Scrimmage of the Storm

In a small West African city, dust clings to and thickly layers everything in sight. The impenetrable haze of harmattan settles over the city. Harmattan is a mixture of Saharan sand, smoke, and dust that settles in thick haze over much of sub-Saharan Africa. The distant mountains lie shrouded behind its stifling fortification. Countless tendrils of smoke from cooking fires waft into the air—contributing to the smogginess. The sun—a merciless warden of heat—bears down on a small football field. Young boys shuffle around a shabby excuse for a football. Around them, a typical African market day unfolds. Horns of taxis and moto bikes beep. Vendors and buyers haggle over the prices of mangos, palm oil, and fabrics. But the boys are indifferent to market day. This day will be exciting for other reasons.

They can sense it before it comes. Something down deep just knows it’s coming. A gust of wind swoops down and stirs up the dust of their field. Their oversized T-shirts flap wildly in its blast. They can smell rusty freshness—another promise of its imminence. Black clouds, heavy and promising, billow above them. Their hearts beat a little faster. Adrenaline rises and they kick the ball a little harder. They yell a little louder. Nearby, vendors are beginning to close shop. They stretch long pieces of plastic over their outdoor merchandise, then hunker down beneath their store’s overhang. Waiting. Mothers hoist and tie their little ones up on their backs with brightly colored swaths of fabric. They quickly hail a moto bike and jostle down a dirt path towards home.

Several young girls cluster in a group at the sidelines of the field. They call out good-natured insults to the boys playing. A few girls dare to enter the game, but most just watch. All the kids scan the sky. The clouds continue to billow and darken. They hem in the once-merciless sun within their lofty billows. The world has an eerie but thrilling sort of darkness. The kids play even more heartily. It’s coming! It’s coming. An electrifying streak of pure white fractures the darkness, and with it, the seams of the sky rip open. Miniature missiles of water spill from the heavens to the ground below—vying for first place. The first few triumphant drops pound onto a nearby tin roof like a drum’s beat. It signals the start of the assault. Then, it falls. All the laden contents of the sky dump down. Down upon the vendors’ shops. Down upon the beeping moto bikes. Down upon the parched and arid earth. Washing away the dust and dirt. Dispelling the thick haze of harmattan and heat. Rejuvenating the parched ground and liberating the mountains from their smoggy captivity. The field is no longer a field, but a giant puddle of red, clayish mud. The ball splatters thick mud as it’s kicked from kid to kid. They slip and slide with every kick and block…They laugh. They yell. They cheer. Because the dust is gone. Because the haze is gone. Because the fields will now produce. Because the mountains are free, and the air is sweet and rusty and fresh…

Because at long last…

the rains have come.