Here, in the city where I live, when the rain goes away, it disappears for long stretches of time, like husbands used to do when they went to work on South African mines. Streams shrink and the water in the dams empties. The summer sun, a tireless drummer, beats down on the earth as if to squeeze the last drop of moisture from the ground.
Grandparents say it’s divine punishment — the world has become a wicked place. ”In the good old days, it was never like this,” they say. The weather people agree, they baptise the phenomenon ”global warming”. On the radio the announcer, with a voice that shakes the nation, says: ”There will be a prayer meeting at the national stadium to pray for rain.” We come from near and far to pray for rain. Khaki-clad men leap into the air and sing songs that make me sway in time, even though the prayers I know are said sombrely, solemnly.
Soon after the gathering, the old man who lives at the end of my cul-de-sac stands and shuffles out of his house to stand on his stoep. He prays too, albeit to his ancestors. He shades his eyes with his hand as he looks up into the sky. ”Pula e etla,” he says and as if in response, the wind blows. Rain clouds gather, as if they are responding to a herdboy’s whistle. The sky wears a different face. Blues, merge into magenta streaked with indigo. It rains. Softly. Gently. Tap, tap, tap, like a timid man knocking. Then the sky changes again, goes inky black and the rain roars and thunders.
Children cheer and clap, try to catch a raindrop in their mouths. They pour out of houses, waving their hands in the air, singing ”rain, rain, make me grow”. Mothers stand at the doors of houses, calling ”Hei lona! Silly children, do you know what pneumonia is? Come in out of the rain!” A new-born puppy yelps at the feel of water on its back. It jumps up and shakes the drops off. Pretty ladies in pencil-thin heels skip down the road, searching for dry patches on which to land. A man dashes from under a tree to catch a Kombi that stops on a busy road just for him. The driver hoots as he picks up more passengers, who have been cowering under the corrugated-iron shelters that drip rain.
A woman rolls past in a 4×4, laughing into a cellphone. Huge tyres crunch through the gaping potholes; they emerge unscathed. The water slaps pedestrians walking next to the road. In the passenger seat her children shout: ”Rain, rain, go away, come again another day.”
But the rain doesn’t hear them. All day and night it pours. In the morning the sun shines. The clouds sputter as the very last droplets land on the earth.
And when the rain has visited, we all know. The air smells softer. The grass turns greener, grows lush and wears lime highlights on its tips. Corn crickets appear like marching soldiers. Frogs beckon to their mates. Weaverbirds flit in and out of their nests, repairing what the rain has damaged. Men climb on to roofs of houses, to paint and bandage, plugging new leaks. Potholes seem to open their mouths even wider but still we rejoice for the rain has come.
”Pula, Batswana!”
Wame Molefhe’s ”real” job is full-time mom. She is studying — ”very slowly” — for a BA languages and literature, specialising in creative writing, with Unisa
