There has been some rain.
Not so much that you would throw caution and propriety to the wind and rush out in exuberance to dance beneath the downpour getting thoroughly soaked to ecstatic, goose-bumped skin. Not so much that the verandah is dripping with still-damp laundry. Not so much that you long to see the sun again. No, not that much.
But enough to lay the dust. It skipped through the garden, the rain, waving cheerfully as it went. As if to say, ‘I’m just passing through, sorry, can’t stop’. I could see where it was going. Away. To the east where it dug itself in darkly and glowered at me, staring disconsolate, from a distance.
And enough to suggest it’s Around. The Rain’s are Around we tell one another optimistically (so optimistic as to refer to them in the plural) as we peer up at the sky squinting, as if hoping that our focused stares will bully far-away marshmallow clouds to bruising rugby scrum proximity. Around enough to give the grass by the dam a brittle green bottle sheen. Not a shade Africa offers in her colour swatch often; this is a limited edition. Enjoy it while you can.
Enough to prompt tiny wild flowers forth; they lie scattered on the ground like pink paper tissue littered. I had to stop, to examine them close up, to make sure they were what I hoped they were and not something carelessly discarded from a passing bus window.
Africa is so forgiving of punishing cruel Drought. The minute the Rains arrive she yields, forgets that they abandoned her for weeks, months, and begins to bloom enthusiastically so that overnight she morphs from tired grey barrenness to blushingly youthful fecundity.
Nights are suddenly rendered gloriously, sleep enhancingly cool and my dawn swims chilly. So that I dive into water that feels like cold blue silk; water that quite takes my breath away.
I must swim hard then. To keep warm.
Fifty lengths last week weren’t nearly as quickly swum as they are this.