In the afternoon today, while the hot sun was blazing very intensely, a neighbour who usually stays with me in my workspace whenever he doesn't go to work for the day, came with a rubber plate containing water and some ripe mangoes.
"Haaaa! Mango? Where did you get them?" I asked, looking surprised because he once told me that he can't buy mangoes because they're not among his favourite fruits.
"Relax and pick your own first," he said, stretching the plate in my direction, and I collected two mangoes.
They were so fresh and well-ripened. I didn't hesitate before I took a bite — it took me back to the good old days when I was in the village. Back then, whenever it was mango season, we didn't just ignore the mango tree. It was either we were waiting for them to fall or we were climbing and plucking them by ourselves.
I ate two, and while enjoying them, he settled down to tell me how he got the mangoes. I was hoping their family house had a mango tree, but no — he said it's the branch of a mango tree across a fenced compound that stretched into their compound. That was where he plucked it. OMG! That's such an advantageous thing.
We really enjoyed the mangoes, and I begged him to bring more whenever he visits the compound again.
Today, I tasted mango again after so many years of not tasting it. I don't like mangoes that much, that's why I don't bother to buy them whenever it's their season. Or maybe it's because of how we had them in abundance in my village and how we used to get tired of mangoes in those days.
Photos used are mine