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…

Thermometers Of The Heart

“Sometimes, the weather is a harsh lover, isn’t it? It can be as cold as those yesterdays when loneliness was a snowstorm raging in our souls, blinding us with its ferocity, burying us under drifts of despair. There are days when the world outside mirrors the desolation within, and every gust of wind feels like a whispered reminder of what’s lost. Yesterday had remained the bane of my existence for the longest time. It was a relentless echo, a soundtrack of what-ifs and if-onlys. Memories that wouldn’t die, no matter how desperately I wished them away, and scars that whispered hello every time the weather grew cold. They weren’t just physical marks; they were etchings on my spirit, constant reminders of battles fought and losses endured. The cold, in its uncanny way, acted as a trigger, unlocking a Pandora’s box of past pains. Each shiver wasn’t just from the drop in temperature, but a reverberation of old heartaches. It was as if the very air became a conductor, carrying the frequency of sorrow directly to my soul, making the skin prickle with phantom touches and the mind race with unbidden recollections…”

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…”