Rooted to Rise

I strongly believe that whoever first brought the ackee tree from West Africa to Jamaica must have known I would come along one day. I absolutely love ackee and saltfish. In fact, I love it so much that I desired to have a morning wedding simply so I could eat ackee and saltfish with fried dumplings at the reception. I didn’t have a morning wedding, but I did eat ackee and saltfish that morning for breakfast. On birthdays, Christmas mornings, and just about every special occasion, breakfast is not complete without it. Even if I am overseas, I somehow find a way to have ackee and saltfish if the occasion is important enough.

For years, my students knew about my love affair with ackee. I would often ask if they had ackee trees at home and, if they did, whether they could bring me some. Eventually, one student decided to solve my problem once and for all by giving me an ackee seedling. I was elated but truth is I felt a little embarrassed because I thought that it must be because I beg ackee so much.

That was in 2013.

I planted it with great excitement and confidently told a friend that one day I would put a swing in its branches. She laughed and reminded me that ackee trees take years to mature. "Maybe your grandchildren will enjoy that swing," she teased. My grandchildren did not get to eat it's fruits, but I certainly did for a few years. Unfortunately, neither I nor my future grandchildren will ever get that swing because sometime after the COVID-19 pandemic, I reluctantly had to cut down the tree. Not only did I cut it down, I burned the roots and paved over the area with concrete.

Fast forward to 2026.

Inspired by the success of my then ackee tree, I decided to try my hand at backyard farming. Well... "backyard" might be a stretch because my backyard isn’t exactly backyard-ing, so I created a little side-yard garden instead. Between January and March, I built raised beds and planted cabbage, sweet peppers, scotch bonnet peppers, tomatoes, lettuce, onions and pak choi. In the pockets of the concrete blocks surrounding the beds, I planted carrots and beetroot. In the actual backyard, I had only the concrete blocks. In those pockets, I planted escallion, string beans, onions and more lettuce.

The cabbage grew.

Mi glad bag buss.

“I am officially a farmer." 

Then the pak choi appeared.

Definitely a farmer.

The beetroot sprouted.

Professional farmer.

Every tiny green shoot convinced me that I had uncovered the hidden farmer and green thumb within me. Every day I watered my plants faithfully, admired them proudly and envisioned fresh vegetables  that I could give away.

Then reality arrived.

Tiny holes began appearing in my cabbage leaves.

Pests.

I found a small caterpillar hiding beneath one leaf one day and I un-alived it. I bought pesticide at the farm store and confidently declared victory. Or so I thought. Soon I saw evidence of more caterpillars. They had even turned on my beetroot leaves. When harvest time came, I did reap cabbage. But it felt like a victory with an asterisk. I couldn't help feeling that I had somehow failed my crops.

The tomatoes and peppers gave me renewed hope. One sweet pepper plant even produced a single pepper. The tomato plants blossomed beautifully

I celebrated.

Then the tomato leaves began looking dry despite regular watering. White spots appeared on the pepper leaves. Fungus. Again, disappointment. To make matters worse, my "block garden" stubbornly refused to produce anything. No onions. No lettuce. No seedlings. Not even one hopeful little sprout. Nothing.

By July, I accepted that farming simply wasn't for me. I decided to abandon food crops and focus instead on ornamental plants. While digging a hole for one of the ornamentals, something unexpected happened. As soon as I inserted my garden knife, the soil inside the concrete block pocket disappeared. Literally disappeared. The tightly packed soil that I thought was filling the block pocket simply collapsed into the hollow space below.

I stood there with my jaw on the ground. For six months I had faithfully watered seeds that had almost no soil in which to grow. The problem wasn't my lack of a green thumb. The seeds never really had a foundation. The soil had been quietly disappearing beneath them all along. I had been planting and replanting into ground that was being undermined from underneath.

Now, back to my ackee tree.

About six weeks ago, I saw that an ackee seedling had pushed its way through the concrete. I stopped dead in my tracks. The seedling had come up through the concrete. The very spot where I had cut down the tree. The very spot where I had burned the roots. The very spot I had covered with concrete over five years ago. I stood there staring in amazement. How? My daughter uprooted it because, in her words, "We don't have the space for an ackee tree." …..Fair enough.

But then, just last week, another seedling appeared. We haven't had rain in forever. The country is literally experiencing a drought. That area receives pretty much no water. Yet somehow, life found a way.

 

While I had spent months struggling to grow vegetables in carefully prepared garden beds, this forgotten ackee tree that was burned, buried beneath concrete and left without care had quietly decided it wanted to continue growing. And that made me wonder...

What if I was as resilient as that ackee tree?

What if my dreams refused to die simply because circumstances became difficult?

What if rejection wasn't the end?

What if disappointment wasn't permanent?

What if being buried wasn't the same as being defeated?

The resilient ackee tree 'spoke' to me in tree language that when roots run deep, concrete is only an obstacle not a conclusion.

My failed vegetable garden taught me another lesson, not every failure is because you lack ability. Sometimes the foundation is the problem.

My seeds weren't failing because I didn't have a green thumb. They were failing because there wasn't enough soil to sustain them.

Likewise, some of us pour years of energy into businesses, relationships, jobs, investments or dreams that never had a solid foundation to begin with. We keep watering. We keep working. We keep hoping. All the while, the ground beneath us was quietly giving way. And even if the foundation is solid, there are other things that require attention. The healthiest-looking crop can be destroyed by pests left unchecked. A hidden fungus can slowly weaken a thriving plant. Small problems ignored eventually become big problems.

The same is true in our lives. Sometimes the pests are negative influences. Sometimes they are bad habits. Sometimes they are fear, bitterness, pride or procrastination. If we don't deal with them early, they quietly consume what we've worked so hard to build. Healthy growth requires both a strong foundation and constant care.

As Jamaica celebrates another year of Independence, perhaps this is a good time for all of us to take inventory. Examine the foundation before you plant. Whether you're starting a business, pursuing another qualification or new venture, entering a relationship, accepting a new job or making an investment, ask the difficult questions.

Is this built on solid ground?

Have I done my research?

Is there enough support for this to take root?

Am I rooted in Christ?

And once you've planted, keep watch. Remove the pests. Treat the fungus. Protect what you're building before small problems become large ones.

Finally, remember the lesson of the ackee tree. If your roots are anchored in the right place, don't let difficult seasons convince you that your growth is over. You may be cut down. You may be overlooked. You may even feel buried beneath the weight of disappointment. But deep roots have a remarkable way of finding life again. Sometimes, they even break through concrete.

Happy Independence, Jamaica. 64 years.  

May your foundation be strong, your roots run deep, and may you always find the courage to bloom against the odds.

eS