The Farmhouse (Short Description): Ohikhuare Isuku

In the evening, the sun set behind the Farmhouse. In between the cluster of tall palm trees, the bright yellow soup formed against the western sky – the weak rays of the evening sun scattered abroad, penetrating feebly, the dark clouds that wedged it, as if preventing it not to fall into its western valley of rest. The palm trees were not far from the Farmhouse; they lined almost horizontally inside the small bush which began from the edge of the drainage. Because the palm trees were closed by, waving ebulliently against the evening sky, and because they tended to bring the sky closer upon which the evening sun perched, it seemed to my reasoning, that the horizon which swallowed the sun was perhaps few steps away from the Farmhouse.

The Farmhouse itself was neither large nor magnificent in sight. It was a block (just newly built) where the workers relaxed during afternoon break. It had five rooms; three of which looked straight (beyond the narrow veranda, beyond the three pillars arranged horizontally at the edge of the veranda, beyond the bush which spread across) towards the cluster of palm trees lined horizontally against the eastern horizon. The two remaining rooms stood at either side of the block – their length extending beyond that of the other rooms, terminating at the edge of the veranda. While the doors of the three rooms gazed at the eastern sky, that of the two remaining rooms faced each other, the lengthy veranda separating them.

The Farmhouse was cemented but not painted. It was sealed and had wooden doors and windows without lockers. It stood alone far away from other farmhouses, like a solitary tree. It had no electricity yet, so snakes and frogs glided around the woods which surrounded it. The cluster of palm trees eastward was a little farther than that behind. This made it seem to me that the eastern horizon was farther from me than the western horizon. By the right hand side of the house, there were the bamboo trees, growing from a common source, so that they formed a dense relationship which is frightfully dark at night. Weaver-birds nested on the tiny branches of the bamboo trees, where they had picked off the straw-leaves, leaving them naked and brown. The nests were oval, built upside down to prevent discomfort during the rain, I thought. I had wondered one evening how intelligent these little birds were.

In the morning and late evening, they twittered around the cluster of bamboo trees – their chirps like shrills of night insect. One evening, when the sun had properly set, when grey spread uniformly across the sky, I saw a hawk perch on a slender branch of the bamboo rest. Its look was leering, and it appeared great compared to the tiny weaver birds which had maintained silence because of the presence of a predator. Then, one by one, the predator flew upside down to check if there were preys inside the nests. I watched this scene from inside my lodge, reclined on the window. The weaver-birds scattered as the great bird approached. Not long, the great bird flew off disappointed without a catch. It flew towards the palm trees eastward which shielded the busy expressway.