Drops

Rain, rain, rain: I have concluded there are two weather patterns is South Africa: blistering, sweltering, oppressive heat and pula, rain. Though the showers do have their downfalls, multitudes of mosquitoes and rivers of mud, the enclosed world I reside in has been tinged with an Eden like atmosphere. The shades of greens fancifully intermingling as they sprout from the ground: cucumber, emerald, sea, forest, pea, jade, lime; only a master painter would be capable of coming even slightly close to representing them with his copious strokes.

My family laments over the leaks that water tinkles steadily from into bright, strategically placed buckets. They grumble over the strident drone the rain emits upon hitting our tin roof: its soliloquy to the world. For me, reclining in the obscurity of night, I find the faithful drumming soothing. It lulls me into peace with its constant soundtrack.

In the morning my dirt path suffers endangerment as newly formed tributaries crisscross it, often ankle deep. I hop, skip, jump my way to a taxi or to school or to whatever my given job of the day happens to be. Undoubtedly more than one part of me finds itself covered in varying layers of muck.

I ignore my own dishevelment as I gaze into the mountains where the cotton ball clouds fold themselves into various crevices: the billows so low that I could easily ascend the hills into vapors covering myself with their sparkling droplets. As a child I dreamed of clouds where fairies played but only here have I found their actual existence.

We are all dreamlike here: the village becomes lazy and fanciful with the rain. We all sleep later, startled not to be awoken by the first crowing roosters or the searing sun. The children arrive late to school as their walk becomes more treacherous and their bodies crave the inviting blankets of bed. The day is spent in a half daze craving a hot glass of cocoa and a pleasant book. The water seeps into everything as papers curl, refusing to lay flat, reaching their saturation point. Butterflies and birds dart in between droplets to find the shelter of a tree or flower.

I enjoyed rain in America but here, in the village, I have found the time to fall in love with it. I have a profound worship of its power over life and growth. I appreciate its ability to overwhelm the senses: the smell it embodies, the touch on the skin, the freshness of taste, the redundancy in its sound, the views it endows. It was fitting that my counterparts gave me the African name of the former rain queen, Makobo, for now there is no grandeur higher than the rain.