Growing up in Accra, gardens were more than just spaces filled with greenery and flowers; they were extensions of our lives, deeply woven into our daily rhythms. My earliest memories include the rich scent of damp soil after a morning rain, and the melodic birdsong that filled the air as dawn broke over our compound. These gardens were sanctuaries, spaces where the world slowed down, and the simplest pleasures—like the feel of cool earth between your fingers—became profound moments of connection with nature and with family. 

My father often shared stories of his childhood while tending to the garden, especially the days he spent as a young boy at Mfantsipim School. The stories were not just reflections of his youth, but they somehow always wove into lessons about life. As he dug into the earth to plant new seedlings, his hands roughened by years of hard work, he would remind me that, much like the plants, we too needed solid roots to grow strong. His greens—especially his beloved lettuce and kontomire—were symbols of his devotion to both the land and the family. He would often say, "If you take care of the land, the land will take care of you." These words carried the weight of generations of wisdom passed down, not only as advice for gardening but as a philosophy for life. 

My mother, too, had her place in the garden. Her touch was softer, her demeanor more nurturing. She was the one who could coax even the most delicate plants to thrive. Her careful hands tended to home-grown tomatoes and sweet peppers, which later graced our dinner table with the freshness only a backyard garden could offer. But her work was more than a means of putting food on the table; it was an act of love, a testament to the nurturing spirit that ran through her veins. For her, gardening was a form of prayer, a quiet conversation with God, the earth, and her ancestors. She often said that a garden was like a mirror to the soul—it reflected your patience, your care, and your ability to embrace the natural cycles of growth and decay. 

In our family, flowers were more than just ornamental; they were woven into the very fabric of our lives, symbolizing the stages of life itself. Bougainvillea, hibiscus, oleanders, and sunflowers stood tall and vibrant, like sentinels guarding our family’s history and future. Each flower had a story to tell, marking births, deaths, celebrations, and the quiet moments in between. My grandmother, a firm believer in the spiritual connection between humans and the earth, often likened flowers to people. "A garden," she would say, "is like life. Each flower blooms in its own time, with its own beauty and purpose, and when its season is over, it makes room for the next." Her words guided me through the seasons of life, reminding me to embrace change with grace and to find beauty in every stage, even the difficult ones. 

Backyard gardening was more than just a pastime for us; it was a tradition that spanned generations. The rich soil of our compound nourished cocoyam, kontomire, okra, peppers, and plantains, all staples of our diet and symbols of our connection to the land. Every season brought its bounty, and we learned to live in harmony with the natural cycles of growth. My mother believed that backyard gardening was not only a way to control what we ate but also a means of preserving our culture and heritage. She often reminded us that the garden provided more than sustenance—it provided a sense of self-reliance and security that no market could replicate. Every meal prepared with our homegrown produce was a celebration of our family's hard work, our connection to the land, and the deep-rooted values of sustainability and self-sufficiency. 

As I grew older, my relationship with the garden evolved. What began as a simple task of helping my father and mother tend to the plants became a profound interest in understanding the science behind the beauty. I found myself fascinated by how different plants thrived in our tropical climate, how they responded to the subtle shifts in weather and light, and how they played a crucial role in the ecosystem. The garden became a place of learning, a space where I could observe the delicate balance of nature at work. Though I was less vocal about my love for the garden, it remained a quiet passion, nurtured by the years spent watching my father meticulously prune the hedges and care for the lawn. His quiet diligence instilled in me a deep respect for the land and for the hard work required to maintain it. 

The lessons I learned in the garden have shaped who I am today. Watching a seed sprout and grow into something beautiful and life-sustaining taught me valuable lessons in faith, patience, and perseverance. These lessons extended far beyond the confines of the garden; they became guiding principles for navigating the challenges of life. Whenever life felt chaotic or overwhelming, I found solace in nature. My potted orchid, though much smaller than the sprawling garden of my childhood, became a symbol of resilience and a reminder of my roots. It serves as a small sanctuary in my adult life, a space where I can reconnect with my past, ground myself in the present, and continue the tradition of nurturing growth in all its forms. 

As the Ghana Garden and Flower Show approaches (22nd – 29th September), I am reminded of the incredible power that gardens hold. They are spaces of beauty, yes, but they are also spaces of healing, nourishment, and inspiration. The show is not just a celebration of flowers and plants—it is a celebration of the legacy of growth, sustainability, and the deep connection between nature and humanity. For me, the show serves as a reminder of the generations that came before me, the values they instilled, and the responsibility I have to continue that legacy. Whether through the ornamental flowers that brighten our homes or the humble backyard gardens that feed our families, the power of growth—both personal and environmental—remains a vital part of our story. And as long as we continue to nurture that growth, we honor the past, present, and future with each new bloom.