A sandstorm of biblical proportions. Children are heard giggling in the distance while tired, overworked mothers bark out commands, hurriedly removing damp clothes from the line. Some of the children insist on playing in the sand adulterated rain. Their older siblings move out to drag them inside, secretly enjoying the exposure they experience themselves. My front door rips open and I wonder how much longer before the thatched roof above my head follows suit. The roof showed it’s resilience last summer when multiple sand storms hit our town, but as with weather everywhere, every year is more intense, more extreme, more fear provoking.
As I write this, dust falls on my iPhone, rendering the touch screen difficult to touch. I look up and see water tricking down the walls of my cement hut. My first instinct is to protect my laptop. I hurriedly slide it into its Incase case. In a room filled with clothes I would never anywhere but here, a long-suffering water filter, a desk piling over with work notes, texts on development practices, novels, jewelry and toiletries, my MacBook is the most expensive and most valuable thing I own in this place. In an attempt that probably only I will call bold and courageous, I have managed to regain control of my flailing front door. I lock it so it doesn’t become possessed by the winds that will probably leave in my backyard large mango seeds consumed from villagers miles away. With both front and back doors shut firmly, I now sit in complete darkness. Large flies and insects find refuge in the light being emitted from my screen. I immediately scramble under my mosquito net- my fortress against the tiny crawling, flying creatures.
I dare not peek outside.
The winds, rain and thunder have now joined together to form a sound that can be pleasing only to God’s ears. I am probably the only adult I know who is terrified by the sounds of thunder- especially African thunder. The type that sounds like a bomb went off a few kilometers down the road. The type that crackles before it pops; the type that makes the useless things in your room shake at night. I reach for my pillow to discover that along with a thin layer of sand, it is also slightly damp. A leak. Somewhere on top of me. Very small but sill there. Great. A reminder that even in my net, I am not safe from this weather. Everyone must face it’s wrath. My heart goes out to my host father who left for his fields just moments before the rains began. I hope he’s found shelter somewhere. I think of the banana tree I planted months ago in the family compound. I pray the wind doesn’t strip off it’s leaves. I think of the market place and how the rainwater will summon its friends: Sewage, Frogs, Mosquitoes and Flies for a party on every visible surface. Despite the small inconveniences, the rain is not despised here. It is welcomed. Rains mean another year of a good harvest; it means increased profits for business owners; it means reducing infant and child mortality rates. These rains bring laughter to our mouths, hands to our hearts and tears to our eyes.
Another massive fly finds it’s way into my net; I place my phone on a page of the book I was reading before the storm began. It climbs onto the page and I slam the cover shut. I lift up the page, see it’s dead body splayed on page 129 and shut it again.
After 15 minutes the sounds of rain thrashing my roof have been reduced to light patters. The thunder becomes distant. Colorful birds come out of their hiding places begin to commune with one another and with the world around them. Children’s voices grow louder. Not far away, a pestle hits a mortar at a rhythmic pace.
A friend once asked me what inspires my writing.
It’s the rains that makes us want to run out and dance in the mud like children.
It’s the thunder that keeps us up at night.
It’s the winds that make grown men sprint to the nearest homes for shelter.
It is the sandstorms that make us cry.
The Lord will open for you His good storehouse, the heavens, to give rain to your land in its season and to bless all the work of your hand; and you shall lend to many nations, but you shall not borrow
Deuteronomy 28:12
travelgiveworklove 