First Rains of May

On an afternoon at the beginning of rainy season, I walked along the road towards Tuba. A few clouds settled over the oppressively hot sun and a faint whisper of a breeze trailed through the grass. I passed the old road and continued until I got to Ansarul Primary School, then I cut across the field to the orange groove. By that time of year, the slender white branches were covered only in green leaves, but no fruits. Along the path, ferns as tall as I am spread their foliage. I smiled slightly. I could forget sometimes that I lived by a jungle.

I entered Tuba by the back way, from the path that leads to Mano. The breeze picked up, and a few drops of rain began to fall. I was not sure if it was going to be a real rain, or if it was just one of those cruel jokes played by a merciless sun. I glanced towards the Bockarie’s house, but I didn’t see anyone I recognized. From the other side of the path, Mohamed Sannoh called a greeting. I turned to smile and reply. I never had the chance to teach Mohamed Sannoh, since he attended the other secondary school in our community, but during our combined school athletic meet he was one of the star runners for our house.

As I continued walking, the rain drops fell with increasing frequency, suggesting it was in fact to be a real rain storm. The old woman I always greet when I pass through Tuba called to me. “Waa lei!” I obeyed and went to her. “Waa bi hei,” she commanded, getting up from the stool she had been sitting on and moving over to the cooking fire. I stepped under the thatch roof of the kitchen and took a seat on the stool. There were three other old women gathered there. They asked me questions in Mende, which I could mostly answer, but as the conversation trailed on, I was lost.

The rain had picked up, and I was content to sit in silence and watch it fall. At first, the sand ate it, and the drops vanished beneath the dust. Eventually though, the rain began to win, beating the sand down hard and smooth as it rushed in rivulets along the carved out grooves of the dirt path. One such stream stretched in front of the kitchen where we sat. The water rose and pushed along twigs and dead grass, which clogged together to form a miniature dam. One of the women used a stick to dislodge a mango pit from the dam and the debris flowed away. A small child darted out in the rain to place a bucket in the flow of runoff water from the zinc roof of the house.

When the rain ceased, I thanked them and took my leave. “Baika, nya lima.”

“Oo, baika hoe,” they replied.

I set out across the damp ground towards New Site. When I passed Alpha Mansaray’s house, his sister asked, “Ba mango mei?” as she extended a mango to me. It was one of the small ones – different from any mango I had eaten before coming to Sierra Leone, and easy to eat clasped in one hand like an ice cream cone. I took the mango, and thus encouraged, another woman offered me two more. I walked away slowly, African pace, eating one mango as I went.