I still remember the mango seeds I planted as a child beside our small house. I watched them grow season after season, until they became tall and strong. Mangoes were my favorite: sweet, yellow, refreshing. A gift from the land. A fruit that kept me alive when there was nothing else to eat.

For years, I lived alone on that block. No neighbors. No noise. Just the sound of the wind rustling through mango leaves and the maya birds visiting me every morning. I was living a lonely life, but it was peaceful. 

Then one day, someone bought the lot next to mine. A young couple named Michael and Diane—newly married, building their first home. I was truly happy. It felt good to have people nearby after all those quiet years. I greeted them every day, waving from my garden. Sometimes, I share my sweet potatoes with them. I also give them bananas when I have some to spare. Still, they were distant and a bit wary. 

I didn’t mind. I figured they just needed time.

Then mango season came.

My heart was full of joy when I saw the first fruits ripen. Even if the tree is in their yard now, it was still the same one I had planted with my own two hands so many years ago. Its roots were in my land. I watered it, watched over it, and protected it during storms. That tree was part of me.

I picked a few mangoes. Some for myself, and some to give to Michael and Diane as a gesture of friendship. I thought they would appreciate it.

I was wrong.

That same afternoon, I heard a knock on my door. Two barangay officers stood there. They said I had been reported for theft because I had stolen mangoes. 10 kilos of them. Stolen, from the tree I planted.

I tried to explain. I told them about my childhood, how I had planted that seed with my own hands. I told them how it fed me for years, how it was mine. But no one listened.

They filed charges.

Now, I sit in this cold cell all alone.

I turn on the TV in the common area and watch the news: politicians walking free after stealing millions. Government men with blood on their hands from extrajudicial killings, denying everything with a smirk. They live in mansions while I rot here for mangoes.

Where is justice in this?

I am old. I only wanted to eat. I only wanted to give.

I thought justice was fair. I thought it wore a blindfold, held a scale, and weighed the truth.

But now I know better.

Justice in this country no longer weighs right from wrong.

It only weighs 10 kilos of mangoes.

- Gerielle Anne Afos

(Illustration by Kamyl Gelyzah Celi/FEU Advocate)