Dear Rain, Please!

Someone must explain how rain thinks.

Not how it forms in clouds and falls due to gravity and other witchcraft. No. I mean, how it plans. Because this rain has timing. It has an agenda. It waits, watches, and then, right at knock-off time, when you have mentally clocked out and physically committed to going home, it arrives.

Much like how that person you owe money always arrives at the wrong time.

You step outside, and boom! The sky has opened like someone finally found the tap after ignoring it all day.

Now your nice outfit, the one you wore to remind your colleagues you still have standards, is being ruined in public. Your shoes are negotiating survival. Your hair has resigned. And suddenly, everyone in the parking lot is moving like contestants in a low-budget obstacle course.

Actually, let’s start with the classic: the door blockade. Every Namibian house somehow turns into a dam. Nobody knows how water manages to enter under the door when it could just flow away. This is where the towel comes in handy – not to dry yourself with, but to squeeze it between the door and the floor to stop the water.

Suddenly, the rain steps up a gear, and now you need the winter jacket and the other T-shirt.

“Ae, Mukuru uandje, someone please bring the mop!” you scream to whoever is standing around.

But then you remember that, just like every other family, you keep the mop outside, hanging on the washing line. Dammit. Now you need another T-shirt to dry the floor.

Meanwhile, the rest of the family is standing by the windows, watching the carnage outside. The child washed the school clothes, as she does every Wednesday, since she only has that one set. Well, she left them on the line. You peek through the kitchen window, and only one sock is still on the line, as the wind blew everything over the fence.

I do not want to go any further into this scenario because this is exactly where a parent’s hands would reach for a child’s throat.

Let’s get back to ‘shaile time’, where you started looking for a taxi to get home. Rain transforms every taxi driver into a judge of character. Suddenly, supply and demand become personal. These taxi drivers keep their cars clean, and they will leave you right there in the rain if you are soaking wet. They do not want to be left with a drenched seat.

The driver looks at the sky, looks at you, and decides you’re on your own. You try to say something smart, but they roll up the window on you and just sit there waiting for another commuter. This makes no sense because it is raining and everybody will be wet. This is where you rush back to cover, because you would throw something at the car if you wait any longer.

And social media does not help. The moment it starts raining, timelines turn into weather commentary panels. Someone is posting a video of their flooded street like they are reporting for national news. Another one is laughing at how their zinc roof sounds like a live drum session.

Then there is your spouse, partner or whatever you call them these days. He or she is supposed to pick you up right in front of the office, but for some reason they are late. Behind you, the security guard needs to close the gate, so you must go out onto the pavement to wait for the car that is always late. You look back at the security guard and make that “MXM!” sound as you suck on your teeth. You hate the guard because you gave him your lunch pack, and this is what you get.

I could go on and on, and yet, for all its drama, rain has its cool moments. The smell of the earth, the cool air, the way the city slows down just enough for you to breathe. Children are celebrating in puddles like they discovered treasure. That one cup of coffee tastes better because the weather forced you to sit down and behave.

For now, dear rain, thank you for the drama, the memories and the unexpected cardio.

You’ve entertained us enough. You’ve tested our patience, our shoes and our dignity. You may take a break.

Because when winter arrives properly, we will not be able to deal with both of you at the same time.

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