The Fruit That Taught a Lesson - by Emmanuel Daniji

In the heart of Ajegunle, where the noise of danfo buses competed with the hawkers selling Lacasera and Gala, lived Pa Alade, a retired civil servant known for his flourishing mango tree. Every season, the tree was the pride of his compound — heavy branches bending under the weight of ripe, golden mangoes that even passersby could not resist staring at. One hot afternoon, Pa Alade sat in his wooden chair, fanning himself with an old newspaper when he noticed small fingers tugging at the branches near the fence. He peered closely and caught sight of Tunde, the 12-year-old son of his neighbor, Mama Sola. The boy’s movements were quick but nervous, like a rat stealing crumbs. With two mangoes clutched tightly to his chest, he darted off down the narrow street. Pa Alade could have shouted, “Ole! Thief!” but something stopped him. Instead, he rose slowly and followed at a distance, careful not to be seen. The boy turned into a rusted iron-roof house at the end of the street. Through the half-broken door, Pa Alade saw what froze his heart. Tunde split one mango into four parts with a blunt knife and handed them to his younger siblings — three children with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. Their mother, Mama Sola, sat in a corner with a wrapper tied loosely around her chest, too weak to speak. It was clear she had not eaten in days. In that moment, Pa Alade understood. The fruit was not stolen for greed but for survival. That evening, when the sun dipped and the call to prayer echoed from the nearby mosque, Pa Alade carried a tray of hot jollof rice, smoked fish, and a basket of mangoes to Mama Sola’s home. He knocked gently. Tunde opened the door, eyes wide with fear, certain he had been caught. But instead of anger, Pa Alade smiled. “My son,” he said softly, “hunger is not a crime. But stealing is. When you are hungry, you must knock and ask. A community is not built on fear but on love.” From that day on, Tunde never reached for the mango tree again. Not because he feared punishment, but because he tasted something greater than hunger — compassion. The story of Tunde spread quietly around the neighborhood, a lesson whispered among mothers at the market and fathers at the beer parlor: sometimes, understanding heals deeper than punishment. Yet, as Pa Alade would remind anyone who cared to listen: <blockquote>“Empathy is a balm, but stealing still leaves a scar. Hunger can push a man, but dignity should hold him back.”</blockquote>

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