When it rains I pray that the Demerara River does not overflow into my front yard. On mornings when it doesn’t rain my dear boss is curious about whether my village has finally been swallowed by this brown river. How considerate he is.
As I listen to the raging rain, the occasional peal of thunder; it soothes me; reminds me of peaceful days. Images of a young girl, her toes covered in mud, stooped between rows of lettuce picking small shelled snails from the banks, flickers through my mind. I was that little girl.
Watching the boys kick ball in a field somewhere and sliding along muddy dams was what we did; was what I did for fun. Now more than a decade later images of suffering farmers and children playing in flood waters also creep into my head. These are my rainy images of our dear land.
It’s Thursday. It rained today. As I entered Georgetown this morning there was a light drizzle. Then at mid-afternoon, as I bustled down the Camp Street Avenue with a colleague, I didn’t find the wet city smelly or nasty. It was beautiful to me; I was looking at the gray sky and enjoying the raindrops against my arms.
My colleague was excited. She was taking me to see a miracle at Quamina Street. But the miracle is a whole other story. If she hadn’t dragged me out I would’ve most likely missed the rain which has brought its share of happiness and woes to this country of mine.
Still I do not let the woes cloud my mind. I’d have missed out on a lot of good memories if I did. I learnt this from an old friend of mine. She’s in her late 70s. I call her occasionally; she tells great stories.
When it rained during the early years of her marriage, she told me, she’d have to rush about the house with pots and pans. It was a great art placing those empty vessels right where the roof was leaking. Later, when she and her husband moved to a house without leaks they never could find the same excitement again.
My house leaks as well. It’s a lone leak and the water drips right next to my most precious books. Many mornings I’ve sprawled on the carpet and just looked at the rhythmic drip. This is a great time to think, great time for story telling, great time to remember that the Demerara River is inching up on my house, my boss never lets me forget.
He’s right though. I should be concerned. After all, some decades from now, when my bones have returned to dust the Demerara River would surely have swallowed my house. Sadly though, fighting for noble causes does not always bring noble results.
Every time it rains many people in my village are in a state of panic. For them, the rain beings memories of the spring tides that bring them sorrow. They’ll stock up on the sand bags, shout at the government and pray in their flooded places of worship.
When it rains my heart is at peace. At least there’s no sun, no heat scorching, burning, making me sweat. When it rains the leaks in our houses cannot hide. We are forced to see them, listen and decide their fate. Choice, it is the one thing we always will have. (srh.midnight@gmail.com)
