Fig

Looking out into the barren distance of the open field, all the naked eye could see was dirt.
Miles and miles of red, crackly dirt. Everyday, I would come out to the well and collect a
bucket of water, and everyday the already shallow pool decreased in alarming quantities.
Distant mirages created on the horizon consumed my vision as my knackered arms
struggled to hold up the weight of the half- empty bucket. The only thing that could be felt
was the hot embrace that trapped you in a headlock. It forced you to drink the air with every
inhaled breath, only to gag at its unwelcomed warmth awkwardly crawling down your throat
and into your lungs. Once healthy and grazing cattle was now a set of standing bones, a
dirty, thin blanket of skin draped over them. They lifelessly kick at the ground in search of
non-existent produce to feed on. I felt bad for them. Although, if I got on all fours beside
them, I couldn’t say people would be able to tell a difference. We’re all dying out here in the
drought. This curse hangs over our heads as our dusty, dehydrated bodies slowly fail from
starvation. Not a moment goes by that I don’t miss the sight of my mother cooking meals for
my father and I, every careful stir of the pot showered with her love. Meals full of carrots,
beetroots and turnips, colourful and alive just like the land that dominated with forestation. I
missed the pungent smell of wet soil. I missed colour in my life.

A shameful memory surfaces in my mind and I envision my late mother, dancing through the
swinging front door, weaved basket resting in the crook of her hip. She smiles at me and
hums a tune as she sets the basket of figs on the kitchen counter.
“Here,” she meticulously picks the ripest fig in the pile and offers.
“No thanks,” I grumble, still half asleep as I continue to shovel spoonfuls of cereal into my
face. She looks displeased and keeps offering.
“Mum, I hate figs, you know this. They’re fuzzy and weird and they’re always so sour, it’s
disgusting!” I recoil away from her with a grimace.
“I promise it’s sweet as honey,” her reply is short and convincing, but I rise out of my chair
and yell “Mum stop! I told you I don’t want to eat it!”. As I’m grabbing my bag and making my
way to the door she finally raises her voice,
“You’re so picky. There are people who don’t have anything to eat and are starving. You
need to better appreciate your food!”.
With my back turned, she doesn’t see my eyes rolling, but unquestionably hears me mutter
under my breath, “Not my problem”.

It’s a distant memory to me now, but her words continue to sink deeper when all I feel is the
empty hole which makes up my stomach. The pain that pulsates throughout my body is
unbearable. But she’s gone, and that pain ached much more than starving to death. I see
her smile and hear her voice but I know she’s not there. I know she doesn’t respond to my
desperate pleas, “You were right, mum. You were right. Please come back. Save me from
this cursed hell and come back to me...please”.

My wandering thoughts of the past accompanied me home, until my foot landed on

something rather firm. Now halted and observant, what lay beneath me was a woven
satchel, it’s russet self camouflaging into the dry earth. An arm rested the bucket on the
ground, as another simultaneously reached below to grab the corner, feeling the coarse,
interlacing thread brush against my fingertips. As I reached my hand into the interior, I
uncovered a ball of purple skin. Wiping it of its dusty coating, the thing that stared back at
me was one that sent me into disbelief. Could it be? But how? Impossible. With not a second
to lose, my teeth sank into the fig, extracting the syrupy, milky juices that squirted out. The
honey-like sweetness my mother once spoke about danced upon my tongue, the ripe sap
erupting into a variation of nutty, buttery flavours. Glorious and gratifying, the first fruit I’d
tasted in years sent a trill through my body, a shock wave that woke every dying cell inside
of me. I was no longer simply alive, I felt alive.

Truly a gift from the heavens, the ripe fig was no short of a miracle. It had been a long time
since I had seen something so fresh, so filled with life. Tears began trickling down my
cheeks as my heart slowed from its quickened pace. Despite my doubt, my mother had been
watching me, blessing me with this gift of love, even after her time. I could feel the produce
slipping down into the pit of my stomach, filling the empty space. I could no longer restrain
the wracking sob. My thankful cries spread and dissipated into the enmpty desert, but I was
not alone. She was right beside me, still teaching me the realities of life like she had done
before. Nothing was trivial. Nothing deserved to be unappreciated because everything was a
gift. A fig. A mother. I gazed into the horizon, finding the line that broke the red, crackly land
from the clear skies.

And for the first time, a thought flashed across my mind - the drought was never a curse, it
had always been a blessing.