African Rain

London was steamy for two days. Heat radiated off the cities sea of concrete edifices, and it slowly baked itself. Dew faced commuters shoving onto trains on Monday morning were still cheery in these first tropical days and at lunch bankers and bus boys alike peeled themselves of clothes like bananas and worked on turning their milky tea skin into something more mocha. I went to work as drippy as everyone else, and as cheerful, but slowly wilted heading towards lunch and lay under a tree instead of attempting to get myself anything other than alabaster.

As I toiled, computer bound, towards early evening and its promise of water beaded beverages and barbecues, I couldn't help but feel there was something else I was looking forward to...

The heat continued to close in over me as I rode home on a train that would be more aptly described as a fast moving sauna. English summer nights are long, and walking home at seven the sun still rode high and proud in the sky, and I noticed there was not a cloud marring the perfect blue. And that's when I realised... All the heat and pressure was not building to anything. And I was shocked - because in Durban right now the air would be filled with a crackle of a promise, as an electrical storm gathered its powers from god knows where and prepared to unzip the heavens and pour down buckets of strong, life affirming, drenching rain. You can feel the moment approaching, as the air thickens and begins to jump with electricity, and suddenly the sun bleached sky darkens, and the clouds gather and with a crack visibility disappears as the deluge begins.

People shut doors and windows against the ricocheted spray, others dive for cars and verandas as the rain pummels the tin roofs over head. An umbrella is useless against it. We don't even own them - we know to instantly give in and not fight this, take cover. An instant torrent rages down roads and out of storm drains, and everything from flowers to kids perk up as they are given brief respite from the ravages of the day's heat.

I refuse to believe that it is not an inner fight for every person to stay out of that rain. I have often given up wrestling with myself and dashed out from under cover to dance in the rain. The sort of rain that soaks you in seconds, so that your hair becomes slick dreads and your lashes starfish and your eye-liner melts away with all the dust of the day.

And so while my sun blushed skin revelled in the beginning of a London summer, it also missed the tropical mad fury of a momentary African storm, and its ability to wipe the slate clean.