The First Mangoes of the Season

Are the ones you need to throw a stick at. Years of hungry practice, focus, time, hot days and a bright orange stain sticky in your fingers and down your arm.

He hits it like a miracle-smack! In front of all those mangoes! Lightly, he says.

They taunt you, the orange ones-there sticking out among the green ones tinged with red-deep purplish maroony red.

They're scarred with wounds of previously contested kids.

Skinny light-absorbing arms and legs-and bright boubous.

Amateurs.

These guys respect a fallen mango. Don't fall for the orange ons on the sun's side-their starburst reflecting its shape-they've been burned by it.

All I can do is listen to god. God, God. People give me shit all the time but,

if I was not betrayed by my brother I would not have been used by Camo and had fun catching mangoes with Aliou Diouf.

God balances you out-you have free will to fuck up the balance.