The spring is sprung and the summer is sizzling

When the rain starts it begins with the spatter of tiny drops. These seem to form out of the air at random and at any height, rather than falling from a cloud above. After these first few droplets, the wind picks up and the thunder and lightening rattle through the sky for a while. Then a curtain of torrential rain whisks across the land.

There have been a few rains. These have been mostly overnight and in very short bursts but the water is beginning to collect in hollows in the road. And suddenly the pace if activity is frantic; as if the whole country has breathed deeply for the first time this year and is desperate to make use of this water.

I am accustomed to walking past patches of litter strewn scrubland on my way to work. Occasionally cows would be grazing on one of them but the land has been mainly populated by blackened palms and dried twigs snagged with black plastic bags and the occasional egret picking its way through old rotting refuse. I can judge my mood by seeing if I react by saying "oh what a lovely bird" or "urgh, what an awful mess".

Last week I was surprised. In the course of a single day the biggest of such patches had been cleared and turned ready for planting by women with hand held hoes. Now on every trip to work I see young girls turning the soil in neat rows while their mother follows scattering seed, another patch newly pristine with trees pruned to green leaves, land ready to be turned after the next rain, lime coloured shoots peeping through the earth soon to show their differing forms with a wealth of produce.

The mangos, for long dark and dusty bottle green, are now clashing with themselves by showing fresh leaves in fluorescent hues. The baobab has lost its characteristic look of bare roots reaching into the sky and now looks more like a horse chestnut with strange flowers dangling between the palmate leaves like broken maracas. Fruits are swelling rapidly, oranges have reappeared on the fruit stalls, the still-green grapefruits by my office window are hanging heavily and occasionally a pomegranate is caught silhouetted against the sky.

The insects have started to swarm. Strange flying maggot like creatures get their lacewing like wings caught
up in my hair and clothes as they beat desperately towards the church's fluorescent bulbs throughout our choir practices. I have found an amblypygi (whip spider) dead in my hall way and killed a mosquito on the outside of my net. After a march of the hungry caterpillars across our street, yellow black butterflies dance around the houses.

This has then inspired the frogs to emerge, creaking through the night like a horror movie sound engineer testing a spooky door. There are birds and bats sharing the sky, whipping through the swarms to collect their dinner. The chickens peck excitedly at the flies on the street, teaching their chicks how to take advantage of the glut. A ribbon snake (I think) slithered away from a termite mound as I approached.

And we people wait for the rain to release the temperature slightly, waking as the thunder starts to turn off fans and listen to the downpour. In the morning we cover shoes in reddish mud as we extend our journeys by picking around the biggest puddles. The taxi drivers scrub their car tyres clean twice a day. The mud bakes into shapes but soon disintegrates back into sandy soil under the heavy glare of the sun.