The Mango Curse of Mang Isko

The Mango Curse of Mang Isko

 by Kateb Shunnar

In the languid heart of Barangay Bulaong, where even the mosquitoes took their time and the gossip traveled faster than Wi-Fi, there stood a mango tree so ancient, it probably had arthritis. The tree wasn’t just tall  it was arrogant. Its branches scratched the belly of the clouds, and its fruit glowed like sun-kissed treasure hoarded by angels who’d learned the art of mango cultivation.

And guarding this miraculous tree was a man just as ancient: Mang Isko. Wrinkled like a forgotten barong tagalog in the back of a jeepney, Mang Isko had crowned himself the Sacred Mango Sentinel. No one appointed him  he just woke up one day, climbed into a bamboo chair with his rusty slingshot, and started shooting at children like a third-world sniper every time they got too close.

They said the tree was a gift from a diwata who had once fallen in love with a fisherman that smelled like squid and heartbreak. When he ran off with a sirena who couldn’t even hold a tune, the diwata cried mango seeds and cursed the soil with fertility. The result? A tree that bore fruit so divine, even God’s angels were allegedly caught in a border dispute trying to steal one.

But nobody ate from it. Not because they didn’t want to  oh, they lusted for those mangoes. But Mang Isko, with the spiritual intensity of a tax auditor, had declared it forbidden.

No one dared challenge him… until Aling Marites returned.

Yes. That Marites.

With her hair teased like the ‘80s never ended and enough red lipstick to repaint the barangay chapel, Aling Marites walked back into town like a forgotten scandal with a fresh plot twist. Four-time widow (three funerals, one mysterious disappearance), she had the kind of smile that suggested secrets  and the audacity to dig them up.

Her goal was simple: get a mango.

Why? Because Mang Isko told her she couldn’t.

She waltzed into his yard one hot afternoon, fanning herself with a leaflet from a failed mayoral campaign and carrying a plate of bibingka no one trusted.

“Isko,” she purred, her voice thick like condensed milk, “you still guarding this tree like it’s the Ark of the Covenant?”

He didn’t look up from his hammock. “Go home, Marites. The last woman who touched a mango from this tree sneezed bees for a week.”

She smirked. “What if I just want a taste?”

“I’m too old for scandal,” he muttered.

“Lucky for you,” she replied. “I’m not.”

By morning, the tree was bare. Every mango gone. Even the sap was missing. Mang Isko? Found face down at the roots, smelling like a fruit salad, with a smile that made the priest nervous.

Aling Marites? Nowhere to be found.

The barangay imploded.

The barangay captain held a town meeting, where no solutions were made but several batches of lumpia were consumed. The priest blamed temptation. The market vendors blamed inflation. The elders said it was the wrath of the mango gods. The youth? They made a TikTok dance about it called the “Mango Mo, Kinuha Ko.”

Three days later, the skies turned a color only described as “jealousy green,” and it rained mangoes not soft, ripe mangoes, but hard, unripe missiles. One hit Aling Cora’s sari-sari store and knocked her into next week. Another rolled down the hill and dented a tricycle with a sticker that read, “Jesus is my seatbelt.”

Then came the letter. Hand-delivered by a goat wearing lipstick and a feather boa (don’t ask).

“Dear Barangay Bulaong,

I’ve taken the mangoes and the man. Don’t worry  he snores, but he’s decent company.

The tree will grow again, but only once you learn to mind your business.

Yours in sweetness,

Marites (now known as Maridiwata, Goddess of Forbidden Fruit)

P.S. Return my Tupperware.”

Since then, the mango tree began to regrow  but now it hums at night, sings old kundiman songs, and is guarded by a talking goat named Junjun who curses in three dialects and once bit the barangay treasurer on the shin for trying to pick a leaf.

As for Mang Isko? Some say he’s still alive, barefoot on a floating island made of mango bark, dancing with Marites in a mystical mango wine-fueled eternity. Others say he finally found peace  and dentures.

The townspeople learned a few things:

• Don’t say no to a determined woman in red lipstick.

• Never underestimate the power of a sacred fruit.

• And when the air smells like mangoes and bad decisions, maybe it’s best to go inside.

Moral of the story:

Some mangoes are sweet. Others are cursed.

Either way, chew carefully or you might end up in a folklore story.