The day starts at 4:30 am. That’s how you know it has the devil in it. What kind of sun rises at 4:30? Well, it does, smiling cheekily, playing peek-a-boo among a thin cluster of clouds.

Mama says, “Wake up. The work will not do itself.” She does not care that the sun is early. When mama sees light, she gets hot for work. So, we get up and start being busy, folding blankets, washing face, sweeping, mopping, and making something soft for Nono to eat. She does not chew, only swallows because she is little. I am grown so I eat buttered bread like mama and father.

When the sun is high up, it rains on us heat that cooks bones to soup, leaving you weak and lazy, and all you want to do is lie down on the ground and catch its cool. But mama is there with her list of demands, so you can’t even do that. Bring my green pinafore, here hurry now fetch me coke from Sis’ Dora’s place. What is that over there, did you sweep this morning? I doubt, do it now please. Get the washing from the line, it can’t sit out until it’s stiff. Go see what Nono is up to. Her silence is suspicious. She must be up to no good.

Up and down, I go. The sun biting and stinging on my skin, irritating it so much it breaks into a tiny rash that itches. Big fat drops, my skin cries and cries, but there is nothing I can do for it. As mama likes to say, life must be lived, and we ought to keep moving.

At night, when the mischievous sun has gone home to refuel its fires, we lie with windows open, curtains tied in knots to let the whispering breeze in. Mosquitoes mistake this for an open invite and swarm in yapping about their vile fleeting lives; the blood they’ve tasted, and the things they’ve seen. Pinching you when you don’t want to listen. So, we don’t sleep much, swatting and swearing.

Just when we start to feel sleepy, the rain comes. Not a nice tip-toe rain that hums on the roof like a lullaby. A heavy rain. It pounds and stomps, fighting to get in. We know very well the meaning of this fit, so we shift things about, make room for the bath basin on the dressing table, two water buckets; one on the foot of mama’s bed the other by the sofa where Nono and I sleep. The night potty guards the corner by the door, and three pots we deploy to the top of the wardrobe. We know where the leaks are, and we are ready to negotiate peace, accommodate the uninvited visitor, and contain the situation. But it is greedy, demented rain, running amok, showing us who’s boss. It spreads over the sofa bit by bit until there is no dry spot left for me to sleep in.

Father stands like a post mid-room, his hands reaching for the roof as if to shake and shame it for its failure to shelter us. “What use are you when waters gather and be a river while we are inside?” I expect him to say. But no, he just drops his head in dismay, his eye slowly scanning the room, assessing the damage. Lightning flashes, and for a second, it is bright as day. Proud of itself for this small miracle, it roars loudly. Nono begins to cry. Mama is fretting about doing this and that, covering mirrors, muttering prayers, avoiding cables, lighting candles. Shrinking almost to Nono’s size when lightning strikes, then goes back to her fretting.

I watch the rain eat up father’s paper on the table. It’s a new one he just bought. It tells him where all the important jobs are. How will he know now? Will the words still give out their secrets, or will they sulk and blur out refusing to talk? Will they accuse him of allowing the rain to humiliate them?

Mama remembers Nono’s diapers tucked beneath the dressing table. They are wet and heavy but not with Nono’s pee. She throws one and it almost hits me. “Yerrrr,” I am not sure if a lone drop targets her cheek or she is crying. She looks away before I could be sure. “This rain!”
“Dis le,” Nono mimics, earning weak smiles from us.

 

 

 

 

 

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