"Don't they look beautiful?"
"You mean...the red apples right before me?"
"Three red apples. One for temptation, one for sinning, and one for death."
"I don't want anyone of them, not at all!"
"But in life, you will bite at least into one of them."
"No...I resist and be strong. What happens happens but to bite into them...it is not my portion."
On a chilly late September morning, fog-covered grass and roses touched by the breath of change at the hedge between summer and winter stretched Oliver Odhiambo out his both arms right into the branches of the old apple tree. It was an old orchard once planted by his late grandfather who had migrated from Kisumo at Lake Victoria in the heart of East Africa to the small village of Boana near Techiman in the Central Region of Ghana. It was a place made to grow cocoa beans and in fact, one generation past they stopped planting golden cocoa trees. The profit margin had gone down drastically useless to still work hard on the family plantation the pride of generations under colonial rule and after independence being exploited by the white man. Other countries took over the business which was the original identity of a proud nation due to the effects of climate change. No more transporting cocoa beans around the globe. Less pollution in the air. Meanwhile, it had become so warm in Europe and other ingredients like roasted oats substituted the golden tree blessings.
Oliver Odhiambo, a man of masculine statue with a certain smile around his face telling people life should not be taken too seriously, a short period on earth nothing more nothing less. His eyes were constantly on the run to chase the beauty of women. Oh yes, his appetite to taste from the forbidden fruit was of the same kind that he loved his wife. Eat home and enjoy the desert outside with your eyes only was all about on his mind. Meeting him was like standing on the cliff of a volcano. He was not on fire or anywhere near to erupt out of anger. It was the mix of words running down his mouth like a waterfall wild and seemingly with an endless supply and the tenderness of a gentle giant constantly aware of the impression he had on others. Others did not feel intimidated by him, far from it, but were mostly aware not to show him their hearts and affection too closely, they could have been consumed by his volcano.
He picked three ripe red shining apples from the same branch, the same tree. For the naked eye, they looked all the same. For eyes that could see they were very different. Red yes, shining like being polished with great care, sure. Yet, there was something special about them, a mystery, a truth not yet unveiled but yet old like Adam and Eve, like Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.