Agricultural Story #20

@ruthjoe I am always impressed each time I come across contest organize by you because your contest always get the better part of me.
I am a story lover and my agriculture name is "Farmer, Cassava Agriculture". The joy of writing about the two things I love( Story and Agriculture) is heavenly to me.

Just to start, let me scare you a bit Palm oil business is not easy, and to calm you a bit, "no business is easy"7" but in our house, it was what fed us. My mother made palm oil by hand for many years and that involved lots of manual processes I won't want to outline in details because I am not an expert in the field but I will narrate deep to some understanding I have in the business. Maybe, I would have become an expert if she didn't stop doing palm oil business. She learned this skill through informal ways. I mean, she didn’t learn it from school; she learned it from watching her own mother.

That’s how many women of those days in my village got into it, no training, no machines, just hard work.

The whole process get started with cutting the palm fruits from the tree which demand a skilled climber and certain tool like rope used in climbing. My uncle would climb the tall trees with a rope tied around his waist and a cutlass. When he cut the bunch, it fell with a loud thud. Back then we were kids. So, we children usually ran to drag the bunches to the house or gathered somewhere safe depending on distance. They were heavy, and the sharp spikes on them could injure your hand if you weren’t careful.

It was fun.

After we gathered enough bunches, we brought them home using a wheelbarrow or sometimes carried them on our heads if the distance was short. The next day, will be another busy day as my mother will set up firewood and placed a large iron drum on top. We will then filled it with water and threw in the palm fruit to boil. The heat was intense and the smoke entered our eyes and made us cough. My mum be around supervising every single step of it. She will later used long sticks to stir the palm fruits while it cooked.

When the fruit is soft enough, we poured them into a big local wooden mortar. That is when the real work get started because muscles are now needed. My mother will pound the palm fruits with a heavy pestle to separate the oil from the nuts and skin. Sometimes two persons had to take turns pounding because of how tiring it was. The paste that came out was then poured into a big basin with warm water.

My mum will then knelt down and used her bare hands to squeeze and turn the paste inside the water. The oil floated to the top and if I know my chemistry right. That will be decantation as it best suit that method. The top is always a thick reddish layer. My mum will then scooped it out with a small bowl into another pot. At that point, the oil still had water inside, so it needed to be cooked again. She will put it back on fire and stirred it while it boiled until all the water dried up. That process is called “frying the oil.” and evaporation method is what she applied here.

When the oil was ready, she poured it into old bottles, mostly recycled 1.5-liter water bottles. She allowed it to cool before capping them. That oil was what she sold in the market, hence making money out of it and used same in feeding us. One bottle used to go for ₦500(2.25 steem) then ₦1,000(4.49 steem) and later ₦1,200( 5.74 steem) depending on the season. But it was not easy money has Her hands got burnt sometimes, her back ached and the smoke stained her clothes. But she kept doing it, because that’s what fed and trained her five children.

Through this palm oil work, my mother was able to pay our school fees, feed us, clothe us and keep the house running. It wasn’t small work but she carried it like it was her destiny. She always said, "This oil is our red gold It may not be foreign rice, but it is feeding us better than some white-collar jobs.”

I assisted back then in my small capacity, so I understand what it takes to produce just one bottle of palm oil. It takes strength, patience and endurance. Every bottle of palm oil my mother sold was a symbol of her sweat.

But as life would have it, her first son, finally became financially stable. And Broh, saw how tired she was after each production, how her hands were getting rough, and how the firewood smoke made her cough. So one day we had a family meeting and asked her, “Mummy, please stop this thing. Let the oil rest small.”

Surprisingly, She laughed and said, "You want me to stop? This business has become my culture, not just business.” But since that day, she hasn’t gone back to making palm oil. Though, once in a while, I still catch her near the palm trees, looking at the bunches like old friends.

I invite on @ngoenyi @uduak01 @impersonal to participate in the contest.