — deeper than he could ever have managed himself. A few days later, another letter arrived. <blockquote>“Father,</blockquote><blockquote>I trust by now the farm has been properly dug. That was the only help I could send you from here. Go ahead and plant your maize. Let the season not wait for my mistakes.</blockquote><blockquote> — Your son, John.”</blockquote> When Cyrus finished reading, tears gathered in his aging eyes — not of sadness, but of understanding. John had made a terrible mistake in life. His choices had consequences. Prison was real. Shame was real. But so was wisdom. In a place where he had no freedom, he still found strategy.In a space where he had no shovel, he still cultivated soil.In confinement, he still provided. That season, Cyrus planted maize on the softest soil his farm had ever known. The harvest was abundant. And whenever villagers asked him how an old, fragile man managed to prepare such a vast farm, Cyrus would simply smile and say: “Sometimes, wisdom does not need strength. It only needs understanding.” And in TwoCents Village, the story became legend. Not because John was a fraudster.Not because the officers dug all day. But because even in consequence, the mind can still produce value. How A-Maize-Ing. 🌽

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