The storm and the silence
Grandmother, tonight there was a huge storm. Deafening thunder sounding louder than I had ever heard it before. The lightening was blinding, streeks of sharp light flashing on the walls, the floors and the mirrors. The walls were shaking. An anxious hum coming down to the corners of my bed as the rain showered down.
I sat there thinking of what you would do if we were at him in Tinana. We would sit on the bench in the kitchen and listen to sound of the rain splashing on the zinc roof. You would try to savour the water dripping from the leak in the corner with a bucket. We would watch as the heat fogged the windows, the carpet getting wet from the drips of water coming through the gap under the door. We would feel the walls getting colder and colder on our backs as the house got wet.
And often a neighbor would barge in through the door, seeking shelter and how we would rush with blankets and towels to help them get dry and warm.
I remembered the small comments we would make between the silence. Like how the bridge would fill up and flood the road. How everyone in the village would have to walk to work the next day. How the cows had not been led into the kraal and would have to sleep outside of their home. I remembered all the details as the rain poured.
Here in the city grandmother, they do not care for the storm. They continue with no worry in their hearts. The storm does not silence any part of them. They do not know of rituals such as ours when it rains. To them, the storm is merely a passing distraction, they do not see it as a moment to look outside of themselve, to think outside of their daily go abouts.
I watched as big screens flashed along with the lightening in their rooms. Inviting scents of supper cooking on the stoves while the girls laughed about something that had happened during the day. Outside was like the sound of hooting cars, speakers blasting music, sirens and people calling out for each other, it was like a competition with the thunder of which was the loudest.
Here in the city, the sky does not intimidate them, they build their houses on top of one another until they scrape the sky. They fly planes and build satellites to linger in the clouds
Grandmother, I do not want to be stubborn like them. I do not want to forget to respect the sky and all that it beholds. It reminds me to sit down and think and if the sky beholds it, to allow for chance to take place.