WHEN IT RAINS... IT SPOILS.

There are only two seasons in Nigeria. Dry season. And... "Hope you have charged your phone?" season. Rain is not just weather here.It's an annual examination. The first drop of rain doesn't fall on the ground. It falls on our confidence. Because every Nigerian knows what follows. Not thunder. Not lightning. "PAAA!" NEPA has clocked out. I've always wondered who informs them. Does one cloud send a memo? "Attention all electricity providers... precipitation is approaching. Kindly disappear." Because the speed at which light goes off whenever rain starts deserves an Olympic gold medal. Ironically, the thunder hasn't even introduced itself. One small drizzle. Transformer says, "I'm not involved." The funny part? When the rain finally stops, NEPA doesn't just restore power. They first observe us. To be sure we're no longer hopeful. Then they'll bring light at 2:17 a.m. when everyone is asleep. It's their love language. Then comes the network providers. Rain has a unique talent. It can reduce four different telecom companies into one personality. Silence. MTN changes meaning. "Maybe Tomorrow Network." Airtel becomes, "Air... tell who?" Glo keeps showing full bars like a motivational speaker, but nothing loads. 9mobile becomes a bedtime story your younger siblings won't believe ever existed. You'll send "I'm outside." Three hours later... It delivers. Meanwhile you've reached home, eaten, bathed, watched football highlights and started questioning your life choices. Video calls become horror movies. "Can you hear me?" "..." "I can hear you." "..." "You froze." "No... you froze." The relationship ends because nobody knows whose network actually failed. Rain is the only thing that can make somebody miss a breakup. Then there's Lagos traffic. Rain doesn't create traffic. It awakens it. Traffic has always been sleeping beneath the asphalt. Rain simply says, "Rise, my children." Google Maps will still insult your intelligence. "23 minutes." Which 23 minutes? Maybe by helicopter. Because from Ojota to Maryland becomes a pilgrimage. From Lekki to Victoria Island requires emotional preparation. The funny thing about traffic is that everybody suddenly becomes a weather analyst. "This rain is unusual." "This drainage wasn't like this before." "The government..." "The previous government..." "The government before the previous government..." Nobody moves. Everybody analyses. Danfo drivers become philosophers. "Life no easy." Conductors become therapists. "Calm down oga... all of us dey inside." Okada riders suddenly discover amphibious technology. Keke riders become captains of inland waterways. Everybody is driving. Nobody is moving. Meanwhile, pedestrians begin an Olympic event called: "Jump and Pray." You stand before one brown puddle. Nobody knows if it's two inches deep... Or if it leads directly to the Atlantic Ocean. One brave man jumps. Everybody follows. He's now the community sacrifice. Rain even changes family behaviour. Your mum starts shouting, "Bring the clothes inside!" Nobody knows where the clothes are. Everybody runs. Children become emergency response personnel. Windows are shut. Buckets are positioned. Generators are covered like newborn babies. One person remembers they left garri outside. National emergency. Then there are offices. The boss arrives late. Everybody understands. You arrive late. Everybody investigates. "Why are you just coming?" Rain respects nobody. Except your employer. Remote workers suffer differently. Zoom meeting starts. Your face freezes halfway through saying, "Good mor..." The internet reconnects after fifteen minutes. Your colleagues have finished discussing budgets. You're still smiling from the frozen frame. Then there's that one Nigerian prayer. "God, let this rain stop before NEPA remembers us." Because electricity and rainfall in this country behave like two exes with a restraining order. They refuse to be seen together. Scientists may explain rainfall using evaporation, condensation and precipitation. Nigerians explain it differently. Rain equals... No light. No network. No movement. No deliveries. No online transfers. No food arriving on time. No hope. Only notifications saying, "Retry." But here's the beautiful thing. After every rainfall... Children still come outside to play football. Roasted corn sellers still smile. Bole still tastes sweeter. Neighbours still gist. Someone still says, "Thank God for the rain." Because despite everything it spoils... Rain still reminds us that life continues. Perhaps that's the Nigerian superpower. We complain together. We laugh together. We survive together. Even when the weather collaborates with NEPA, poor network and Lagos traffic to test our patience. Emmanuel (The Therapist):"So what's today's lesson?" BigDan (The Intern):"Rain doesn't spoil Nigeria." Emmanuel:"What does?" BigDan:"Rain just exposes everything that was already waiting to spoil." And somehow... that's the funniest part.

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