“Ẹnu lò n sọ̀rọ̀, ṣùgbọ́n ọ̀fun ni ń gbé ẹnu soke.” (The mouth speaks, but it is t
I remember standing before my grandmother as a child, watching her grind pepper on a stone slab under the morning sun.
Each time the dust rose, she would pause, cough softly, and say, “Ọ̀fun mi ń gbóná, ṣùgbọ́n kò sí ohun tí a lè sọ̀rọ̀ láì lo ọ̀fun.” (My throat burns, but no one can speak without a throat.)
Back then, I didn’t understand. But today, after years of studying the fragile relationship between man and his environment, I finally do.
