Under the Mango Tree

When Chika’s parents died in a sudden car crash, he was just seven years old — too young to grasp the full weight of loss. One moment he was laughing at the mangoes falling from the sky during a heavy storm; the next, he was an orphan standing before his father’s elder brother, Uncle Okechukwu, and his wife, Mama Nnenna.

They took him in, as tradition demanded. But love was not part of the deal.

Their house was large, built of clay and roofed with shining zinc sheets, but it felt colder than the graves that had swallowed his parents. From the first night, Chika knew he was an outsider. His bed was a frayed mat in the corner of the veranda, where the cold breeze kissed his skin till dawn.

Mama Nnenna made it clear he was not welcome.

"You are not my son," she spat once, when he dropped a plate during morning chores. "Don’t expect to eat like one."

And so Chika ate the burnt parts of yam, the leftover stew watered down so thin he could see the bottom of the bowl. He wore clothes Titi, their only daughter, had outgrown — pink blouses and torn skirts he reshaped into shirts with rough sewing.

But he endured. He found his refuge under the old mango tree that stood at the far end of the compound, where the earth was always cool and the air smelled of sweet sap.

The tree was ancient, its trunk gnarled like a bent old man, its branches thick and strong. Chika would sit there for hours after his chores, drawing circles in the dust with a stick, humming songs his mother used to sing. Sometimes, when the hunger gnawed too hard at his belly, the tree would gift him a mango — a quiet, gentle offering that made him believe he was not completely alone.

One afternoon, after a day spent scrubbing pots and carrying firewood, Chika found himself crying under the mango tree. Great, heaving sobs tore out of him. He cried for his mother, for his father, for the home he would never return to.

In the midst of his tears, a mango fell from the tree, bouncing once before resting beside him. He stared at it, blinking. Gently, he picked it up. It was perfectly ripe — golden, warm from the sun.

Chika smiled through his tears.

"Thank you," he whispered to the tree.

From that day, he spoke to the mango tree as if it were an old friend. He shared his dreams: of going to school again, of wearing clothes that fit, of one day being someone important — someone who mattered.

The seasons turned. Harmattan winds cracked his lips and made the mornings bitter cold, while the rainy season soaked him in the middle of night storms. Still, Chika endured. The mango tree remained steadfast, whispering comfort through rustling leaves.

One evening, Mama Nnenna accused Chika of stealing meat from the pot. She hadn't even bothered to check if it was true. Furious, she dragged him by the ear, threw him outside into the night rain, and bolted the door behind him.

Shivering and soaked, Chika crawled under the mango tree. He pressed his back against its sturdy trunk, wrapping his arms around himself. Thunder rumbled across the sky like the anger of the gods.

"One day," he vowed, voice trembling, "I will leave this place. I will be strong, like you. I will find people who will love me."

And the mango tree, towering above him, seemed to nod its heavy branches in solemn agreement.

Years passed. Chika grew older, wiser, stronger. Against all odds, he found work in the city as an apprentice, then as a student, and later, a respected teacher. He never forgot the mango tree — the friend who had never raised a hand against him, never cursed him, never turned him away.

When he returned to the village as a man, tall and sure, he did not visit Uncle Okechukwu’s compound. Instead, he walked straight to the far end, where the old mango tree still stood, its leaves whispering in the breeze.

Under that tree, Chika built a small school — a place for all the village’s forgotten children, those like him who needed shelter, hope, and a chance to dream.

And every year, when the mangoes fell, he would smile, knowing that some promises, made with a pure heart, were never broken.