The Call of the Mango Tree
Ibrahim Abdulhakeem
Abdulhakeem-Alugo Ibrahim is a Nigerian writer with a deep interest in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His work explores themes of identity, faith, resilience, and the intersection of culture and personal growth. He has written across various genres, from creative nonfiction to short stories, and continues to refine his craft through freelance writing and content creation. His goal is to use storytelling as a means of education, introspection, and connection.
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Mateo sat on the cracked stoop of his abuela’s house in El Paso, the scent of ripe mangoes thick in the evening air. The tree in the backyard had stood longer than hardly anyone in his family could remember, its roots twisting deep into the soil, defying the desert’s thirst.
Abuela used to say the tree listened. It held the secrets of every whispered prayer, of every heartbreak confessed beneath its shade. When Mateo was little, he’d press his ear against its bark, hoping to hear the murmurs of the past. Now, at twenty-two, he hadn’t done that in years.
Tonight, though, he needed answers. His father had called from Mexico—after twelve years of silence. He wanted Mateo to return, to "come home." But was Mexico still home? Or had the roots that once bound them together withered?
His abuela shuffled onto the porch, her cane tapping against (on/across?) the tiles. "Mijo, estás bien?"
He nodded, though his chest felt tight. "Papa called."
She sighed, settling into her rocking chair. "And you don't know if you should go."
He looked up at the mango tree. "Yeah."
For a long time, she was silent. Then, she pointed to the tree.
“You see?” she continued. “It’s not where you were born that makes a place home. It’s where you choose to take root. Where you grow.”
He stared at the tree, its crown stretching wide, leaves shimmering in the fading light. Maybe home wasn’t a place, but a decision.
He exhaled, pulling out his phone. He had a call to return.