Writers 
"Letters to a House in Ibadan"
Mara inherited a house she had never seen.
It was in Ibadan. Old. Yellow paint peeling. Mango tree in the front yard that her grandmother planted 40 years ago. Her uncle called her on a Tuesday: “Your mama’s mama left it for you. Come and decide what to do with it before the government does.”
Mara lived in Abuja. She was busy. She sold skincare online, managed 3 staff, and hadn’t taken leave in 2 years. The last thing she needed was a house in another city.
But something about “grandma’s house” made her book a bus ticket.
She arrived on a Friday with one bag and too many expectations. The house smelled like dust and rain. The windows were stuck. The floor creaked. And on the kitchen table, in a metal biscuit tin, were letters.
Dozens of them. All addressed to “My Dearest Funke” — her grandmother.
They weren’t from her grandfather. The name at the bottom of each one was “A.”
_“Funke, the mangoes are ripe. I picked 3 for you and left them by the gate. Don’t tell your husband. - A”_
_“I saw you at the market. You laughed and I forgot my own name. - A”_
_“If I had been braver, I would have asked you to run away with me. - A”_
Mara sat on the floor and read until her eyes hurt. Her grandmother, the woman who taught her how to fry akara and pray before meals, had a secret love.
The last letter was different. No date.
_“Funke, I’m leaving Ibadan tomorrow. I won’t write again. It’s not fair to either of us. But I will love you in every house I ever live in. - A”_
Mara didn’t sleep that night. She walked around the house touching walls, wondering which corner “A” stood in. Wondering if her grandma ever thought of him when she cooked.
The next morning, the neighbor came by. Mama Titi. 70+, wrapper tied well, eyes sharp.
“So you’re Funke’s granddaughter,” she said. “You look like her.”
Mara showed her one letter. Mama Titi read it, then laughed. “Ayo. The tailor. He lived two streets away. Handsome. Always whistling. He left in 1982. Went to Lagos. Never married.”
“Ayo?” Mara whispered.
“He used to bring her mangoes,” Mama Titi said. “Every season. Even after he left, someone would drop a bag at the gate. Anonymous.”
Mara felt something crack in her chest. A love that lasted 40 years, without touch, without promises. Just mangoes and letters in a tin.
She wasn’t planning to stay. But she did. For a week. Then two. She cleaned the house. Fixed the windows. Painted the front door yellow again.
And she started writing back.
Not to Ayo. To her grandmother.
_“Mama, I found the letters. I understand now why you always said love is quiet. - M”_
She’d leave them in the biscuit tin.
On her third week, there was a knock. A man, about 60. Grey hair. Tailor’s measuring tape around his neck.
“Are you Funke’s granddaughter?” he asked.
Mara nodded.
“I’m Ayo,” he said. “I heard someone was in the house. I... I still drop mangoes sometimes. Old habit.”
They stood in the yard under the mango tree. 40 years between them.
“I read your letters,” Mara said. “All of them.”
Ayo didn’t look ashamed. He looked relieved. “Did she ever...”
“She loved you,” Mara said. “Quietly. Like you loved her.”
He nodded. Tears didn’t fall. They were too old for that.
“I’m glad it was you who found them,” he said. “Not a stranger.”
Before he left, he handed her a bag. Mangoes. Ripe.
“For the house,” he said. “It likes them.”
Mara stayed one more month. She didn’t sell the house. She turned it into a small shop. Skincare on one side, letters on the other. People came to buy soap and ended up reading love stories on the wall.
Sometimes, a bag of mangoes would appear at the gate. No note.
Mara would smile, cut one, and eat it under the tree.
She never met her grandmother’s love. But she lived in it. And that was enough.
*Moral:* Some love stories don’t end. They just get passed to the next person willing to sit under the tree.
