It’d been threatening for many weeks now. The rain tumbled down on the City of Accra in the dead of the night. The pendulous switch between the suppressed, distant hum, the sharp, roof-top rap and the warm, enveloping drizzle hiss, strummed narco-notes on the strings of the reposing mind. It shoved wake-up time backwards, for rainy dawn is an enticing woman (or man :-)), and cloaked the breaking daylight in gloom from falsifying folds of gravid clouds.
The grief of the rain always clears the air, literally. I could see the nearly empty streets for many miles ahead . Very few people had braved the morning’s chilly mantle. My hands desired to stretch and touch the glittering life crystals that rendered vivid every colour, shape and sound. The breeze was crisp, and it hung lightly in open space, as the first kisses of golden rays were weakly blown by the cloud-concealed sun.
Central Accra rudely shouted “Good morning” with a shower of muck on my windscreen. Snapping out of my other world, I saw banks of mud, rushing rivulets, yawning composts of dead leaves and twigs, and filthy cars – flagrantly filthy cars. My febrile fear came true, when Joy FM confirmed that the City of Accra had suffered floods and damage in many of her thick and bulging parts.
But it’d been threatening for many weeks, really. The rain is beautiful, the rain is ugly, the rain is as where you are, in the City of Accra.