April heralds the season of showers. A time when the sky is packed tight with grey, pregnant clouds. The dark afternoon formations suddenly leave a mysterious canvass in the blue sky, and the bright hue swiftly evanescent with no prior notice. The onset of rain brings with it an air of positivity. It's the rythymic drumming of raindrops for me; how they impinge upon the earth releasing a natural aroma, and filling the air with a delicious scent. There's a palpable sense of delight when you're snug in bed and the downpour begins, your heart palpitates with joy expectant of splendid slumber. It's a sign that you will have an awesome night, rich with the sounds and scents that you long for. The rain ushers in serene peace and sobriety, offering a harmonius blend of calm and a hint of sensuality during the ambrosial hours. A juxtaposed palette of real tranquillity with a sultry feel.
As usual, the rains presents the perfect time to indulge in a steaming cup of tea. One that is delicately light and creamy with a hint of mint, ushering in cherished moments and wrapping around the neck like a warm scarf. The mug that you tightly grip with your hands, and the warmth sinks into the bones. It provides a little solace, with the steam rising across the face to spread warmth on the nose and cheeks. The drink provides a momentary escape, a soothing elixir that transports you beyond the shadows of the past, the discomfort of the present, and the uncertainties of the future. Sometimes, I take a gander through the window to observe the straight, silvery, and smooth streaks spiral into a torrent of deluge. How the heavy, hopeless raindrops strike and seep through every crevice, leaving a feeling of adhesion and cohesion. The way flashes of lightning precede a long thunderous sound like some grand piano, then it settles into a continuous soft rumble. The way thunder can terrify with significance and have an overwhelming scope. You feel like the current ebullient regularity should continue irrespective of it giving vibes of a beautiful, delicate crass.
At the year's outset, I found myself striding through the rain. January panned out differently. I had somehow mistaken the gravity of the situation, hardly noticing the clouds were converging in a confident sky. I fondly recall how cool breezes coursed into transparent eddies. The winds shifted from soft to strong in less than a minute, roaming at large like an unannounced visitation. Vulnerability sets in once the heavens open to let fine drops furiously outpour in an unmetered way. The sudden torrents force you to shelter under an extended balcony, as the narrow streets are further constricted by balconies that jut out, encroaching upon the space ordinarily reserved for roads. As the rain intensifies, people vanish as if by magic, revealing our collective apprehension of the rain. I met a certain lovely young lass, fresh out of high school, who engaged me in a conversation, and she wanted to be employed. She was an irrelevant teen I felt like I could fall in love with. I had to highlight that part for no apparent reason. She expressed a desire to engage in honest and legitimate work, eschewing the path of illicit endeavors like working as a stripper. My encounter took place in Githurai, a locale unfairly stigmatized by a reputation for crime and substandard housing. Although crime is prevalent in the area, I have always remained unscathed, feeling safe walking on the cabro-paved roads during the day.
After showing signs that the rains were going to subside, I decided to saunter back to my crib. When it rains for a while, it feels like freshness is poured back to earth, resulting in a new creation. The solemn thunder has tremendous powers in the way it roars, evoking raw power during the aftermath of rain. I had to cover a distance of about 2 kilometres, and I was thoroughly soaked to the skin by the time I arrived in the house. I chose to straddle back instead of vehicular motion. I didn’t care, though. I took in the sight of how the ivy clustered on the walls of solitary residences and the lurid marsh green grass blades lined the curb. Huge drops of rain smote my face in earnest. The liquid spines soaked my hair and poured down my forehead, running down to blind my eyes and stream from my nose. My lenses blurred and I could not see clearly as tiny raindrops did not provide enough oomph to overcome water’s tendency to adhere to the glass. After it all I went back to the devoted warmth, the well-disposed threat of familiarity of my house. I realized am not a pluviophile.
