It was the year 2023 and the North West winds carried the dust and brown sands from the Sahara and threw it into the Okitankwo River. It blew across the rainforests and the savannah; like a goddess on vengeance, carrying sands and hot-blooded reptiles in its wake. We had never witnessed a dry season so vicious that made all the wells dry and the sand very hot. That year our river didn’t come home. 

           The famous Okitankwo River was the sparkling river that ran through at least five villages including my own, Mbieri in Imo State, Nigeria. It didn’t cower in the face of the fierce sun in the dry season. We would carry our cans and buckets to the river to get some water and use the smooth white pebbles that lay at its bank to scrub our dry feet till they become soft. The waters were so clear that we saw fresh fishes gliding with the tough currents; so clear that one could reach out and catch fish with both hands. Now the little water left was too warm and too toxic to support aquatic life. The white sands on the Okitankwo river bank would be used with paw paw leaves to scrub the blackened backs of our pots and kettles until ayola’ would rent the air as we would rush to the river bank when we heard the slightest noise but would end up staring at the hot baked earth and white stones where the water had once passed through. The edges of the river were where we dared nature, forcing the marshland to produce sweet sugarcane when we farmed with skill and patience. We would put seedlings into the ground, tend to them as the greens shot out from the earth, and wait patiently for the sweet yellow bananas that hung clearly on evergreen trees. The women would carry the bananas in long baskets and ferry them to the next village where other women would hustle for the white sugarcanes in exchange for cubes of soap and seasoning. What we had left were the pathway the waters once followed, the swamp that held our crops was now ridden with remnants of water grass and the waters had retreated like a tortoise into his shell. No one uses the sands anymore; tiny green worms danced on the surface of what was left of the swamp with different generations of mosquitoes that invaded our houses at night, disrupting our sleep with the constant ringing sound and pumping malaria into our veins. 

.  No one listens when the Federal Ministry of Water says that Nigeria’s wetland loss increases by 6.5 percent per annum due to rapid urbanization. I didn’t originally set out to be a writer to safeguard the environment. My first fascination was to be a doctor like most Nigerian parents wanted their child to be but I was perplexed by seeing that people were not noticing the darkness that enveloped the land because of the decline in the dance of fireflies. I moved from embracing nature to defending it. I chose my present residence because of the wild greens that grew behind it. I was happy to discover that a big patchwork of woods, fields, and umbrella trees behind my hostel remained untouched amid the expanding suburban grid of streets and lawns. 

One morning, I woke up to the sound of a roaring chainsaw, the big ones with wicked edges used for felling giant trees. I had heard rumors of the government coming to build a secretariat on the land but I didn’t know it would be true. 

I felt like a part of me fell with the trees. It felt like I was never going to see a dear friend again. I felt the same type of pain that accompanied the loss of our sacred waters.  I took up my pen and wrote to the Ministry of Water and Land Resources but no one came. I went to the secretariat and sat all day waiting for the Commissioner only for his secretary to tell me he had left by 5 pm.

The people from the Ministry of Land came and we heaved a sigh of relief. They came, gathered in small circles, had small talks, and left. I was hopeful that they had ordered work to stop on the site but I was wrong. I heard from whispers that handshakes and envelopes with a lump sum of money had been exchanged. My friend shook her head as I took pictures and wrote columns for the school newspaper talking about the destruction of wetlands and forests due to urbanization, population explosion, and weak implementation of laws. The big men in Abuja already knew but there was nothing anyone could do; my heroic attempts could do little. 

           It didn’t deter me; I kept writing my tiny column in The Tiny Desk newspaper, our university newspaper, urging people to take climate change seriously. I also opened a page on Facebook and Instagram dedicated solely to the greens we were fast losing. I hopped on the petition-signing trend, sending messages to people on my phone to people urging them to sign a petition so the government would take the course seriously.

I went on live numerous times talking about the topic I had chosen for my final year thesis.

‘ I am working on a project hopefully for my thesis. It is going to be revolutionary and I am calling it the Miracle project. I am working with different seeds, cross-breeding them, and growing them under different conditions to know which one gives a better yield both quantitatively and qualitatively. I am trying to work on viable seeds that can grow quickly and very well under very stable conditions and regenerate our barren lands. We will plant those seeds and water them with love. We will retake our bare lands, start the world afresh, and rebuild the Garden of Eden just like it was at the beginning of time. If this works, we will save our world from the second coming that would be caused by climate change.”

I submitted my thesis to various green energy platforms hoping to get positive replies. I never knew that there were eyes constantly buying the Tiny Desk newspaper to read my column. I was surprised when I got an anonymous call one afternoon.

“Hello, good day. My name is Blessing. I am a Masters student in the department of Animal and Environmental Science and I have been following your column for a very long time. I must say, I am very impressed. I want to set up a meeting for us at the school cafeteria by 12 noon today. Will you be available?”

I tried to soak in her words like garri in water, slowly absorbing the weight of the words. I had so many questions to answer but my tongue was plastered to the roof of my mouth.

“Okay,” I just blurted out.

We finally met in the cafeteria and discussed over drinks.

“My name is Blessing Jegede and I am a representative of the International Organization of Climate Warriors, a collective of climate change activists. I have been following your page and your corner in the Tiny Desk newspaper. I love your green innovation on the Miracle seeds. Climate Warriors would love to help you in your research and fund your project. I want you to write a full-length proposal of your thesis and present it on World Environmental Day. We will give you a grant of two thousand dollars to fund your project. Congratulations dear’

My head was spinning and it seemed like the voice was coming from somewhere far away. I wanted to jump on the tables in the cafeteria with their neatly folded napkins and shout, “Mama, I have made it!’ But I just grabbed her hand from across the table and shook it vigorously.

“I promise to be a good ambassador to the cause and promote what is left of our greens’

That was how we birthed the Climate Warriors Division in my school. The Climate Warriors kept to their word and sponsored all the activities we did on World Environmental Day.  We gathered a group of other climate change activists all over the state and made fliers, embarked on a march, organized a poetry slam, embarked on sanitation, and planted trees in strategic places. I was given my cash grant to further promote the green cause.

It was so surreal how a tiny column in a school newspaper about a world on the verge of extinction could change my life and give life to a course that nobody paid attention to.   

Indeed change starts with me and you in the little corners of our rooms writing and talking about the things that really matter. I counted myself blessed to be among those who inspired change.