By Valentine Obienyem

I love nature profusely. Sometimes, when I travel home, I delight in going to village forests to observe nature in its nakedness.

The foregoing is the reason I love St. Francis of Assisi. He is the patron saint of animals and the environment. Francis had a deep affinity for nature, animals, and birds, seeing all creatures as fellow “brothers” and “sisters” under God. History records what is known as his Sermon to the Birds, when, overwhelmed by a sudden surge of love for creation, he preached to flocks of birds along the road near Bevagna. The birds reportedly stretched their necks, opened their beaks, and listened attentively as he blessed them, refusing to fly away until he gave them permission. His gentleness towards animals, his habit of addressing them affectionately, and stories of creatures gathering around him during his journeys and hours of prayer reveal a rare, almost “Edenic” harmony between the saint and the natural world.

I have guava trees in my compound. I delight in seeing species of birds congregating there, especially in the early morning before they sally forth to their other destinations. I often tell my people not to drive them away, since the fruits of the guava are conveniently shared between us and the birds.

I always laugh to myself when, in the dead of night, my wife expresses her disgust at the calls and sounds of some birds with a sardonic irony. We often argue about it, and she would say to me, “I know you will also love the call of the owl and all its portents.” Her remark, half in jest and half in exasperation, is her way of reminding me that my love of nature sometimes extends to creatures whose nocturnal voices, which portend evil, inspire in her anything but affection.

While the apple tree is still growing, I once tried to propagate it by marcotting, but it did not work. Meanwhile, the grape in my courtyard is already fruiting. However, the fruit tastes forbidden. I had wanted to cut it down, but my wife restrained me, saying that the taste would improve one day.

However, the most distressing part is that the birds do not even allow it to ripen. If they did, I would have conveniently shared it with them, as I do the guava fruit. Besides, its spreading branches were rapidly becoming a nuisance to my neighbours; if they were not such wonderful people, they would have started complaining long ago.

Yesterday, I finally made up my mind and cut down the grapevine at its roots. The leaves are gradually withering. My wife is pained, but she understands the pragmatic calculus behind my decision. After all, what is the point of a fruit that neither satisfies the palate nor reaches maturity, while its spreading branches threaten the peace of one’s neighbours?

Yet, as I look at the bare earth where the vine once stood, a quiet irony lingers. I remain a devoted disciple of St. Francis, a professed admirer of his gentle communion with the winged creatures of the air; but my patience, it seems, has its terrestrial limits.