Mangoholics Anonymous

 

I love mangoes. I always have and will probably do so for all eternity. Rumour has it that I came out of my mother’s womb greedily clutching a mango in my little pudgy fist. The doctors thought it was gold. Lol. I wish I was old enough to see the look of disappointment on their faces when they saw a mango after prying my fingers open. Even when I’m chilling in heaven with my King and sibs, I’ll always have a basket of mangoes with me. I know this because we’ve discussed it and He said it’s cool.

Mango season is my favourite season of the year because it comes with my other favourite season – the rainy season. It sucks that mangoes don’t grow in these parts all year round so I have to wait for a whole year to sink my teeth into that juicy, sweet, succulent fruit.

Okay, so you know those really awesome, fun, albeit irresponsible (according to your parents, but you just didn’t see their point) uncles (or other relatives) that showed up like once every year for stretch of time? You couldn’t wait for them to come and when they left, your eyes wouldn’t stop bleeding until they showed up the next year? Well, mangoes are those lovely relatives for me. Those bad boys in the rainy season are the highlight of my year.

A few months ago, I was walking past the “grocery market” in my neighbourhood when I noticed a weird bounce in my step. It was familiar, yet strange. Then there was a flutter in the left side of my chest that shot straight into my throat and then into my stomach. There was a twitch in my eyebrow and my finger-nails started trembling. I tried to reconcile where/when I’d felt that feeling before. I stopped in my tracks, sniffed, and my eyes widened all the way to my hairline. I picked my jaw from the floor and my head darted from side to side. It’s…here. My heart literally stopped for like five seconds when I laid my eyes on those bad boys. That woman’s tray stood out, beckoning me. I did not front.

Pandora’s box open. Mangoes everywhere.

I couldn’t get enough of it. My parents were worried, siblings were teasing, priests came a-calling. I didn’t understand what the fuss was all about. So what if I had mangoes infused in everything I consumed? So what if I soaked mangoes in my water before drinking? What was wrong with bread and mangoes? Who does not live for beans and mangoes? Who? And how amazing is it when you put chopped mangoes in the middle of your eggs and fry sunny side up? Yum! I may have crossed the line a bit when I added chopped mangoes in the bitter-leaf soup I prepared for the household, I must admit, but mangoes went with everything. Besides, the soup needed to be sweetened some. My dad didn’t think so, though, and threatened to take me to the in(famous) Yaba Left. That man does not appreciate the art of fine (mangoed) cooking sha.

As the mango season came to an end, I could feel the threads that held my heart to its spot begin to snap one by one until all I had was a crumpled heart. I began to stuff myself with three times as much of those bad boys as I did when I rested in the knowledge that they still had a few months with me. The months gave way to their exit and I began to have withdrawal symptoms: my hands were constantly shaking, I sweated everywhere – my feet inclusive, I couldn’t sleep at all, and the Lilliput miners pounded away merrily at my head without mercy.

I couldn’t bear it. I was enraged, frustrated, depressed, and monstrous so the (ex) mango seller only had it coming when I rammed her empty tray on her head and whacked her without mercy when I went to buy mangoes and she said it was out of season. Out of season, my foot. With blood-shot eyes, I used her tray to hit her over and over and over again. It was not irrational, I told the judge. Surely, Judge Judy, you can understand why I did what I did; I tried to reason with her as she looked at me through pigeon-like eyes full of pity and disbelief.

Now, I scrape back my chair and stand up. I know I’m not meant to be here with this strange people, but it’s either this or working with the waste management agency for two months. I look around the room full of weirdos and addicts and wonder if I’m ready for this. I’ll probably never be ready. Taking a deep breath, I introduce myself: Hi, my name is Ada, and I’m a mangoholic.