He stepped outside, stretching his body. He looked at his grandfather’s farmland.
Dry. Untouched. Lonely.
Just like his heart.
A few days later, he picked up the cutlass again. “All right,” he muttered. “Let me try this farmer life properly.”
He raised the cutlass confidently.
Swing.
The cutlass barely touched the grass.
Jackson stared at it. “Is this how farmers do it, or am I negotiating with the weeds?”
Just then, a familiar loud voice echoed through the air.
“Farmer Jackson!”
Jackson turned.
Ngozi was coming toward him, bouncing like she owned the morning. Basket on her head. Energy on a hundred. Trouble at full volume.
She stopped in front of him and folded her arms.
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “What?”
She walked around him like an inspector. “Let me see. Cutlass in hand. Confused face. Yes. Yes.”
“What?”
“You are suffering already.”
Jackson laughed. “I just started.”
Ngozi shook her head dramatically. “My brother, farming is not motivational speech. It is hard work.”
She snatched the cutlass from him. “Move.”
Ngozi raised the cutlass like a warrior. “Watch and learn.”
Swish.
Swish.
Swish.
Grass started falling.
Jackson nodded, impressed. “Okay, that’s actually good.”
Ngozi smirked. “Of course. I am a professional.”
She handed him the cutlass. “Now you.”
Jackson adjusted his stance. “Easy.”
He swung.
The cutlass slipped from his hand and flew.
Both of them screamed.
“Ahhh!”
They ducked.
The cutlass landed far away.
Silence.
Ngozi slowly stood up. “Are you trying to kill the farm or yourself?”
Jackson scratched his head. “It slipped.”
Ngozi placed her hands on her waist. “If you continue like this, your ancestors will resign from protecting you.”
Jackson burst out laughing.
Later that day, Ngozi dragged Jackson along. “Come. You’re following me to the market.”
