I am the daughter of a farmer.
Amongst the cracked concrete and the smoky air, I watch as he plows this dry earth every night for fruit.
Clad in his suit and tie. Brow heated by the pounding western sun.
He fiercely awaits the harvest like a vulture to a carcass.
He awaits it even when the snow is thick to his knees.
He lays down his soil as an offering to a God whose breath is the grey smoke of a chimney.
Whose voice is a number on a blinking screen.
I am the daughter of a farmer.
I was born and raised on his farm.
The farmland of peeked houses, lined driveways, tulips and plaid skirts.
The farmland of soccer practices, chlorine and heavy winds.
The farmland of pink on my fingertips and ammonium in my hair.
The farmland of “an eye for an eye,” instead of “bí abá so òkò sójà ará ilé eni ní bá.”
My father ran to this barren land and raised me in its paleness.
Ran from open country and green earth.
From heat, calico and ackee.
From Ekiti, where the land rolls endlessly into the ocean before dipping into the expansive old plains.
He ran and drank this American rain like it was fresh water.
He bled for it and pierced my skin so I could bleed for it too.
I was born on this glorious farm, and yet I envy the one my father ran from.
I am my father's child.
And one day, I will plow this same earth.
One day, I will await the distant harvest promised to me.
One day, I will offer my own child something I cannot see, to someone who will not hold her like Tales by Moonlight could.
To a place of grey and white, so far from the vivid waves of Oniru and Takwa.
We do these things without truly knowing.
We do these things because our souls are greedy, knotted to the distant future and the promises of old.
We do them as if our veins were wires.
And though it kills us, we give ourselves to this foreign land.
We yearn for a place in the distorted distance.
This envy has always torn roots from its own soil.
I am the daughter of a farmer.
And maybe one day I will run back to my forefather's land.
This is part of the UBC Black Student Union and The Ubyssey's 2024 Black History Month supplement, titled Intersections. Read the full supplement here.