Her story is echoed across Nangade and Muidumbe, districts that have carried the brunt of conflict and displacement. Farming, once their lifeline, was torn apart. Families who prided themselves on feeding themselves were reduced to queuing for aid, waiting for food distributions that never seemed enough. 

But the fields are stirring again. 

900 families across six districts (Macomia, Quissanga, Nangade, Muidumbe, Mocímboa da Praia, and Palma) received small packets of seeds: tomato, lettuce, onion, cabbage, and pepper. To outsiders, they might look like nothing more than a handful of envelopes. To families here, they were the chance to reclaim their lives. 

The results are visible. Where land once lay abandoned, there are neat rows of green. The germination rates are strong, especially for tomatoes and lettuce. Families who used to harvest just enough for a meal now walk to the market with baskets full. 

Teresa Tomas told me she sold part of her first harvest. With the earnings, she bought school supplies. Her voice broke a little as she explained: “Last year, my son sat in class without an exercise book. He just listened. This year, he writes like the other children.” 

It is these small, ordinary victories that feel so extraordinary here. 

If the fields bring promise, the fishponds bring nourishment. Ten newly built ponds, each stocked with up to 3,000 fingerlings, are already nearing harvest. The expected yield, 750 kilograms per pond per cycle, means families will not only have protein on their plates but also fish to sell. 

At one pond in Muidumbe, men leaned on hoes while women crouched by the water’s edge, peering at the rippling surface. A little girl reached out, giggling, as a fish darted closely. Her mother, sitting nearby, happily quipped: “Before, my children only ate porridge. Meat or fish was something we heard about. Now, they eat from here. From our pond.” 

There is pride in her voice. And relief. 

What is perhaps most striking is the shift in identity. They are no longer waiting for handouts. They are producers, traders, and managers of their own associations. The introduction of motor pumps has allowed larger plots to be irrigated, cutting down hours of backbreaking watering by hand. Associations are using part of their sales to pay for fuel and equipment upkeep. 

One farmer laughed as he showed me his motor pump, its steady hum drowning out the cicadas. “This machine,” he said, “is like a second pair of hands. Stronger than me. It lets us plant more. It makes me dream of becoming a real businessman.” 

Of course, the road is far from smooth. Pesticides and fertilizers are scarce. Roads are so broken that reaching some fields means walking for hours. Yet when you sit with these farmers, you don’t hear despair. You hear plans; what they’ll plant next season, who they’ll sell to, how they’ll expand. You hear laughter, the kind that comes not from abundance but from contentment. 

As one community leader shared whilst watching water gush into an irrigation ditch: “When the taps opened, it was like our hearts opened. People felt alive again.”