The Kind of Melon she Hated

Its outstretched leaves, fluffy and widespread like an elephant's ear, she would have loved to call green but for the palish white that covered them. Rooted atop the conical heaps close to yam plants, they reminded her of the cowpeas she had planted at the backyard of her apartment back at school, made her wonder if they had blossomed. Her mother told her it was a different specie of melon. I was the same one whose fruit she had dipped in palm oil after they had been boiled and eaten to suppress the tension which was welling up in her heart on that day when they had that discussion that left her speechless except for the frequent nods, “hmm” or “abi oh” she had to spare to hide her confusion. She had been given motherly advice on academics, relationship, blah blah. Arrgh! She so hated relationship talk, or at least, she reasoned she should. But upon close observation, it was revealed that they only put her in a state of nerves, made her think about the part of sociality she wasn't ready for. Yet, deep down her heart, she loved that everyone that cared talked about it. So, she spent half an hour staring at this different species of melon she hated, wondering why her mother loved its sour-tasting fruit and wishing she never planted them at all. Four days later, after taking a brief nap, she came out to the balcony for fresh air. It had not rained at all in seven days and the sun was scorchy. Gazing over the railings, beneath their flat, she saw the melon plant again. Now, its leaves were wrinkly, parched in a displeasing way. Looking at the sky, Phoebe hoped it would rain soon.