First Storm

The heat in Harare has been unrelentingly brutal and simply unbearable. It is the kind of heat which is crippling and makes you want to rip your skin off. You sit still, very still, afraid that the slightest movement will aggravate your discomfort and raise your temperature that  much higher. There is a reason Zimbabwean Novembers are termed “Suicide Month.”

Today, the first storm since I got back home graced us. And what a beauty it was. I have always adored the rain. Gentle summer rain against a pretty blue sky with the sun’s rays giving a gentle embracing glow; the fierce wild storm which rips apart everything and makes you glad you are inside.  Fierce winds and sideways-slanting rain, thunder, lightning; the works.

The storm today was the latter. It actually tore down the gutter outside the kitchen, from one end to the other, bent the remains and paralysed my mother’s petunia blooms, in addition to raising my poor father’s blood pressure.

I wanted to go outside and take some pictures of the storm, but my camera is not waterproof and my mother shrieked about pneumonia, so I waited until the storm had abated before I ventured outside and wandered around the garden, taking a few pictures. I got a few beauties. Enjoyed myself thoroughly.

I love how beautiful, fresh and alive everything is after the rain. And please do not get me started on the smell of the rain, before during and or after  a storm. That smell, of the first raindrop on the scorching tar; that smell is the reason why I often feel utter and inexplicable joy, and believe that life really is worth living.





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