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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required For six days, the sky has opened its palms over Awka, over Nnobi, over the red earth that drinks and drinks and never says enough. Today, the rain began in the dark, while the moon hid her face and the rooster slept, and now the sun has risen, bold and bright, yet the rain refuses to go. It pours like a promise kept, like the voice of the ancestors speaking from the clouds, not in anger, but in abundance. The sky is a calabash, and it is not yet empty. This is the season of the yam, the first fruit lifted from the ground, offered to the gods who remember the taste of sweat and the smell of new soil. Even in Nnobi, where my people dance with white chalk on their foreheads, the rain joins the celebration— not as a stranger, but as a kinsman. Let it fall. Let it soak the thatch and the roads, let it fill the streams and the song of the frogs. The yam is fat beneath the ground, and the rain is its midwife. This is not a flood; it is a blessing. This is not a delay; it is a rhythm. July has passed its baton to August, and the rain has not forgotten its duty. It falls on the market women who spread their wares under zinc, on the children who splash through puddles, on the elders who nod and say, "This is how it was in our time." So let the sky be bright and the rain be heavy. Let the new yam be eaten with joy. For even the sun knows when to bow to the water that gives life. And we, the children of the earth, know when to raise our hands and say thank you. For Awka, for Nnobi, for the rain that knows its season. Chukwuemeka Ezeulukpu
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