“Down from up above it came, the silver drops that fill the pails;
Ensuring rivers do not wane, by gentle drizzles or heavy hails;
Clearing streets and filling beds, casting shadows on the plain;
Some will curse and some will bless, but everyone will feel the rain.” – Me. (I am a poet and I did not know it.)
It is 8 O’clock in the evening and the rain falls gently and at times, not so gently on my roof. Technically, I share this roof with other people but that’s not the point, is it? The section that covers my house is mine. It has been raining for two hours now, save for that forty-minute window that allowed me to leave the office and make it to this roof-sharing house of mine. I want to move. I live in a nice place but I think I’m growing out of it. But that’s a story for another day. I shall call it;
This Post is About: Looking for a House This Post is About: Moving. Not looking for a house today, though.
So, the rain starts up again a few minutes after I get home. I’m seated on my old, old (oh my God I need new furniture) couch staring at this blank page on Microsoft Word. I feel like writing a short story but the words do not form. I end up staring blankly into space for an hour. The house is silent but the rain keeps on falling.
I think of the farmer who woke up this morning and planted something. Maybe some maize (corn, if you’re reading this in A-murr-ca) that’ll take at least 3 months to mature and give him a harvest. Three months from now, that farmer will pluck that maize from the maize plant, remove the husk, detassel the cob and shell the seeds (which are also fruits biologically speaking) and lay them down in the sun to dry, on a canvas sheet or a sheet made from several gunias. This maize will then be taken to or sold to a miller who’ll convert it into maize flour, probably Pembe or Soko and if his maize is really lucky, Hostess. The farmer will get his money and put most of it back into the ground to wait for the rain again.
Someone else, at this moment, is probably cursing the rain. He (I’ll use he because it’s relatable) will see it as a nuisance. He doesn’t have a car so he has to walk or use a nduthi to get home to his bedsitter which is located at quite a distance from the tarmac road. The nduthi will get stuck in a mud puddle and the nduthi pilot will accelerate, causing mud to be flung onto the back of his pissed off passenger who will curse the rain once again. The nduthi will drop the guy at his Mama Mboga’s because it’s just a few steps from where he resides. There he’ll buy a healthy looking bunch of sukuma and some huge tomatoes. He’ll then pass by the kiosk he passes by every other day and pick up a two-kilo bag of Soko maize meal and be off. He’ll make ugali and sukuma in proportions far more than he needs and will lie down on his bed, bulging belly up and make a phone call. He’ll call his girlfriend (assuming he has a girlfriend) and will probably tell her how the rain has ruined his day and his white shirt, the one she bought him on “that day”. He can’t remember if it was a birthday, anniversary or Valentine’s day gift.
His girlfriend, who likes to nitpick, will slyly ask him, “Which shirt?”
He will nonchalantly answer, “The white one. You know, the one you got me for my birthday?”
Then she’ll say that she bought that shirt on Valentine’s day and that she is hurt that he doesn’t even remember it since it was only five months ago. Then she’ll hang up because she is stressed and because she’s a girl. Dude will then be left staring at his phone with yet another thing to curse the rain for.
He forgets as he watches some terrible series like Empire on his laptop, that because of the rain, a farmer was able to plant the maize for his ugali. Because of the rain, Mama Mboga had sold him fresh sukuma and tomatoes. Because of the rain, he was on his way to a kitambi, angry girlfriend notwithstanding.
Don’t curse the rain.
For the rain and snow come down from heaven and do not return there but water the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater – Isaiah 55:10.
But that’s not why I’m writing this. I’m writing because the power is out. It’s been out since the rain started falling.
Why, Kenya Power? Why? #tears
This is a sad life sometimes.
I need to move.