There has been no rain in Dakar for nine months. When that rain did come, it wasn't much more than a trickle, what we call 'whisse' in Senegal , as opposed to 'taow', the big, thundering rain. Cotton farmers are suffering in the south, which means entire families go without a crop, the sale of which should, in a good year, sustain them throughout the 12-month period.
A friend told me that the reason it doesn't rain in Dakar anymore is because God has decided that it's not important for us to have water. There are no famers here anymore, he says, so why do we need rain?
I'm living the most priviledged of lives; I have a generator and a water pump, so I hardly ever have to go without water or electricity. I have very little to complain about. But I miss the rain, I miss water, I miss the smell of wet earth as the rain putters on the pavement and causes everyone to run for cover. I miss sitting on the balcony and watching the wild weather outside, rolling up my jeans to be able to cross the road, watching my flip-flop get caught in a whirl of flood-water as it gets taken to some unknown destination. I miss the wonderful release of a storm, the cool relaxing breeze in the clean, light skies that give you a moment to breath before the vast heat of the next build-up starts.
We have been waiting for a month for the rains now, and I have all but shut up shop. By 11am I am exhausted by the heat, until 8pm when I can start work again. If I eat at lunch time, I must sleep for two hours afterwards. When I was in Abidjan, which had been through the waiting period and was in the cool of the full rainy season, my friend said one afternoon, 'things are so much easier when it's not so hot' and she's right. The heat builds up and builds up so that you almost don't notice it happening. Just, one day you can no longer function. It takes a while to work out what's wrong with you and then you realise: nothing. It's just all part of waiting for the rains.
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