Bababe: Rain's a Comin'

[A scene from Bababe: A random piece of life from after a rain storm]

Looks like rain, I mumble to myself. It’s nighttime, and I’m lying outside, wholly fatigued, my body stretched over a matela – a single-person-sized mattress. I languidly gaze up overhead at the creamy paleness extended through the middle of the starry sky. I raise my head and notice again the darkness on the eastern horizon, slowly unfurling towards my way. Something wicked this way comes – I laugh under my breath. Heat flashes and lightening mingle in the distance, taking turns to light up the sky intermittently. And in those moments of light, I can’t help but notice the darkened fullness of the clouds.

My family has already begun preparations. My mothers pull down the tent and tie it up. The others begin gathering the extra matelas and mats and moving them inside. The shutters are closed and locked. There is more flashing as the blackness obscures even more stars from view. After all is made ready, everyone moves outside. The storm hasn’t reached us yet. My father lies down on a matela while my brothers and mothers either sit or lie on the crowded mat. I sit with them, sharing in the closeness of the moment. They all talk. My brother says something and everyone laughs. My younger mother says something else and the laughter continues. I laugh too, not because I understand them, but because it feels right and good.

I look up. The clouds have taken hold of the sky in its entirety. The wind picks up speed. In a few more moments the sand storm arrives. We all cover ourselves – the women with their mulafas, the men with their bubus. I cover myself with my bed sheet. I hear the wind and feel the sand hit my side. We sit there, enjoying the coolness of the approaching storm. When the rain arrives, we all move inside.

Raindrops pound the tin roof. It sounds like hail. I think to myself. It’s not hailing. It sounds like the end of the world. After a moment or two more, my father’s voice rises out of the obscurity until it seems to float on top of the thrashing sounds of the storm. He chants – pleading with God to keep the roof from falling on top of us. A woman’s voice, my mother’s, soon mingles with that of my father’s. Together they dance in and out of the storm. I close my eyes. I feel a drop of water on my face. I move my matela to avoid the leaking roof. And so it continues, in the dark, the storm, till I fall asleep.