It has been sunny, dry and hot for a while now, and when it suddenly rained yesterday it probably signaled the beginning of the long rainy season that starts in March and ends in May. That means umbrellas and haste in the city streets and traffic jams and impatience on the city roads. And when I got to the office a while ago, Mary, the cleaning lady was painstakingly mopping up a pool of rain water that had gathered on the doorsteps, and I figured that with the rainy season she might be doing this each day for several weeks to come. As I said hello to her, she answered in her usual animated way, and when I casually said to her “Mary, today lunch is on you?” she said “OK!” as if she has been waiting for me to ask. And on second thought I said, “Mary, you seem very generous today. Maybe I should have asked for a car,” probably more to myself than to her. But then she said doubtfully, “You shouldn’t ask me for something I cannot give.” It looked like she had taken my statement very seriously and I felt obliged to explain what I had in mind by telling her a story.

It was the story of a man who wanted to cut down a big tree. And while he was looking up at the tree scratching his head and wondering what to do, an ill dressed man happened to pass by. When he saw how perturbed he was, the poorly dressed man asked him, “How can I help?” To that the man said, “Perhaps you could give me a razor blade with which to cut down the tree!” And promptly the poor looking man gave him the razor blade and went on his way. What the man didn’t know was that the poor looking man was an Angel who would have given to any of his requests. But since he looked poor, the man asked only for what he thought he could afford. And in the process he missed the opportunity to get an axe with which to cut down the tree.

When I finished the story, looking expectantly to see a bulb lighting up above Mary’s head, she unexpectedly said, “I do not believe in Angels”. I was curious, and asked her why she didn’t believe in Angels. She said, “There are so many negative things that are going on right now, that it is impossible to believe in Angels.” And we both laughed as she said, “In any case, if I were an Angel, it would be very awkward to move around with a mop in my hands and a pair of wings folded behind my back!”

As I got into the office and left Mary to continue with her chores, I wondered about what she had said. And I thought about the rainy season, when dark clouds hang low on the sky for so many days that one might forget that the sun exists. But even as the day is gloomy and rain falls day after day, we all know that the sun rises in the East each morning and sets in the West each evening. And without evidence, the only thing that we have to go by is the belief that the sun still exists, and that when the rainy season is over, it will shine once again.

Whether what we believe in is as global as the elements of our environment, or is as personal as one’s own potential, one thing is for sure; at some point, all evidence points to the absence of that which we think is. And at that point, it is easy to doubt. One might say, “There is not a single good man (or woman) left” or “I can never achieve this” or “This problem will never pass” or such statements that go contrary to what we want to believe in. But at such a time, perhaps it is when we need to call upon our Faith. And as you know, Faith is belief that is not based on proof.

Today, a funny pair of radio presenters reminded about how it is like to live in a ‘plot’ in one of Nairobi’s low income residential areas. The ‘plot’ usually consists of tiny single or double roomed apartments that house tenants that range from single occupants to families with as many as six individuals or even more. The layout of a typical ‘plot’ consists of two rows with a total of 10 rooms divided by a corridor. On one end of the corridor is a gate that gives access in and out of the ‘plot’ and on the other end is a common area with a single toilet, bathroom, laundry sink, and cloth drying lines. The single rooms are usually divided into cooking, sleeping and lounge areas and privacy is enforced with the help of a bed sheet that hangs from the ceiling and subdivides the various sections of the home. In the ‘plot’ – whether willingly or unwillingly – everyone knows everyone else’s business, although everyone pretends only to mind his or her own business. For those willing to know about others’ business, they only have to walk to the common area at the furthest corner of the ‘plot’ after doing their morning chores, and meet up with other gossipers to catch up on the day’s updates – which couple quarreled and for what reason, who is in trouble at their place of work and why, who is in financial difficulties and what caused it, and so on.

This morning, the funny men of radio were talking about a certain gentleman who was recently faced with a rather difficult decision in the ‘plot’ where he lives. One morning not so long ago, the gentleman warmed his bath water and got ready to take a bath. In order to take the bath, he had to carry the water in a pail from his house to the shared bathroom. And as is common, he wrapped a towel around his wide girth and walked to the end of the corridor. As usual, the ‘plot’ women had gathered in the common area to catch up on gossip and warm themselves on the morning sun. They were accompanied by their small children, and it all seemed like one very large happy family. The gentleman politely said hello to the woman and went into the bathroom to clean himself. Once he locked himself in the bathroom, the women continued with their stories, as the man soaped and scrubbed and rinsed himself clean. Soon, they heard the bathroom door’s latch being pulled back and the man stepped out of the bathroom, looking much fresher than he had when he walked in.

And the bath must have elevated his mood because he paused for a while to play with the little children. He was rather fond of one of the kids and he lifted and held her against his bare chest. The young girl seemed moody on that morning, and the gentleman decided to cheer her up in his usual way. And so he tossed the little girl into the air and caught her in mid air. The little girl squealed in exhilarated delight and the women collectively caught their breaths in anxiety. Again the gentleman tossed the girl up in the air – a little higher – and she seemed to like it even more. When the gentleman tossed the girl into the air for the third time, one panicked woman was about to protest when the unexpected happened. With the shrieking girl up in the air, the gentleman’s arms stretched out in readiness to catch her, the towel that was wrapped around his loin loosened and promptly fell to the ground. In just a few seconds, with the child in the air, and all the women and children gawking open mouthed at his naked front, the man had to make a critical decision; to catch the child before she crashed onto the floor, or to bend and collect the towel from the floor and quickly cover himself.

The mango season has come to an end once again. Just a few weeks ago, you would be greeted by women with large yellow mounds of huge succulent mangoes in the market place, but now that the season is over, we have to wait until next year to see all that again.

The mango season starts at the beginning of the year, peaks in mid February and is over by mid March. The season corresponds to the hottest months of the year when temperatures are well over 30 degrees centigrade, and you can imagine how fulfilling it is to take a bite off a thick slice of mango, or to drink from a tall cold glass of thick juice when one is hot and thirsty or after a nice meal.

Back in the village, there would be hundreds of ripe mangoes scattered under the many mango trees that dot the farms. There would be nothing as refreshing as sitting under the shade of a mango tree on a February afternoon and eat one mango after another, until the stomach was so full that when one moved, it made a swashing liquid sound; similar to that made by water inside a metal container on the back of a woman as she laboriously climbed a hill as she came from the stream to fetch the family’s water supply for the evening.

And the chicken would have a field day too. In their quest to search for food, they would bore into the overripe mangoes with their beaks in order to search for worms. After a few days of such activity, they all would have weird shaped beaks. The reason is because the sticky mango juice on the beaks would form perfect glue for mud to cake along the length of the beak. So all the chickens ended up with filthy beaks that had bulbous brown extensions of all shapes and sizes. And as they walked in an awkward gait – perhaps with stomachs making liquid sounds – it all seemed funny and life was light hearted even when the weather was in its harshest.

In the city, I try to remember those moments each time I cut open a mango and its unmistakable aroma fills the room. And it often leaves me with a sense of wonder, at just what it takes to bring a single mango into being. And my mind goes back to the flowering of the mango trees in September, and I remember how vulnerable the little blooms are in the wind. And how in a single violent shake of the trees by an unexpected gust, most of the flowers will be blown off and half the mango crop will be lost in a single moment. But by December, the mangoes have formed and have fleshed out so much that every night, we would hear the sound of branches breaking off noisily from the trees under the unbearable weight of the mangoes. And in a few weeks, the first ripe mangoes would begin to fall from the trees. And in a few more, the mangoes would be so ripe, that one could make a small hole and suck the juice right off the fruit like a thirsty mango nectar vampire, and then disdainfully throw away the deflated lifeless shell for the cows and goats to eat.

During the mango season I think about God. I put myself in His place and I think about how it would please me to see the spectacle of the abundance of mango in the village. And how it would make me feel good inside each time a person enjoyed the taste of mango. It reminds me of a time I fell out with a friend, and then I met her years later and she was wearing a necklace I had given her as a present. It made me feel very good and I forgot about all the acrimony we previously had. Or imagine what it makes you feel when someone flaunts a present that you gave them? What if it was something that you made for them with your own hands?

And so I think that God enjoys it as much – or even more – when we enjoy the gifts that He has given us. And perhaps our enjoying the gifts that we have been given is a very high act of Glorification. So, let us enjoy all our gifts – our children, our health, our friends, our talents – and not forgetting mangoes and all other fruits.