Roots in the Red Earth: My Personal Environmental History

August 3, 2025 By: Sochibueze Ajoku

Environmental history is not just about forests, rivers, and air—it’s about the lives lived on and with the land. My own environmental history, shaped by three generations, spans two continents. From my grandparents’ rural village life in Imo State, Nigeria, to my urban upbringing and current life in Canada, the environments we’ve lived in and transformed have deeply influenced our values, behaviors, and relationships with nature. My grandparents lived their entire lives in the rural heartland of Imo State, a region in southeastern Nigeria characterized by tropical rainforests and red laterite soil. They farmed the land using traditional methods, growing yam, cassava, maize, and cocoyam. These crops sustained their families and communities, alongside small-scale livestock rearing and palm oil harvesting.

Their connection to the land was not just economic but also spiritual. Traditional Igbo cosmology revered the Earth goddess Ala, and it was believed that harming the land without cause would invite punishment. This belief system fostered conservation practices like land rotation and seasonal farming, which naturally preserved soil fertility and biodiversity. Though the land around them was already transformed to some degree—cassava, for example, had been introduced centuries earlier through colonial and trade networks—it was still largely in balance with its inhabitants.¹

By the time my parents reached adulthood, Nigeria was undergoing rapid change. Rural-to-urban migration increased as education, white-collar jobs, and modern infrastructure became more accessible. My parents moved from their villages to the state capital, Owerri, where they built a life that combined rural memories with urban aspirations.

The environmental landscape they encountered in the city was increasingly artificial—concrete roads, electricity poles, boreholes, and shops replaced open farms and forest groves. Urbanization brought its conveniences, but it also meant pollution, deforestation, and increased reliance on imported food. Yet, the rural connection was never fully severed. Our backyard always had a garden patch with vegetables like ugu (fluted pumpkin), okra, and peppers. My parents still valued growing their own food, even in small quantities, and taught me to appreciate every plant that made its way to our table.

The palm trees of my grandparents’ farm had given way to electric poles and plastic water tanks, but the memory of those trees lived on in how my parents cooked, preserved food, and passed down oral knowledge of the land.

I now live in Kamloops, British Columbia, far from the red earth of Imo. Here, the environment is dramatically different—dry grasslands, pine-covered hills, and cold winters. The rivers here are glacial, the air dry, and the risk of wildfires high. This shift in ecological context has reshaped my understanding of nature and my role within it.

Unlike my grandparents, who saw the land as a gift, or my parents, who viewed it as something to balance with economic survival, my generation often sees the environment through a lens of crisis—climate change, biodiversity loss, pollution. But we also have tools they didn’t: scientific knowledge, digital platforms for activism, and a growing cultural emphasis on sustainability.

At the same time, I find myself circling back to the values of my ancestors. I compost, grow herbs on my balcony, shop locally, and reduce waste. I also see how privilege plays a role in environmental engagement. As a Nigerian immigrant in Canada, I have access to clean water, green spaces, and recycling infrastructure that many in my family’s village still lack. These differences highlight how class and geography shape our environmental realities.²

 

My family’s environmental footprint has evolved over time. In the village, we transformed our environments through slash-and-burn farming, palm oil extraction, and road development. In the city, my parents contributed to the urban heat island effect by paving over what used to be forested land. In Canada, I try to reduce my footprint, but I know I also participate in a consumer-driven economy that extracts resources from places like Nigeria.

This awareness has pushed me to adopt a hybrid environmental ethic: one that combines ancestral respect for the land with modern sustainability practices. I no longer see these as opposites but as different modes of relating to the Earth, both necessary for addressing today’s global environmental challenges.

Reflecting on my family’s environmental history gives me a sense of rootedness and responsibility. From the earth-honoring traditions of my grandparents to the modern urban adaptations of my parents, and finally to my own cross-cultural environmental values, I see a story of change, adaptation, and hope. I aim to live in a way that honors this legacy—by nurturing the land, advocating for environmental justice, and remembering that the Earth is not just our home, but our history.

References

Berkes, Fikret. Sacred Ecology. 3rd ed. New York: Routledge, 2012.
Chinweizu. The West and the Rest of Us: White Predators, Black Slavers, and the African Elite. New York: Vintage Books, 1987.
Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO). State of the World’s Forests 2020. Accessed July 31, 2025. https://www.fao.org/publications/sofo/2020/en/.
Leach, Melissa. “Gender and the Environment: Traps and Opportunities.” Development in Practice 4, no. 3 (1994): 194–199.
United Nations Environment Programme. The Global E-waste Monitor 2020. Accessed July 31, 2025. https://www.unep.org/resources/report/global-e-waste-monitor-2020.