Every morning before I came downstairs, my dad had already picked mangoes for me and kept them at the foot of the stairs.
Small, firm German mangoes.
Green on the outside.
Very sweet.
My younger brother would wake me up every morning and say, “Daddy is waiting in the parlour.”
Then all of us would gather upstairs for morning devotion before anybody started their day. After prayers and discussions, we would talk about what to eat that morning. My brother would start preparing to leave for the shop while I would go back into my room for a few minutes, lay on the bed a little longer, then finally head downstairs to make breakfast before he left.
And every single time I came downstairs, there were mangoes waiting for me.
At the foot of the stairs.
Quietly kept there by my dad.
Such a simple thing, honestly.
But it touched me deeply.
Maybe because I had not been home in years.
Maybe because life outside home can make you forget what it feels like to be cared for so naturally.
Or maybe because love is sometimes this quiet.
Not loud speeches.
Not dramatic gestures.
Just somebody remembering you in small ways every morning.
There was something so comforting about knowing that before I even came downstairs, somebody had already thought about me.
And the funny thing is, African parents rarely pause to explain love with words. They may not sit you down and start expressing emotions every five business days. But somehow, they show it in the little things.
In fruit kept for you.
In asking if you have eaten.
In waiting for you before starting morning devotion.
In your dad plucking mangoes early in the morning because his daughter is home.
I ate so many mangoes during that trip and I still wanted more.
But looking back now, I know it was never really about the mangoes.
It was the feeling around them.
The feeling of being home again after years away.
The feeling of being somebody’s daughter again.
The feeling of being loved in quiet, ordinary ways that do not look like much until you leave home and realize not everybody experiences that kind of softness.
I think some memories stay in the body forever.
And for me, one of those memories will always be this:
Coming downstairs every morning and meeting small green German mangoes waiting for me at the foot of the stairs.
