I think of those golden days; when it could just rain and rain. And we kept dancing and dancing — our feet in one with the earth that mothered us; our sweet little voices pregnant with passion, praising every god of rain we knew — till we all got sodden in the moment's euphoria.
The craziness of it all; when our laughter burst and echoed all over, kissing the summit of every mushroom like hut that stood in the village; when our mothers harvested rain in super large clay pots and drums which had been cut in half on purpose, and amid ululations, proclaimed abundance; and our fathers, with voices beaming with pride — those voices that told you, 'yes, we knew He can do it!' — spoke endearingly of Mabota.
I think of all the little creatures in the locality that made the night after the rain such a unique experience, due to their sheer sonorousness; the frogs, crickets, the cicadas, the
And oh, yes, the rivers; Murembwe, Maanga, Makanyamphondo, Chierekete, Dakate, Saye... How like kings competing for the coveted crown, they strove to outdo each other. Oh, how I miss the sweet sweet rain:
Mvura naya naya, tizorye mupunga!
Mvura naya naya, tizorye mahlobo!
Mvura naya naya, tizorye makhebe!
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