Adventure of a fruitophile

ADVENTURES OF A FRUITOPHILE
When I was a kid our compound boasted of many fruit trees and I ate a lot of fruits back then. We had a guava tree, a tangerine tree, two cashew trees, a lot of plantain and banana trees, and a final attempt to add a coconut tree by my mother who was in charge of keeping the house failed because the coconut pod did not germinate. I remember her burying the coconut pod in a hole that had been dug some centimeters into the ground with the help of an uncle, the seedling which was already sprouting was irrigated with water and sprinkled with sugar, a hedge was constructed around it to keep goats and any perching animal away. The coconut seedling did not survive and the rest history. I felt this could be because the planting was done in front of the compound and not inside. Much later my mother would add an avocado pear tree. This we were told by some of our neighbors could be substituted for butter or chocolate or peanut spread and eaten with sliced bread. And so I found myself sometime afterwards, peeling a soft avocado pear off, cutting it into two in order to get rid of the pod and mashing in a stainless plate, sprinkling it with some sugar (although some other preferred salt) and spreading it on my bread. Did it taste yummy? I am going to ask you to try it out yourself.
Tree climbing and fruit plucking was the in thing then.
All of my siblings knew how to climb these fruit trees with no exception, all six of us and my cousins who lived with us while we were growing up. Of course the adults were experts. We had uncles and aunties who were much older and did everything and used every trick they could come up with to discourage us from climbing trees, short of scolding or out rightly lashing us, eventually they gave up on us. One of the stories one of my aunties cooked up was that if a girl is caught atop a tree by a singing bird, she invariably changes to a boy. So I said to myself ‘why not, if not’ I stayed much longer on those trees waiting for the miracle of all times, it never happened. What she said was just a ploy to get us girls to leave the tree climbing thing to the male folk.
Of all fruit trees in our compound, one stood out because of the quality and taste of its fruits. It was the guava tree. That guava tree was a seductress and its fruits were always wincing at all sundry, even neighbors came around to pluck from us and there was always enough to go round. Till today I’m yet to taste a guava fruit like it. May be it was custom made; the taste was heavenly, mind you it was red guava.
Occasionally people fell of this tree. Once,  a male tenants of ours fell flat on his face and went rigid. He was like that until he was discover by my granny (paternal, she is late though), who helped him up and led back into his apartment. We would find out later that this dude had other health issues which stemmed from his smoking habit, it later claimed his life. I also had my bad day on the guava tree. I was done plucking the beckoning fruits that I chased up the tree, and was alighting from the tree when this mishap occured. Depending on the angle you are coming from, at times you could decide to descend by landing on the roof of the rabbit house erected by the fence and then jump down the roof and land on the window of the uncompleted building in the compound, that way you don’t have to climb down by jumping from one branch to the other. Anyways I took the alternative route, going by the rabbit house. Lo and behold on jumping from the window of the uncompleted building I landed on a rusty  nail, which was held by a plank that was probably removed after the construction of the lintel. Next I knew it I was wounded and limping. I tried as hard as possible to hide the injury from my mum, but not for too long. She noticed how I was shifting from foot to foot as I ran errands for. She called me back and made me confess to what had happened to my left foot. Next I heard, she was ordering my siblings to go fetch the stove. I know what going to happen to me. She was going to fry my wound. I had seen that happen so many times always hoping it would never be my turn to get fried.
When the stove arrived she lit it and placed a knife inside the hot blue flames where the heat was more fervent. Soon the knife was burning red hot, she brought it out and dropped some palm oil on the knife, the oil sizzled, and she upturned my foot so that the wound was facing up. I watched in dismay as she dropped the sizzling oil into the wound and held it like that. I screamed and some of our neighbors ran out of course my siblings had circled the scene with a knowing look on some of their faces, she was going to repeat the ritual, I saw the knife returning back into the fire, I was ready to break free, but my siblings held me back. ‘This is what you get’ she was saying ‘for climbing that tree, if I dont do this, the wound will get infected by tetanus…’ I thought to myself, can tetanus infection be much worse. Or would you prefer an anti-tetanus injection, ‘of course I would’ I was saying to myself. From that day onwards I always had my slippers on and I stopped using the alternative route while alighting from the guava tree.
Most of our neighbors with smaller compounds could not afford the luxury of planting a fruit orchard, usually they brought from road side sellers. And mothers' orchard in all its glory and splendor did not have a mango fruit tree. If you ever feel like mango, you had to buy. Mom did not like mangoes and she never brought them home and she also discouraged us from buying. She was of the believe that mangoes sold in the market were boiled from hard green fruits to soft ripe yellow fruits, without going through the natural ripening process. To substitute for mangoes, whenever she traveled to dad's home town she brought us cherries and from her home town cocoa pods. But we still wanted mangoes. And for mangoes we went to church, as a matter of fact, the only fruit trees in the church compound were mango trees, what a blessing!
One fateful day, one of my classmates in the primary school whose parents also attended the same church, asked if I could join the entourage going embarking on a journey to the church compound to pluck mangoes. I did not think twice. I was sat at the edge of my chair till closing time. The moment the closing bell went I picked my bag and I was good to go. Bode well that was the name of the boy, had recruited a few other girls. He was the only male in our midst, not that he was much of a male as his gestures and articulation were more feminine than that of most girls in the class. Girls were at home with his soft spokenness and tiny voice. He was never one to bully girls, they easy rallied round him, should the arise. He was our she-male, and he led us gallantly on the way to the church compound, not for mass, but on a massacre of the mango fruits.
The mango was a lot bigger than the fruit trees I was used to and was not in the anyway inviting. In fact there were sand patches on the stem and branches which pointed to the fact that red ants had colonized the tree. I have been warned by my siblings that it is not unlikely to find a green snake lurking in the green lush of mango tree as densely foliated as the mango tree before us. Not even Bode who half the time wriggles and twists like we do (I think he used to catwalk) offered to climb the tree. yet none of us was willing to leave without those mangoes decorating the tree top dangling as if to say ‘catch me if you can’ but they were out of our reach as were all about a meter tall.
We opted for stick throwing, while the others stepped back, I and Bode picked up sticks from those lying around obviously the sticks were left behind by our predecessors in the mango plucking arena. We were to bring down the fruits while the rest were waiting to pick them all up. Bode had let go of his stick and it was my turn to let go, then I felt something hit the middle of my head and my hands dropped. It must have been a mango I thought trying to console myself but the impact was too much and before I could open my eyes blood was already soaking me up. I took to my heels. I heard someone was saying 'your school bag, come and take your school bag'. I was not going back; I was bound on a homeward journey, ran as fast as my leg could carry me.
I arrived home amidst several attempts by neighbors and passerby to stop me. The blood encouraged by the scourging sun flowed freely. My mum was descending the stairs when I appeared at the gate; she was flabbergasted too alarmed to scream. She rushed down skipping steps all the way. Without asking how it did happen, she grabbed me by the hand and off we went to a nearby hospital to get me stitched. Fortunately the wound did not need stitching, it was not that deep. The hair around the wound was scraped, treated and plastered and I was put to sleep. By the time I woke she had learnt from my classmates what transpired. I got to know that I was hit by the stick Bode threw not the mango he aimed as he never got a mango from that expenditure. Mom warned me sternly never to take part in such a play anymore, better still to stay clear off mangoes and the trees that bare them.
But today, the blood trickling down my thighs has got nothing to do with eating a forbidden fruit. I tasted something entirely different. No, one no one has ever taking the pains to explain or warn me about its bitter sweet feeling. One I have felt its allure for years. It’s the gist of every conversation held in hushed tones, the ghost hiding behind closed doors, the mischief that creeps into the eyes of lovers as they leave the public eye, mine to discover.
And so, when he invited me for a walk that dark starless valentine night, I was not afraid I just followed. He via off the road and headed into a bush, I was not scared. He located an uncompleted building and stopped. I also stopped. He sat on a heap of sand and I took my place beside him. He laid me down; he opened me like a flower; he pierced me with his Adams’ apple. Then I stood up; shook my tears off, I took to my heels; 
I am going home alone – I would not suck up to mama; its time to grow up; its time to find out by myself things about sex and sexuality.