In rain-scarce Cape Town, the best Valentine’s gift of all would be the joy of falling in love with the falling rain again
It’s raining. I’m in the garden, wearing my school raincoat, splashing in puddles and opening my mouth to catch raindrops. I don’t notice the cold.
Because of the rain, we’re allowed to stay indoors during school break time. We sit in small groups, eating our cheese-spread sarmies, laughing and shouting over the sound of the rain on the roof. When we get home, mom makes jaffles on the stove and boils milk for hot chocolate.
My sister and I catch the stringy cheese oozing out the sides of the jaffles, and cradle warm mugs in our hands while we track droplets of water running down the windowpane. Whose will win? Hers or mine?
When I was little, rain was fun. It meant tasty treats and cosy afternoons reading on my bed. It meant the whole family in one room – me and my sister playing Monopoly on the lounge floor, while mom and dad listened to a record. Sometimes, it would rain for days. We’d lie in bed after dark, listening to it pelt down onto our weathered tin roof, wondering how it was possible for so much water to fall out of the sky.
Somewhere along the way, I became less enchanted with rain.
The damp it caused that used to permeate our first rental and make me sick; the soggy tracks we left coming in from work that I’d have to mop up; the way it poured through the rust on my first car and affected the wiring, so I didn’t know whether I was turning the wipers on or indicating to go left; run-walking through it, down the mountain on which campus is built, because I couldn’t afford a parking disk that allowed me to park closer to my building; wearing wet socks at work all day, because I forgot to bring extras again; and the cold that turns my fingers purple and my mind black.
It was the drought that reminded me to appreciate the rain. Before it became official and water restrictions kicked in, my rain-loving and heat-averse husband and I would have little disagreements:
He: “It never rains anymore. There was way more rain years ago.”
Me: “Oh nonsense. It’ll rain later in the year. Just you wait till June.”
Me: “See? There’s the rain.”
He: “Pah! A few drops. Not real rain.”
Often the voice of doom and gloom, it turned out he was right. We weren’t getting enough rain. The water will run out.
Our reality now is living with a bath no longer used for bathing, but storage for grey water. It’s plastic containers scattered all over the garden to catch the little rain that falls, a bucket in the shower, and a container in every sink in the house.
It’s showering once a week, and washing ourselves out of a bucket of 2l of water the rest of the week. It’s catching rinse water and reusing it to flush the toilet. It’s waiting until there’s a full load of laundry because we can’t bear to waste all the water used for just half a load.
It’s watching the weather report obsessively for the faintest glimpse of rain.
And when it comes? The lightest drizzle sees the whole family standing in the garden, faces pointed to the sky, smiling like goons.
I’ve fallen in love again with the rain. When we’re reunited, because I know we will be, eventually, I’ll let it know that all is forgiven, and that I promise to appreciate it more.
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