When I was a little boy, I used to spend every holiday at my grandmother’s house in the village. She had a large compound filled with plants some in pots, some in big sacks and bags, plants like yams growing wildly along the fence, climbing up walls, or sprouting in small corners where no one expected life to thrive. She would say this is “my little paradise,” and to me, it felt like a whole world of its own.
I remember waking up to the smell of wet earth after a morning rain. My grandmother would be outside, wearing her old wrapper and rubber slippers, bending over her flower beds. She would hum softly as she pulled out weeds or trimmed stray leaves. I used to watch her, sometimes helping her hold the watering can or passing her a small hand hoe. Even if I never understood it all,those moments felt so peaceful, like time itself slowed down to listen to her songs.
As I grew older and moved to the city for higher education and work, I stayed in apartments with no space for gardens. At first, I thought I didn’t mind after all, city life is fast, and no one has time to worry about leaves and soil. But deep inside, I missed that connection to the earth. I missed the way my grandmother used to talk to her plants as though they understood her, the way she said each flower had a personality of its own,I missed the fresh air around.
Three years ago, I finally moved into a small bungalow on the edge of town. It came with a little of land at the back. Many people advised me to cement it and turn it into a parking space or a patio, but I remembered my grandmother’s “little paradise,” and I knew what I wanted. I started planting slowly a few spinaches, some curry and thymes, and a mango seedling.
Image is mine
At first, I made so many mistakes. I over watered some plants, forgot to prune others, and lost a few to pests. But each mistake taught me something new, and soon I began to understand the subtle language of the garden , the slight droop of a thirsty plant, the yellowing leaves that warn of too much sun, the joy of spotting a new bud in the morning.
Now, every evening after work, I change into old clothes and head to my backyard. I water the plants carefully, check for pests, and sometimes just sit among them, letting the breeze carry the scent of flowers and wet soil. There’s a deep, quiet joy in seeing something grow under your care, something that depends on you yet rewards you in silent, beautiful ways.
So, to answer the question: I am definitely someone who prefers a house with a garden. I love plants not only because they make my home beautiful but because they remind me of where I came from, of my grandmother, and of the small, simple joys that make life rich. And when I care for them, I feel like I’m tending not just to flowers but to a piece of my own life.
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