When the rain comes back - by Rahima Suleiman

--- When the Rain Comes Back Chapter One: The Price of Bread The morning my mother disappeared, the sky over Ajani turned a strange shade of red. I was ten. My brother, Jomo, was six. We sat in the doorway of our clay-walled home, watching dust swirl like ghosts through the alley. Mama had promised she’d return before sunset. She said she’d found someone in the city willing to buy the last of Papa’s tools—a rusted hammer and a box of old nails—so she could bring back bread. That was three days ago. We waited, stomachs aching in rhythm with the silence. Our neighbor, Auntie Lora, brought us two boiled eggs on the second day. “She’ll be back,” she said, handing me the plate. But I saw how her eyes stayed too long on the horizon. Mama never came back. By the end of the week, I sold my shoes to the man who fixed bicycle tires. He gave me twenty shillings—enough for two pieces of dry cassava and a matchbox. I boiled water in a cracked pot and fed Jomo with a spoon like Mama used to do when he was sick. I didn’t cry. Crying wasted water. Then, one night, Jomo asked, “Do you think God forgot about us?” I didn’t have an answer. But I remembered something Mama once said: > “When the rain comes back, baby, the ground will remember how to grow.” So I whispered back, “He’s just waiting for the rain.” --- Chapter Two: The Letter We found her letter under the mattress, wrapped in a plastic bag to keep it dry. > “If anything happens,” it read, “go to Kaji Lane and find Sister Mercy. Tell her your name is Ayana Biko. She will know. And don’t let Jomo forget who he is. He is more than hunger.” The walk to Kaji Lane took four hours. My slippers tore halfway through. We passed markets full of meat we couldn’t touch and fountains too clean for kids like us to drink from. When we reached the door with the blue cross, I knocked. Sister Mercy was older than I expected. Her hair was gray, and she wore the kind of smile that made you trust her even before she spoke. “Your mother was brave,” she said after reading the letter. “She saved lives in the flood. Did you know that?” I shook my head. Jomo held my hand tighter. “She carried children across the river when the bridge collapsed. She didn’t think of herself. That’s why we call her ‘The Rain Bringer.’” I didn’t know if that made me proud or angry. “She died saving others,” she added gently. “But she left two reasons to keep going.” --- Chapter Three: One Day at a Time Now I’m fifteen, and Jomo is eleven. We live in the back room of Sister Mercy’s clinic. I clean floors, wash wounds, and read borrowed books by candlelight. Jomo dreams of becoming a doctor. He says if he can fix bones, maybe he can fix hearts too. Some days, we don’t have enough for rice. Some weeks, I go without so he can eat. But we’re still here. I’m writing this with a pen I found in a gutter. Paper costs too much, so I use the backs of old charts and envelopes. Maybe someone will read this and see us. Maybe someone will feel what it’s like to live between the ache of yesterday and the hope of tomorrow. I don’t want pity. Just a chance. If I had help, I’d buy Jomo shoes without holes. I’d buy textbooks, milk, a real mattress. I’d buy my mother a grave with her name on it—Ayana Biko, The Rain Bringer—so she’s never forgotten. But even if I had nothing… I’d still wait for the rain. Because the ground remembers. And so do I.---

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