A love story

I have never been a fan of soil. What does that even mean? Well, let me explain. I mostly associated soil with dirt. But soil is dirt you may say. Well not really. What the British call soil, Americans call dirt. What I mean is that I thought of soil as something dirty.  From an early age I did appreciate it. Even though I enjoyed the lush, beautiful garden my father planted I never felt inclined to help cultivate it. In primary school they gave us a holiday project to build a mud hut from scratch. I waited until the every last weekend to get it done and hated every moment of it. In what I believe was an act of vengeance it fell apart in the car on the way to school that first morning back. Later in secondary school I quickly picked Home-science over Agriculture to the chagrin of my teacher who felt I was better suited for outdoor activities. I endured her hostile treatment rather than spend my afternoons in the shambas toiling under the hot Kenyan sun. Some many years later I spend late afternoons tending to my little garden, even worrying about how my plants will survive while I am away on vacation. And yes, I do it all while wearing my gardening gloves.




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