The mango on the tree
speaks to me
in sly raspy tones that
dull my senses,
pilfering my innocence.
I am enchanted.
I pluck the mango on the tree and eat it,
slowly at first
then gulping it down,
its juices dribble down my chin
and mark the mahogany of my nudity.
I am tainted.
Blinded by the cunning one,
tempted by the power of knowledge
too great for me to concede.
The God of creation
calls out to me
in warm loving tones that
expose my frail humanity.
I make great effort to hide behind the tree.
My nakedness covered by golden green leaves,
unable to conceal my fraudulent identity.
I am evicted.
Abnegated of heavenly responsibility with a terse command
I fall from holy ground into deathly quietness,
woefully stumbling onto the freshly sown grass
from Ghana’s red rich soil.
And I am comforted.