Japa, It Doesn’t Rain Here

The truth behind the story

Photo by Godisable Jacob

Our slum took on a new look. But it remained a slum. Or perhaps, I should say a cemetery — yes indeed, that’s a better fit. What else shall we call a place where things go to die — a place where nothing grows — no leaves, no morning dews, no dream sprouting forth? Yet when you look around, I’m afraid it’ll fool you. There’s no sewage, no broken pipes spilling waste besides playing children.

The houses are average-looking and not bad at all. Shops of provisions stand at the front of most houses. There are barber shops too — and saloons where the young women do their business and gossip. But don’t be deceived, barrenness, drought, and death wear many disguises.

Do you doubt me? Well come — sit with me a while then, I’ll pour you a drink, wait a little and you shall see. Through that door, you shall see Ivie walking through. That spot, behind the piano, close to the flower vase, in between the windows, hidden from the world outside, she’ll perch and hide and order her usual — a bottle of Guinness beer. And then you shall see her vanish into the sunlight, shoulders bent under the weight and burden of daily responsibility and duties, that has aged her beyond her years.

You shall smell her too — and for a moment think she smells exactly like this place — dull and void and mythic and…