4) Every Mango

‘Every Mango is important,’ Kathleen’s mother tells her.

She tells her this every day as they pluck mangoes from their finite amount of trees. The last two years have brought more droughts than usual and the ground is dusty. The trees no longer get the nutrients they crave. The mango in Kathleen’s pink palm is small and yellow, like a tennis ball.

Kathleen fills her basket barely to brim and walks back into her home, a shack made from splintered wood and corrugated iron. There are two rooms; her parent’s room and the all purpose room. They can only fit two chairs and no table. The bathroom is a ten minute walk to a clogged trench.

Her father is not home from the mine yet. He will return at nightfall, most likely when Kathleen has gone to sleep on the floor of the all purpose room. He will kiss her goodnight with his soot covered lips, sleep for a few hours, then get back to work. This is assuming he does not get mugged on his way home.

Her father is not home yet so Kathleen smiles as it means both her and her mother can sit down. It is only a temporary rest. Kathleen will make a mile and a half round trip with her grimy bucket to get water from her local well. That is until there is a knock at the door.

Kathleen’s mother answers. She gasps. A man wearing knock off Ralph Lauren sunglasses and a faded green army jacket stands, rubbing his hand on his ripped jeans. He looks like a General. Behind his glasses he surveys the room. A crooked smile forms across his face.

‘Rent due,’ the General says, rolling his tongue.

Kathleen’s mother shakes her head: ‘We paid our rent only a couple of days ago. There must be a mistake.’

The General’s smile creeps back into his mouth. He rolls his shoulders. This is the part Kathleen hates. The General grabs her mother by the throat and lifts her up against the door.

‘Rent. Due.’ He does not roll his tongue this time.

‘We have nothing,’ Kathleen’s mother chokes.

The General puts her down and allows her to catch her breath. Once Kathleen’s mother stands straight again, the General points to Kathleen. Kathleen’s back straightens like a cat spotted in the night. Kathleen’s mother begins to sob. The General gets on his knee next to Kathleen.

‘How would you like to come with me?’ he says.

Kathleen wants to look away from the General, but her eye keeps catching her reflection in his sunglasses. Such a tiny thing, scrawny thing: what could he want with her.  In the sunglasses she also sees the basket.

‘Would you like a mango?’ Kathleen says.

The General’s crooked smile returns. He looks at the mangoes and shrugs his shoulders. He grabs the basket as Kathleen’s mother wails. The General slaps her with the back of his hand on the way out. The door slams shut. They have no mangoes. They have no money. For now, they only have each other.