Make it Rain

It came like all storms seem to come in Africa. Swift and billowing. A fierce, rebel storm in the middle of the dry season, prodded on by the hot days in the lowlands. It was breathing heavy down our necks all afternoon, that cool, fat air that always comes before a storm. The thunder was on a constant, low roll in the distance. We were plodding along on our way to get chips and beans down the street when it came in on us in a huge black wave, dropping steaming streams of rain just a few miles away. We picked up the pace and hussled toward our destination, reaching it just before it rolled over us like a steamroller. We watched from under the tin roof. The streets cleared instantly. The rain was like water over a broken dam, spitting spray when it hit the earth with a vengence. The late evening sun went missing in a ditch somewhere and the red mud started to ebb in ripples down the street. Lightning ripped the sky open every minute or two and the whole of Africa seemed to step away to make room for it. No artificial light threatened its reign and the village was dark. No one could speak and no other sound could be heard over the deafening roar of pouring rain on the tin roof. The spray threatened every corner of the room like a guard dog through a fence full of holes. Leaks sprung like bathwater from the cracks. Small crowds of people were crowded together silently under the roof, randoms who had been caught on their way past. For more than half an hour we waited like hostages in the most wonderful storm we’ve seen yet. Happily frozen in time and silently suspended from our lives. We couldn’t speak so we just smiled.