He poured the chemicals onto his yam mounds. For two weeks, the leaves grew huge and green. Chidi smiled. “See? No waiting needed.”

Chidi scoffed. “Easy for a song to say,” he muttered. “But my farm is struggling. My wife weeps at night. Where is this ‘step of God’ I keep hearing about?”

Papa Onwuachi pointed to a small, gourd water-dropper he used to water his seedlings—drop by drop, for hours each day.

Determined to force his own blessing, Chidi borrowed money from a harsh moneylender to buy quick-growing fertilizer. He ignored the old farmers who warned, “The soil needs rest, Chidi. Ukpe Chukwu is not a sprint. It is a dance.”

“But Papa, I prayed! I sowed! Where is God’s step?” Chidi cried.

“A son,” she whispered, tears streaming. “He came… in his own time.”

The melody was slow, like honey dripping from a spoon. The chorus echoed: