The Lazy Farmer

On the edge of the same forest, in compounds that touched at the fence, lived two farmers named Túndé and Bámidélé. They were the same age. Their wives were sisters. Their land lay side by side, equal in size, equal in soil. The same rains fell on both. The same sun rose over both.

When the planting season came, Bámidélé rose before the cock and walked his rows. He cleared the bush. He turned the soil. He set his yam mounds in straight lines like soldiers. When his back hurt, he laughed and said, "Pain at planting is laughter at harvest."

Túndé also rose — and looked at his land — and yawned. "The sun is too hot today," he said. He went back inside.

The next morning he said, "The ground is too hard. I will wait for more rain." When the rain came he said, "The ground is too wet. I will wait for it to dry." When it dried he said, "My cutlass is blunt. I will sharpen it tomorrow." When tomorrow came he said, "My uncle is visiting. It would be rude to leave the house."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the fence, Bámidélé's mounds grew leaves like flags, and his vines climbed his stakes like proud children climbing their father.

Midway through the season Túndé walked over and leaned on the fence. "Brother," he said, "the spirits have blessed your hands. I always knew you were luckier than me."

Bámidélé wiped sweat from his brow and looked at him kindly. "My brother," he said, "the spirits have not visited my farm even once. Only my back has visited my farm. Every morning. Even when it did not want to."

Túndé laughed and said, "You always speak in proverbs." He went home.

At last harvest came. Bámidélé's barn filled to the roof with yams. His wife sang as she carried them. There were yams to eat, yams to sell, yams to share with neighbours who had been sick, and seed yams put aside for the next season.

Túndé's barn was empty. His wife sat at the door and would not speak to him.

When the hunger of the lean months came, Túndé walked over to Bámidélé's compound, dragging his feet. "My brother," he said, "give me a few yams, for the sake of our long friendship."

Bámidélé brought out yams without a word and laid them in Túndé's basket. Then he said, very quietly, "My friend, take these. They will feed your house for a few weeks. But know this: every yam I give you came out of the same ground that you stood on every morning of the planting season. I cannot give you what your own land would have given you if you had asked it. Next season, ask your own land. It will not refuse you."

Túndé walked home in silence. The next planting season, when Bámidélé rose before the cock, he heard another cutlass in the field beside him. He smiled, and did not look across the fence. Some lessons are best taught by your own back.