Observations of Rain From the Savanna

After two years of unforgiving, scorching heat, Mother Nature woke up wearing a different look. Today's weather is different from what the savanna has become lately. The sky looks like darkened smudges of wool sitting threateningly in the sky, in the same way a predator encircles prey. They stretched as far as the eye could reach, leaving no space for white clouds or blue breaks of cloudlessness to break their grip on the sky. The temperature has dropped conspicuously and a northern wind makes the air icy. Without a slight break in the greyness looming above, the likelihood of a downpour was assured. The long dry season had its time, the rainy season is now back to quench the thirst of the savanna, a longing for water which run deep below the surface soil into the foundations rocks seated deep below the surface. From the distance, there is a startling low rumble, which sweeps across the now cool air, roaring with pleasure as if to triumph the end of the drought, which greedily engulfed the weak animals, such as the one whose carcasses lie in a careless bundle in my line of sight.

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In the mountains yonder, where the peaks of the hills kiss the sky, trickles of liquid have already began to descend, hitting the ground with as much potency as that of a small child's. The ground is bare, no vegetation could have survived the dry weather. Conveniently, the hungry rivulets of water become cannon fires as they meet the earth, barricading every obstacle in their way. A sense of renewal, cleanliness, and hope all sweep into the atmosphere in form of an icy wind, as if washing away the past and bringing a new dawn to the jungle. As the drizzles approach, an intense earthly smell wafts in the air, becoming even stronger as the raindrops meet kiss the earth all around the carcass, enveloping the bare surface within the soft embrace. In no time, the earthy smell disappears and all one can focus on is the feeling of raindrops hitting the eardrums, which is, surprisingly, soothing. The drops are larger than prairie hailstones and coming down equally hard. The drops seep into the ground without forming murky streams, running with excess pristine water. It is such a novelty to take in the softened hues all around, listening to the soothing treat of drumming raindrops. Something about the rain made everything in the savanna more relaxed, and all its inhabitants are in no hurry to see the clouds vanish and pave way for the dry heat that has become customary in this part of the world.

Suddenly, the skies settle, like they have been coaxed or comforted. The grey fluffy smudges remain intact. The tranquility was short lived as thunder cracked above as though threatening to tear the heavens. It tore the sky like a rolling booming rumble, surging overhead like the ash of a volcano. In a way, this was a declaration of the raw power Mother Nature commanded, and to give fair warning of the storm that was brewing. Streaks of lightning followed the rumbles thereafter, cutting through the darkened clouds hailing the promise of a fiercer downpour that would carry on into the approaching night, and maybe even the next few days to come. One thing was crystal clear; the season of endless sun had come to an end, and no amount of pleading to the gods was going to alter that fact.

Works cited

Rakusa, Ilma, and Francesca Bell. "Rainy Sun." The Massachusetts Review 58.2 (2017): 307-307.