Examples of Narrative Writing : Mango Season In Nevis

 

Narrative

Mango Season in Nevis: A Sweet Symphony of Flavour and Community By Faith Henry

    As the sun rises over the lush hills of Nevis, the air becomes infused with the intoxicating scent of ripe mangoes, ready to be harvested. It’s mango season on this idyllic Caribbean Island, and vibrant hues of golden yellow and deep orange dominate the landscape. Everywhere you look, life bursts forth as families and friends gather to celebrate the island's bountiful harvest.

    For the locals, mango season is a cherished time of year, steeped in tradition and nostalgia. Children eagerly anticipate the days when they can climb the towering mango trees that grace the island, their branches heavy with fruit. I can still remember the thrill of those summer days spent with my cousins. Armed with baskets, we would dash toward the nearest tree, laughter echoing through the air. The excitement of the hunt began as we scanned the branches for the juiciest, ripest mangoes.

“Over there! Look!” Rashad called, pointing toward a mango hanging just out of reach. “That one’s perfect,big and yellow!”

"I’ve got it!" I shouted, already scrambling up the tree. My hands gripped the rough bark, and my heart raced with the anticipation of reaching the prize. “You’ll never catch me!”

"Wait for me!" Rashad cried, following close behind. "That’s MY mango!"

The race was on. We scrambled up the tree, dodging branches, our baskets bumping against the trunks as we climbed higher. The moment I reached the ripe mango, I plucked it from the branch, holding it aloft with a triumphant grin.

“You win again, girl,” Rashad laughed, shaking his head. “I swear, you must have monkey blood in you.”

I tossed him a teasing smile. “You were too slow. Maybe next time!”

Each mango tree seemed to tell its own story, some were ancient giants, gnarled and wise, having stood the test of time, while others were young and full of promise. As we reached up to pluck the fruit, the smooth skin felt warm from the sun, a testament to the bright weather that had nurtured them. The moment we sank our teeth into a perfectly ripe mango, the world around us faded away. The juicy flesh burst with sweetness, a refreshing explosion of sunshine that made our taste buds dance.

“Ahh, this is the best!” I sighed, savoring the first bite. The mango juice dripped down my chin, but I didn’t mind. “You can’t get anything better than this.”

Rashad wiped his hands on his shirt and grinned. “Tell me about it. This is what summer is made for!”

“You guys sure know how to pick 'em,” Auntie Jean called from the porch, shaking her head in mock dismay. “Didn’t I tell you that you should’ve brought me some of those?”

“You snooze, you lose, Auntie!” Rashad teased, tossing her a mango. “Catch!”

As the day unfolded, the mangoes transformed into more than just a delightful snack; they became the heart of our meals. In the kitchen, my grandmother would teach us the art of making mango chutney, a recipe passed down through generations. The aroma of spices filled the air as we blended mangoes with ginger, garlic, and a hint of lime. This vibrant, tangy chutney perfectly complemented the grilled fish we caught from the crystal-clear waters surrounding Nevis.

"Alright, gather round, everyone!" Grandma called, her voice carrying over the clatter of pots and the scent of simmering spices. "I need some helpers with the chutney today."

“Grandma, you always make the best chutney!” I said, pulling up a chair next to the stove. “How do you do it?”

“Well, first thing,” she said, chopping fresh ginger, “you’ve got to have the right mangoes. None of those sour ones. They gotta be sweet and ripe like sunshine. Then we add the ginger—just the right amount—or it’ll overpower the mango.” She winked at me. “And don’t forget the lime. A squeeze of lime brightens up the whole thing.”

“I love when you let me add the garlic,” I said, grabbing a clove. “I think it makes it extra special.”

Grandma smiled. “You’ve got a good nose for seasoning, girl. Just don’t get too carried away with it!”

As the chutney simmered on the stove, my uncle Jonah fired up the grill outside, the smell of the fish wafting through the open window. “This fish will be ready in ten minutes, folks. Who’s hungry?”

“I’m starving!” Rashad yelled from the porch, rubbing his stomach. “Is the chutney ready yet?”

“Not yet, but it’s close,” Grandma called back. “You just wait, Rashad. You’ll be the first to taste it.”

“I’m just here for the fish and chutney,” Uncle Jonah said with a grin. “The mango’s just a bonus.”

Mango season isn’t just about the fruit; it’s a time for community and connection. Neighbours gather for mango parties, where everyone brings their own unique mango dishes to share. From refreshing mango smoothies to decadent mango puddings, the island is alive with flavours and laughter. We would sit together, swapping stories and savoring the rich culinary tapestry that mangoes helped to weave.

One afternoon, we gathered in the village square for the annual mango feast. The long picnic tables were laden with bowls and platters, each dish more tempting than the last. Auntie Ruby, who was known for her delicious desserts, was the first to arrive.

“I brought my famous mango pie!” she announced, setting the golden-brown pie down with pride. “Fresh from the oven!”

“Y’all know Auntie Ruby’s mango pie is the best thing on this island,” Mr. Clarke said, giving her a knowing grin. “You got that recipe locked up, right, Ruby?”

“Of course, I do!” Auntie Ruby replied with a wink. “But you’ll never get it. It’s a secret, passed down through generations!”

“I’ll take a piece anyway,” Mr. Clarke said with a laugh, reaching for a slice. “Who needs the recipe when the pie is this good?”

Auntie Ruby smacked his hand away. “Not so fast, Mr. Clarke. Let the others get a slice first!”

As the laughter and chatter flowed, Auntie Jean arrived, carrying a large bowl of mango salad. “This one’s got a twist,” she said with a grin. “I added a bit of mint and some roasted coconut. You won’t believe how good it tastes!”

“Mint AND coconut? You’re really outdoing yourself, Auntie Jean,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, someone has to keep things interesting!” she winked. “You’ll thank me after you try it.”

Everyone dug in, swapping stories and enjoying the bounty of the season. I caught up with old friends and cousins, exchanging memories of past mango seasons.

“Remember last year when we tried to make mango smoothies with too many bananas?” Rashad asked, laughing. “We ended up with a weird-tasting mess!”

“I thought we were going to invent a new fruit,” I teased, shaking my head. “Banana-mango smoothies just don’t work!”

“Well, you can’t say we didn’t try something new,” he shrugged. “Next year, we’ll get it right.”

As the sun began to set, casting a golden hue over the island, the mango trees stood tall as a reminder of the joy and togetherness that this season brings. The warmth of the day lingered in the air, and we found ourselves beneath the trees, reminiscing about the memories made. Mango season in Nevis was more than just a time for harvesting fruit; it was a celebration of life, love, and the bonds that unite us.

“Does anyone else think mango season should last all year?” I asked, looking around at the group.

“Don’t start with that again!” Uncle Jonah said, laughing. “You know we’ll all miss it too much by the time it’s over.”

“I’m just saying,” I grinned, “mangoes make everything better.”

“That’s the spirit,” Grandma said, her eyes twinkling as she sat back in her chair. “Mango season is the time we come together, share what we have, and make memories. That’s the best part.”

As we headed inside for the night, our bellies full and our hearts even fuller, we knew that the magic of mango season would linger long after the last fruit had fallen. Each bite of a mango carried with it a piece of our island’s spirit, a sweet, sun-soaked taste of home that we would cherish until the next season rolled around.

Even now, far from the island, the memory of mango season in Nevis is a comforting warmth that I carry with me. Every time I bite into a mango, it’s as though I’m transported back to those long, sun-drenched days, still surrounded by the laughter of my cousins, the taste of my grandmother’s chutney, and the unmistakable feeling of being part of something much greater than myself.