- mvura naya naya, tidye m’punga-
i danced on the dusty African ground, my shrieking voice cascading into the heavens joining my best friend Karen and the 5 other boys and girls with us. It could easily be called the rain dance, or a cry for help and mercy from the droughts we faced each year. Dust bursted from under my feet everytime my feet touched the ground in this rhythmatic skip
-rain fall fall, so we eat rice-
maybe there are such things as rain dances. it all started with one drop from the sky on a dry, thirsty, water seeking African soil, just at the cross over from the burning summer to the rainy season. Another drop landing on my forehead confirming that the rains were indeed about to gush out from the skies. Instantly we’d start the chant about-well- rice. i mean, shouldn’t the rain chant be about – i don’t know- blessings? Hell no! This is Africa- its all about the food:)
-mvura naya naya, tidye m’punga-
The skipping circle goes faster, the yelling louder and the raindrops start falling. A shout of exhilaration drown the noise of the raindrops attack on the African soil. We did it! Or not. Our celebrations stop as bodies scatter as we are all summoned to our respective homes. Being only 8, i realised i’d cursed myself to a week of indoor boredom. i’d slap my barefeet around the house seeking salvation. i picked up the phone.
“hi Karen, is there a song you know to stop the rain?”
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