The Seeds of Time

by Manon Burbidge (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Togo

In the heart of a land devoid of native forest, cut down by the hands of colonialism and poverty, sit hundreds of little black bags arranged in neat straight lines. The soil brimming in each is flecked with sunlight which has crept its way in through the protective palm frond canopy above. Inside its protective cradle, a small seed cracks open. Nature is coming back. --- I open my eyes, blearily looking up at the milky mesh of the mosquito net above my head. It isn’t yet fully light outside, and from not too far away, the sound of the church choir trickles through the early morning hush. The muggy warmth of the morning envelops me as I push my way through the door of the mud house and trudge up the track to the well. I remember the first time I did this, needing to be shown like a child how to tip the bucket at just the right angle to plunge the red plastic below the water. The ache on my arms as I hauled on the blue twine to lift liquid life to earth’s surface, my flushed cheeks as I tried to carry the spoils of my effort, only to trip and water the thirsty brown dust instead. Two weeks later, and slightly more adept now, I whisk the heavy pot onto my head, my neck muscles baulking under the weight, and begin to wind my way unsteadily back to the house. It’s gloomy inside, and I flick on the portable calebasse light that we keep hanging by the door, an ingenious invention by Richard, who fashioned them from a hulled-out fruit shell. Solar charged, children that had no source of light after sunset are now able to study and do their homework. The calebasses are the only lights in the entire village, save for the small health clinic. My body involuntarily jerks under the cold water as I pour a bucket over myself in the unlit bathroom, and I think about the hot shower I’d usually be taking at home with longing. I dress hurriedly, eager to tackle the day ahead. Signs of life are stirring across the village of Nyogbo Agbetiko. Women in brightly coloured pagne, those beautiful swirls of orange, crimson, blue, are hanging out their washing, and an aroma of pungent woodsmoke mingled with cooking breakfast snakes its way out of rooftop chimneys. --- Today I’m heading over to the Agou Community Reforestation Project, started by the CADO charity in rural Togo. The country has no primary rainforest remaining, and as a result, has lost vast amounts of its native biodiversity. This project is thus of huge importance to the villagers, who hope it will bring back lost landscapes, as well as much-needed income in the form of REDD+ funding, whereby the village can receive money for the carbon offsets provided by their trees. As I irritably bump down the potholed dirt road in Richard’s battered car, with my journey companions of over one hundred seedlings in little black bags that we picked up from a nursery along the way stuffed in beside me, making the air pungent and thick, scratching at my neck with their baby finger-sized branches, I’m not sure what I’m expecting exactly. How exciting is a new-born forest going to be anyway? Several hours later, I get it. As I ferry the saplings to the busily-planting volunteer farmers and the CADO apprentices from the car in the fierce midday sun, sweat on our brows, everyone chatting away good-naturedly amongst the leafy knee-high pioneers, I realise something. They’re not just trees. In this postage stamp parcel of earth, tucked in away in a remote corner of a vast continent, these people are planting new life, new prosperity, a new chapter for Togo. A bird hops out onto a branch of one of the more mature trees, chirping a happy accompaniment to the human effort occurring below it. As the saying goes, nature will always come back.