Every week, join two twelve-year-old friends from Pike Street, Kitty as they navigate life in Guyana.
The mango fell on Speedeet’s side of the fence.
Everybody on Pike Street knew this. Speedeet knew it. The mango knew it. Even the dog from number seven — who wasn’t involved and had no business in the matter — had watched it fall and walked away like a witness who didn’t want to testify.
The problem was Wilar.
“Dat is my mango,” Wilar said. He pushed up his glasses. “It came from my tree.”
“It fall on my side,” Speedeet said. “Finders keepers, bai.”
“Actually, finders keepers is fuh lost things. Dat mango wasn’t lost. It knew exactly where it was going.”
Speedeet looked at the mango. Then at Wilar. Then at the mango again.
“Mango don’t know nothing,” he said. “Is fruit.”
The argument moved inside because the rain came down hard.
This was unfortunate, because Speedeet’s grandmother — Miss Eulie — was watching her afternoon programme on the TV, and she did not appreciate two twelve-year-old boys bringing a war into her living room.
“Wha happen now?” she said, without looking up.
“De mango from Wilar tree fall on we side,” Speedeet said. “Is mine.”
“De mango come from my tree,” Wilar said. “I plant dat tree. With my own hands. When I was six.”
“You was seven.”
“Six and three-quarters.”
Miss Eulie turned the television up.
They took the dispute to the back step.
Speedeet had a notebook. He wrote things down because writing things down made them official. He drew a line down the middle of the page. On one side he wrote SPEEDEET ARGUMENT. On the other side he wrote WILAR WRONG.
Wilar looked at the page. He pushed up his glasses. “Dat is not a fair heading.”
“I de one with de pencil.”
He thought about it. He crossed out WILAR WRONG and wrote OTHER ARGUMENT.
Wilar sat down next to him on the step.
“Okay,” Wilar said. “Write dis. De tree is mine. De mango grow on de tree. Therefore de mango is mine. Dat is logic.”
Speedeet wrote it down. “Now me own. De mango leave de tree. It cross de fence. It pick my yard. You cyah own something dat leave you on purpose.”
Wilar stared at him. “Mango don’t make choice.”
“You just say it knew where it was going.”
He opened his mouth. He closed it.
Speedeet drew a small star next to his argument.
They sat in silence for a while. The rain tapped on the zinc roof in a way that sounded like it was thinking too.
“We could share it,” Wilar said finally.
Speedeet considered this. Sharing was not his first instinct. Sharing was usually what people suggested when they were losing. But the mango was a big julie — the good kind, the kind that smelled like it was already sweet before you even touched it — and one boy eating a whole julie mango alone in front of the other boy was a lot of pressure.
“Half and half,” he said.
“I get de side with de most flesh.”
“Dat is not half and half.”
“Is approximately half.”
“Wilar.”
Wilar sighed. “Fine. Half and half.”
Speedeet stood up. He went to the kitchen and came back with the mango, a knife, and a plate. He cut it slow, turning it so both halves looked equal. He had practiced this before. He was good at it.
He put one half on the plate and held it out.
Wilar took it.
They ate on the back step while the rain came down and the zinc roof made its thinking sounds. The mango was exactly as good as it smelled. Maybe better.
“Next time it fall on yuh side,” Wilar said, with his mouth full, “is still mine.”
“Next time it fall on my side,” Speedeet said, “I gon cut it before yuh notice.”
“Dat is not conflict resolution.”
“I never say it was.”
Wilar thought about this. He licked his fingers. He pushed up his glasses with the back of his wrist because his hands were sticky.
“Equal partnership,” he said. “Any mango from my tree dat cross de fence — we share it. Automatic. No argument required.”
Speedeet looked at him sideways. This was actually a good idea. He wasn’t going to say so, but it was.
“Write it down,” he said, and handed Wilar the notebook.
Wilar wrote it in big letters at the top of the page, above both arguments, above the crossed-out heading, above everything:
DE GREAT MANGO AGREEMENT. Sign dis rainy Tuesday. Both parties.
He signed his name. He handed the pencil to Speedeet.
Speedeet signed his.
They shook hands, because that was what you did when a thing was official.
Then Speedeet tore the page out, folded it three times, and put it in his pocket.
“Fuh evidence,” he said.
“Evidence of wha?”
“Case yuh forget.”
The rain kept raining. The mango tree dripped on both sides of the fence, the same amount, like it had been trying to be fair the whole time.
Speedeet & Wilar is a children’s story series set in Pike Street, Kitty, Georgetown, Guyana. New stories appear weekly at tradewindsbrief.com.