When the Sky Forgets How to Hold Water!

Then the deluge. Rain doesn’t fall here; it attacks. It’s horizontal, vertical, diagonal – auditioning for a role in a cyclone movie. Children shriek, transforming puddles into instant oceans, launching stick-boats manned by bewildered beetles. Goats, caught mid-nibble, stand frozen, looking deeply offended. Auntie Carol’s laundry, pegged out in defiant hope five minutes prior, now becomes abstract art, dripping sadly. “My good sheets!” she wailed, shaking a fist at the sky, drowned out by the drumming on the tin roof…

Kampala’s Quarrelsome Skies

“The man laughed, throat warm with nostalgia. Kampala’s weathers were his quarrelsome siblings—each a stanza in the city’s humid epic. Yet lately, he’d found rhythm in their chaos. The “fall” he craved wasn’t in amber leaves, but in Rainy Season’s exit: that breathless pause when clouds part, and Kampala exhales jasmine-scented relief. When papyrus bows, not to wind, but to the weight of its own lushness…”