Until January, I lived in a place where water fell from the sky and floated in the air. A lot. All the time, it seemed, particularly in summer. Rain and mist. This time of year the mists began to come down, thick and soup-like. Sometimes there would be no sun for days. I hated it. The claustrophobic closeness, the perpetual damp, the smell of never-quite-dry clothes, always missing the sun.

It’s overcast today. There is a hint of cold rain in the air. I am not unhappy. For the first time in years, the prospect of rain doesn’t make me miserable. I’ve tried to explain to people how I feel about the rain – that all rain, all the time truly makes me very miserable. The experience of living through constant rain is oppressive. It feels like living, each day, with a deep, unresolvable longing weighing on your soul.

But I don’t hate rain. I am an African and I grew up in Africa – proper, dry, wide-open-space, grassland Africa. I cherish the touch and the taste and the release of eventually rain. The rain after the dryness. The sweet, wet rain on cracked winter skin and earth. The rain you have waited for. The rain that brings relief.

It’s overcast today and I am not unhappy. Today, I am waiting for the rain.