But why did my mother faint?
One afternoon after school, I came home carrying a pile of mangoes. My mother’s eyes widened. She had never seen me with so many mangoes—especially ones she hadn’t sent me to buy.
"Where did you get all these?" she asked, suspicion creeping into her voice.
"I plucked them from a mango tree," I said proudly, fingers still sticky with sweetness.
Her disbelief was instant. "You plucked them? How? Where?" A barrage of questions followed, and suddenly, I wasn’t so sure I had done the right thing. Silence fell between us—five minutes long, five hours deep.
Then she finally spoke. "Were you alone when you climbed the tree?"
I glanced at her, worried. Surely, she knew I wouldn’t be alone. "No, Mum. I was with my classmates."
Her brows knitted. "Boys and girls? Or girls alone?"
"Both boys and girls."
Her expression darkened. She tried to hide her anger, but I saw it, simmering beneath the surface. What was wrong with climbing a tree with my classmates? She knew them all—they lived in our neighborhood.
"And what were the boys doing while you climbed?"
I hesitated. "Laughing. We were all laughing. Having fun."
That’s when her voice dropped to a serious tone. "Do you know why they were laughing?"
Before I could answer, she did it for me. "From under the tree, they could see your underpants."
Underpants? The word hit me like a falling mango.
Two weeks later, I came home with another armful of mangoes. My mother’s eyes narrowed. She must have expected me to say the boys had climbed the tree and given me some.
"Who climbed this time?" she asked.
"I did," I replied.
Her anger flared.
But I quickly reassured her. "Don’t worry, Mum. I was smarter this time. I took off my underpants before climbing."
She fainted before I could explain.
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