Rain

Nankorola, Mali - When I last left Nankorola, it was a village of 1200 farmers and small entrepreneurs in the savannah region of Mali. I worked as a health educator and spent two years trying to find ways to convince villagers on the importance of prevention on combating malnutrition and malaria. Among the many things I witnessed living here was the primeval force of rain.

In this village of one road and one water pump, torrents of rain water ran through parts of the village when the wet season came. When it rained, it stormed. I could not cross the road without being soaked up to my knees. I lived in a small house with a tin roof. At night, the rain pounded the roof and made me feel like I was an animal living inside a drum. The sound of rain against tin was terrific and the wind would shriek like a banshee such that I feared the roof would fly off. I was prepared any of those nights to run to my neighbors' safer and traditional homes of adobe should that happen.

I experienced Nankorola viscerally even if I was not able to do farmwork with my neighbors. I saw agricultural farming at the subsistence level. I saw nature as both fearful force and source of life. It ruled harvests and futures.It nurtured and leveled lives.

When it rains in Brooklyn, the sense of drama is rare. Except there was the rain storm that brought roofs down of brownstones in this neighborhood. That made big news. Lives and possessions in the brownstones were in near ruin. For a majority of Brooklynites, thankfully, roads don't become impassable. Knees don't get wet. Clothes are not drenched in seconds. And one could still venture out.

I sometimes miss the rains of Mali. A tremendous absolution was felt when it was over. I rejoiced when my roof stayed intact. The dirt road soaked up the water. Crops grew. The oppressive heat abated. The wind became kinder and I could smell that new smell that comes only after it rains.