Rainshower

Usually when thunder echoes in the narrowing distance and the first tentatively falling scouts open up the sky for a coming torrent, people who are outside go inside. Yesterday I stayed out.

I was four days into a continuing plumbing drought, and had just finished my second evening of rather intense sporting activity and, although I couldn’t smell myself, I could see the grimaces of my friends. And I grimaced back. So as the thunder neared my friends and I looked into dripping sky with childish anticipation.

The storm came slowly. The drops grew but not much; they drew closer together but not much. It was no shower. But as I wondered if I should give up and go inside I noticed four pipes peeking out from patio roof. They gathered all the water falling on the overhang, divvied it up rather evenly and emptied it in four even streams onto the ground. And after a few minutes the streams weren’t brownish red anymore. They were perfect.

I ran inside for my shampoo and conditioner, Kevin got the Old Spice Red Zone body wash, and three of us took a pipe apiece. The steady trickle was just enough, until the wind picked up. Then the flow was broken and scattered, hardly enough to rinse conditioner from hair like mine.

So I climbed onto the banister surrounding the patio, held onto one of the slick pillars and stuck my head right up to the pipe. Soon I was clean. And cleanliness – in water-deprived, hot, dusty Gulu – is next to miraculousness.