The Letter Under the Mango Tree

I happened to see the letter the first time under our mango tree where half of it was hidden by dry leaves and dust.

Ibadan was still early in the morning. It was yet light, and the call to prayer had just died away in the air.

When I was sweeping the compound, I saw a white envelope by the trunk of a tree. It was old, it had been there a long time. It was curved at the angles, and ants were crawling upon it.

I took it in my hand and rolled it. It was written in familiar handwriting with my name on it.

“Ademola.”

My chest felt tight. I knew that handwriting. Three years had passed since I saw it.

My older brother, Kunle, was the one who told me this.

Kunle ran out of the house following a severe misunderstanding with our father. No one spoke about it, yet no one helped to fill the vacuum that he had left in place.

Our house became quieter. My mother ceased singing when she was cooking.

My father was grown more silent, and sat more on his wooden chair at night.

Kunle had not been heard of since his departure.

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I took the letter into my room, and sat down on my bed. I was trembling when opening it.

“Dear Ademola,” it began.

"I do not know whether you are ever going to read this, or not; I am writing it."

I hesitated and inhaled deeply.

He composed of how he was staying in a small town of Ilorin. He wrote of teaching on how to fix phones, and peddling recharge cards.

He said about the home and particularly the mango tree and how he was supposed to sit under it with me when we were younger.
My eyes became wet.

There was a knock on my door.

And my mother called the name

"Ademola."

“Have you finished sweeping?”

I opened the door and demonstrated the envelope to her. After some time she looked at it, and then slowly sat down on the edge of my bed.

"bBut it is Kunle that writes this?" she said to herself.

“Yes, Mama.”

Touching the letter she feared that it would vanish in case she touched it too much.
We read it together. Kunle was apologetic that he left in such a manner. He claimed that he was scared to return.

He was not sure whether Father would like to know him again.

"I can only say that I am still your son," he wrote. “Even if I am far.”

My mother wiped her face with the end of her wrapper.

"So where did you get it," she asked?

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“Under the mango tree.”

She nodded slowly. That was the place where he sat every evening.

My father arrived home early in the day later. He threw his bag down onto the floor, and sat down on his chair. The house was quiet.
Mama approached him and gave him the letter in his lap.

“What is this?” he asked.
“Read it,” she said.

He took off his glasses and started reading. There was not much change in his face, but a gradual movement of the eyes over the lines.

At the end of it he laid up the paper and put it on the table next to him.

There was a long silence.

“Kunle,” he said quietly. “That boy.”

He rose and wandered out to the mango-tree. I trailed him and was away on the side.

He glanced at the place where I had discovered the letter.

"He sat here and talked too long," he said with a sort of smile.

Mama joined us. “He is afraid to come home.”
Father sighed. “He always was.”

Father had sent me the paper and pen that evening.

He sat on the little table against the window and started to write. His hand moved slowly. After that, he rolled the paper and put it into an envelope.

“What should we do with it?” I asked.

I will give it to the bus driver who takes to Ilorin in the morning, he said.

The following day, I visited the park and gave the letter to the driver whom Kunle had mentioned in his letter.

The driver shook his head and assured going to bring it.
Weeks passed.

One afternoon when I was washing dishes I heard a voice in the gate.

“Good afternoon.”
I froze.
I knew that voice.

I threw the plate out of the window and ran away.

Kunle was standing there. He looked thinner. His clothes were dusty. He was holding a small bag.

For a moment, nobody moved.
The first who took a step forward was Mama. In her grip she was keeping him by the hands as though she feared he would vanish once again.

Father came out slowly. He surveyed Kunle all the way up to his head.

“You came,” he said.

Kunle nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Both were facing each other in the mango tree. The air felt heavy and quiet.

Father cleared his throat. “The tree is still here,” he said. “And your seat too.”
Kunle gave a small smile.

He threw his bag aside and sat down in the tree. Mama sat beside him. I stood nearby, watching.

The mango leaves rustled and rustled above us.
Nobody said much.

But our compound was full again, as it had not been in a long time.