The mango tree, as I know it, still stands at the edge of the family house.
Its leaves are dry and pale. That is how I know it is in its off year.
And even if it were not, I do not think I could bring myself to pluck its fruits.
The soil beneath its shadow is moist, as if ready to give life.
I raise my head and take in the sight of the rugged house that was once home.
The white walls have faded to a dusty gray, and the windows, still framed in mahogany, remain as stark and solid as they were twenty years ago.
There is a pain in my throat that urges me to cry.
But I let go of every sadness as I step out of the car.
My feet falter as they touch the ground.
My stomach tightens. I feel a little faint.
With each slow step, I summon every memory I have of my father.
I see him fixing a sandal, ink stains dark on his fingers.
I see him breaking fresh cashews for me.
or looking up at me with soft eyes, asking why I look like the world has given up on me.
He sits, spindly and bent, on his old bench.
His teeth, always too white, flash with every word.
I never did ask how he kept them that way.
We all used toothpaste and plantain branches.
The day my father died, I was walking back from the communal borehole.
The bucket on my head felt heavier than usual.
It was my oldest cousin who came running with the news.
I do not remember when the bucket slipped.
I do not remember the moments I ran.
I only remember reaching the scene and the crowd that held me back.
I have never felt as angry, as frustrated, or as restless in my skin as I did that day.
They never let me see his body. They said he was unrecognizable beneath the truck. There was nothing in the casket but a photo, one of him learning shoemaking.
For years, I have wondered what was left of him.
All I know is they had to gather his remains with a shovel.
I saw the bloodstain on the tarred road where his life was taken.
And I stared at it until the rains finally washed it away.
I guess you are wondering why I am here. I miss my father, and the only memories I have of him live in this deserted place.
So I will sit beneath this mango tree.
The leaves, though dry, are dancing.
The ground welcomes me.
The wind brushes my face
gently, the way my father once did with his words.
I will sit beneath this mango tree.
And I know my father will see me.
