The rains

The rainy season has come to South Sudan. It’s tyrannical and disruptive and beautiful. A few nights ago, we stood on the banks of the Nile and watched as lightning threw the sky into flickering chaos, as bright and rapid as a strobe. No sound, just incessant flashing, etching the landscape in a stark palette of black of silver. As we waited for a taxi, the wind picked up. Mangoes started to plummet from the trees. We ducked into the car just as the rain hit. And I mean hit – a sudden, hammering sheet of it, deafening in its intensity. The taxi dropped us at the gate of our hotel. We ran, but it didn’t matter – by the time we reached the door, we were as wet as if we’d jumped in a pool.

The following day, I sat in an outdoor meeting room and tried not to be distracted by the croaking of frogs. By evening, the whole town echoed with it. A chorus of deep, dry, throaty croaks, issuing from frogs the size of a fist. Their flattened bodies paved the road the next morning, poor things. But however many died, it didn’t put a dent in the noise. Every night, they sing. It’s not just the water that’s brought them out, it seems, but the bugs – they’re everywhere. Giant scarab beetles. Rickety stick insects. Fat, reeking green things I’ve never seen before. Moths with wingspans like a dollar bill. Tiny flies swarming in thick clouds around lights. It’s quite something. My can of instant bug death saw a lot of action before bed last night.

The rains followed me to Nairobi today. My flight was delayed, and my suitcase soaked. Right now, I’m looking out my window at the pool dimpling under the onslaught. It doesn’t bother me. The rain accounts for the spectacular greenery of Nairobi. And if it’s content to come in the evening, so much the better.