Bongolistically,
Mallam O.
&&&
The afternoon was sunny, school had closed a bit later on that day at Tomlinson High School in Songo. My cousin and I were walking home very hungry and annoyed. What was ahead of us was the certainty that we would have to contribute to preparing our own meal when we got home—either pounding cassava or helping with something else. Our food would definitely not be ready to eat right away, which only intensified our growing hunger as we trudged along with our heavy school bags.
That’s when we saw it—a mango tree standing tall by the roadside, and perched on one of its highest branches was a perfectly ripe mango, its golden-red skin glistening in the afternoon sun. My attention locked onto it immediately, and my empty stomach growled in anticipation.
“Hey Abass, look at that mango up there,” I said, pointing toward the tree. “That one—if it falls down and I catch it, I would really enjoy eating it right now.”
Abass followed my gaze, his eyes widening with the same hungry desperation. I could see the calculations running through his mind—the same ones running through mine.
“Well, actually,” I continued, staking my claim, “if that mango should fall down onto the ground, I would be the first to pick it up.”
Abass scoffed. “How would you when I am stronger than you?”
“I’d just make you like this,” I demonstrated, miming a push with my hands. “I’ll push you, then run to the mango!”
“And I would push you back,” Abass countered, “then kick you so you fall, and then I’ll get it!”
What started as hypothetical boasting quickly escalated. We began demonstrating our theoretical attacks, showing each other how we would prevent the other from reaching the imaginary fallen mango first. Our play-fighting soon transformed into actual shoving, and before we knew it, we were rolling in the dirt by the roadside, school uniforms becoming dusty and wrinkled, all over a mango that remained firmly attached to its branch.
Our scuffle grew louder, drawing attention. A middle-aged woman passing by noticed our fight and approached with a stern expression.
“What is wrong with you two?” she demanded, her hands on her hips. “You’re wearing school uniforms! Why are you fighting like street children?”
We immediately stopped, scrambling to our feet and speaking over each other.
“He started it—”
“No, he said he would take—”
“I saw it first and—”
“Stop!” the woman commanded, raising her hand. “If both of you talk at the same time, I will not understand what happened. One at a time, please.”
I took a deep breath and explained our argument over who would get the mango if it fell. Abass nodded vigorously, adding his perspective, which was essentially identical to mine.
The woman looked confused. “But where is this mango you’re fighting over?”
In unison, we pointed up at the tree, where the golden mango still hung, unmoved by our commotion below. The woman stared at us, then at the mango, then back at us. Her expression slowly shifted from anger to disbelief, and then she burst into laughter.
“You mean to tell me,” she said between chuckles, “that you two were fighting over a mango that is still on the tree? A mango that hasn’t even fallen?”
When she put it that way, we couldn’t help but feel foolish. We looked at each other, dirt-smudged and disheveled, and the absurdity of the situation finally hit us. We had been fighting over a hypothetical scenario—a mango that might never even fall.
The woman’s laughter proved contagious, and soon Abass was laughing too. I tried to maintain my dignity for a moment longer before giving in to the ridiculousness of it all.
“Come,” the woman said, still smiling as she reached into her bag. “I have some groundnuts here. Share these instead of fighting over fantasies.”
She handed us each a small handful of roasted peanuts, which we accepted gratefully. As we continued our walk home, munching on our unexpected treat, the tension between us dissolved.
“You know,” Abass said thoughtfully, “even if that mango had fallen, I would have shared it with you.”
“Really?” I asked, surprised by his admission.
“Well, maybe after I took the first bite,” he grinned mischievously.
I punched his shoulder playfully. “And I would have let you have the seed.”
We laughed again, our earlier fight seemingly distant now. The golden mango remained on its branch, oblivious to the drama it had caused. Perhaps it was still there, ripening further, waiting for someone else to dream about its sweet flesh.
When we finally reached home, we worked together to prepare the evening meal, our stomachs still rumbling but our hearts lighter. Sometimes the greatest lessons come from the strangest places—even from a mango that never fell.
Have a pleasant weekend.
Mallam O.
