The humid April air whips Nneka's face as she turns the bend, trying to catch the mango thief. This was one out of many and slower than the others– she saw their hand this time and she would be damned if she let them get away.

She runs into a wheelbarrow and feels the pain shoot up her knees to her head where it becomes a loud ringing.

Teary-eyed, she apologizes to the barrow pusher and trudges home, not bothering to glance around for a lucky glimpse of the thief.

At her gate she rubs her throbbing knees with both palms, watching the mango tree she planted with her own hands. Her baby.

She had big plans for this tree. She was going to get baskets of mango, make fresh mango juice and sell them at sweet prices, then use the money to buy her dad a birthday gift.

It was all coming together just fine– the tree was blessed with fruits, but the problem was that they were not yet ripe.

This fact was enough to stop her in her tracks but apparently not enough for the numerous arms that helped themselves to her tree. Why didn't they just plant their own trees? Why couldn't they wait for the fruits to ripen? Why did her tree have to lean so heavily outside?

"Where did Nneka go?" The voice brings all the tears to her eyes that as her father's soft taps land on her head, she bursts into tears.

"The mangoes keep disappearing! They keep taking my mangoes!"

He is quiet as she buries herself in his embrace, and remains so until her face is sticky with the memory of tears.

"I bechago akwa? Have you finished crying?"

She nods into his wet shirt.

"Oya, see that red rag over there?" Her gaze follows his fingers.

"Yes?"

"Bring it."

Dazed, and slightly upset, she brings the rag to him and gasps as he rips it.

"When you get a white rag, tear it this way too." His nimble fingers find the edge and pull at the tired fabric, taking long strips from the rag.

"Why?"

"If you pass by a house and see red and white material on their tree, would you pluck from it?"

No, Nneka would not pluck from such a tree, and excited by her father's ingenuity, she does as he says.

By evening, she prattles to her best friend as they make their way to her house, but her proud smile is wiped off her face at the sight of her tree– stripped from all colour but green.

"You said–"

"Daddy!"

Nneka finds him under the tree holding the evidence of his crime.

"You removed my things!"

"Yes."

"Why?" Tears of the betrayed threaten to fall.

"Because, Nneka n'wam, a good name is better than gold. We are not traditionalists so mimicking them will attract questions and a different perception."

He pats his laps and she climbs.

"We want people to know we are Christians so we shouldn't do things to confuse them. They'll get tired of your unripe mangoes soon and then you'll get tired of eating it, but they won't forget that we once used 'juju' on our tree. What if you give Obiageli one mango and she gets a runny stomach? They'll say you poisoned her. Do you want that?"

Obiageli, who was present for the lecture, shakes her head vigorously.

They hear a rustle and see a stick poke at a fruit.

Nneka smiles coyly and takes strips of the fabric.

"I'm coming, Daddy."

The tiny boy struggling with a stick bigger than his arm doesn't see the girls until they are on him and one glance at their red and white bandanas, sends him running for the hills yelling 'blood of Jesus'.

Laughing, both girls pick the fruit of his labour and share it with Nneka's father, giggling through the sourness.