A thing for Mangoes

I salute all workers today.

My original plan was to post a couple of photos from the Workers Day parade at the Independence Square in Accra but I figured that was pretty predictable. The good thing with story telling is, sometimes the story comes to you.

When I saw my daughter passionately devouring a mango, it shot me straight down memory lane. I was approximately 5 years old and I lived with my grandmother at Tema, in Community Nine.

My grandmother loved mangoes. She would bring home a basket full whenever they were in season, every evening after work. After dinner, she would wash them with salt and water, sit in the verandah and start eating them gracefully. All the children and grandchildren got a mango each but since I was little, mine would often end up in the belly of an uncle who I need a favour from or has promised to take me somewhere nice. Each time one of them took my mango from me, I’d go back to my grandmother and manage to get a new one. It was nice being a favourite grandson.

One fateful evening, my grandmother refused to give me another mango. Being the good boy that I was, I started throwing tantrums. I threw myself on the floor and started screaming like crazy. She ignored me; smart woman. After a few minutes of me reeling though, some black ant who probably was tired of all my noise making sneaked into my briefs and gave me one wicked sting on my scrotum.

Screaming with my balls in hand and jumping all over the place, everybody knew these were no longer crocodile tears. This was the real thing.

I remember them dousing a rag with kerosene and rubbing that where the wicked ant stung me. I still don’t remember how I slept that evening. It is still a joke in the family, and seeing how my daughter loves mangoes, I know she’d one day have a story of her own, hopefully it will be more pleasant than mine.

Have a great week and remember… hard work breaks no bones.