EVERY STORM RUNS OUT OF RAIN
When I run away from my problems, I make sure I do it as fast as possible, as though
the devil is hot on my heels with evidence of all my transgressions. That is why I am
in Limuru, renting a hotel room, away from everyone who knows me. Until I am
ready to face the world again, the tea plantations surrounding me will be the only
witnesses of my existence, however miserable it feels at the moment.
When I started the actual run from my feelings, I forgot that I have never - not once
in my life - gone for a morning run. Now that I do, my thighs begin to burn all the
way to my feet and my breathing becomes more laboured with every passing second.
‘Mind over body’ is my chosen philosophy. For motivation, I repeat the mantra I
have been using since I was left at the altar: “every storm runs out of rain.”
“Every storm… runs out of rain.” My fiancé proposing. “Every storm… runs out of
rain.” Test-tasting the cakes with the whole family. “Every… storm… runs… out of
rain.” The silence on the morning of the wedding day. “Every storm…” The panic
on my sister’s face. “Every…” The weeping best man. The silent headshake from my
sister. The pitiful looks from the attendees. The pats on my hand. The hugs. The rage.
The apology texts. My boss telling me to take my time. Everyone tiptoeing around
me. The frustration. Packing my bags, the days spent crying in the hotel, the endless
stalking on Instagram… Physical exertion fails to do much to stop the continuous
replaying of events that has been haunting me for the past two weeks.
The weight of my heartbreak catches up with me and launches itself on my heart,
which is already beating wildly in my chest. With my whole body burning, my run
slows down to a jog, then to a walk, before I finally come to a halt.It has been fourteen
days, but the hurt is still raw in my chest as though it were just yesterday. Tears burn
behindmy eyes, and even though I try to resist letting them out, they flow and mix with the
rivulets of sweat running down my face. I bend at the knees and start sobbing silently,
feeling my heart crack over and over again. Grateful that the road is deserted and that
no-one has witnessed my public meltdown, I veer off the road and sit against the bark
of a tree, letting my body rest as I compose myself. Like my mother says, “gloom
may loom, but you should always look good.”
A sharp poke on my shoulder startles me awake. ‘She’s not dead, don’t call the
police,’ a voice beside me yells. The fog in my eyes clears and I find myself face-to
face with three pairs of eyes peering down at me curiously. Two women stand over
me; one middle-aged with a heavy build, one who seems about my age, and a small
girl. They are all wearing bulky clothes, and the adults have baskets on their backs. I
quickly realise that I must have dozed off on these tea-pickers’ farms. A wave of
dizziness washes over me as I try to sit up, sending me back down in a thud. Two
pairs of hands immediately reach out to steady me at the same time.
‘Uko sawa mum?’ the older woman asks, her eyes watching me kindly.
‘Eh,’ I try to reply, but my voice comes out hoarse, so I just nod instead. A chill
breeze washes over my body, and I realise that without the heat from running, the air
is cold. My teeth involuntarily chatter, and I hug my arms around my body, shielding
myself both from the cold and from the watchful gazes of the two strangers.
I try to sit up again but the hands stop me once more.
“Tulia,” the younger woman says, opening up a backpack, “we have to make sure
you’re fine.” Her voice is firm but gentle and I comply, making no further attempt to
leave. A wave of self-consciousness washes over me. I must be projecting an aura of
misery if even these strangers can sense it. Or maybe the words ‘jilted lover’are branded on my forehead. Before I follow those thoughts into a downward spiral,
a flask is extracted from the bag and a shawl wrapped around me.
“Limuru cold is not something to joke about,” the woman tuts as she tucks it around
my neck. Before I can resist her ministrations, the now-open flask is placed in my
hands and I am instructed to drink. Confirming that I won’t make an escape, they
excuse themselves to proceed with their work.
“Keep auntie company, but don’t disturb her,” the kid is told as they retreat. I peer
into the flask to see thick brown porridge. A sip of it reveals a sweet tangy taste,
which is appreciated by my stomach that hasn’t had a proper meal for a while. This
random act of kindness from strangers overwhelms me and once again, I have to fight
back tears. This time I manage, because a pair of curious eyes has been watching me
the whole time.
“Are you homeless? You don’t look homeless,” she pipes up, as if sensing my
awareness of her. I snort and shake my head, glad for the distraction.
“So why were you sleeping on the road?” she asks, as if trying to piece things together.
“Well, I was resting and then accidentally slept,” I replied slowly, wondering if a lie
would be easier to believe than the truth.
“Ah, like when you’re doing your homework and then you suddenly fall asleep?”
“Mmm, exactly…”
“Oh, it happens to me all the time. Especially when I’m doing multiplication...”
She is distracted by the porridge moustache I have acquired above my top lip and
watching me struggle to reach it sends her into a fit of giggles so infectious that I find
myselfjoining in. By the time I finish the porridge I have learnt that her name is Ciku,
her mother is Mama Ciku, and her auntie, the other lady, is MamaKim. They both work at the hotel I am staying in. When the women hear this, they
join the conversation, and we decide to walk back together after they are done.
Ciku tells me she wants to be a circus performer when she grows up, and when I
inquire about her talents, she does five successive cartwheels without a moment’s
hesitation, which is quite impressive considering the bulky clothes she is wearing.
“Did you not want to be a musician the other day? Mama Kim interjects.
“I will sing while performing, obviously,” is the answer we receive, delivered with a
slight headshake, as though we are asking stupid questions. We both turn to Mama
Ciku, and she shrugs her shoulders in a helpless mock surrender.
The conversation flows easily, and they include me as though I was already a part of
their fold. I appreciate that they do not probe for any further information beyond what
I offer. By the time their baskets are full, we are debating which talents we will be
assigned to perform at the circus.
A taxi comes just in time for the tea they have collected to be taken to the factory. It
already carries a few baskets. As we walk back to the hotel, Ciku keeps the chatter at
a maximum, so there is no time for awkward silences.
When the time comes for us to go our separate ways, they tell me I’m welcome to
join them anytime. I thank them for the porridge and promise to return the flask the
next day.
***
Learning from my previous day’s mistakes, I walk to the tea farm instead of running,
this time appreciating the lush landscape. Having had the whole night to ruminate
over being caught sleeping in public, I feel a twinge of embarrassment, but the
reminder that I won’t be here for long makes things bearable. Before I can locatethe entrance to the farm, a whirlwind rushes towards me and small arms wrap around
my legs, almost sending me flying to the ground.
“You came back!” Ciku yells excitedly.
“You will make someone fall one of these days,” a smooth voice admonishes. I turn
to see Mama Ciku walking towards me, a warm smile on her face.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes twinkling.
“Hey,” I reply, already stretching my arms out to return her flask, “thank you so
much for this.”
She takes it and in one smooth motion gets another out of her backpack and hands it
over.
“…more?”
“What? You didn’t like it?” she raises an eyebrow and I hear the child giggling from
below.
“No, no, I did, it’s just…”
“Well, it’s not free. Today you’ll pick tea with us, Mama Kim is not in today,” she
says, already heading towards the farm. Just like the day before I am caught in a
whirlwind of events which I can’t seem to escape from. This time though, I quickly
accept my fate.
“I don’t know how to,” I yell, catching up with her.
“I’ll teach you.”
The round basket is placed around my shoulders. It is quite light, but I imagine that
when filled with tea leaves it’d be a weight to lug. For the first time I am impressed
by the strength of the woman’s small frame.“So, we look for a bud. When we find one, we pluck it with the two leaves beside
it,” she explains, pointing at one and then plucking it.
“Can you find some buds?” she asks, and I point at a couple. She explains that they
generally pick the ones at the top of the tree bush because they contain the most
flavour. I nod my head, trying to absorb the information and make my first attempt.
The dew on the leaves is cold on my fingers and I can tell it will seep into my jeans
- but I ignore it, now understanding the practicality of the bulky attire. I try to pick
one, but the leaves do not come out smoothly. In fact, I seem to be having a tug-of
war with the tree bush to release the leaf. She stifles a laugh, which she politely
masks with a cough.
“It’s all in the wrist,” she explains, demonstrating again, “put your fingers at the base
of the stalk and flick your wrist. My second try is more successful, and after a couple
of good ones she leaves me to it and gets on with hers, her fingers working
dexterously. My progress is much slower, and she could probably fill five baskets
by the time I have managed my single one.
“What are you doing to the poor girl?” a voice speaks up, breaking me out of a trance
I did not know I was in. Mama Kim is watching us with her arms akimbo, shooting
a glare at Mama Ciku.
“She did not even try to protest,” Mama Ciku answers, shrugging innocently. “Quite
a natural actually,” she adds, winking at me conspiratorially.
“In my defence, I thought she would take the porridge back,” I argue, handing over
the basket.
Seeing that I’m free, Ciku beckons me to join her as she attempts to catch sunbeams
in her hands. My hands are a bit numb from the dew, but the experience of doingsomething new is more refreshing. I cup the hot flask in my hands, enjoying its warm
reprieve from the cold.
The next day they bring me a small basket and we get to work. I get lost in the
meditative process and the repetition of it. Pluck, pluck, throw over my shoulder.
Pluck, pluck, throw over my shoulder. Behind me, Mama Kim croons a familiar tune
and I let her voice carry me to a state of emotional balance, giving me a glimpse of
a future that is not defined by my past. A song is but a song, but a song is more than
just a song. The song my heart sings now is one of renewal and a refusal to let present
circumstances define me.
Over the next few weeks we settle into a routine where I show up and we pick tea
then walk back to the hotel together. They bring my porridge every day and I bring
them pastries sometimes. Within a few weeks I manage to fill my basket three
quarters, a big achievement on my part. On busy days, I babysit Ciku and let her
watch movies in my hotel room while her mum works. On slow days, we hang
around in the kitchen and have a cup of tea. They teach me the ratios for the perfect
porridge flour mix. I become the designated buyer of ingredients from the market
and Ciku accompanies me to ensure the traders do not try to sell to me at inflated
prices. In return I buy toys for her, even though I’m warned not to spoil her.
One day as we’re walking back Mama Kim looks over at me and says, “the sad look
in your eyes is gone.”
The statement takes the wind out of me as I have a flashback of the first time we
met. The realisation hits me that I have found what I was looking for and my heart
balloons in my chest. I nod my head and offer a strained smile in response, words
failing me.“And your fashion sense has gotten so much worse,” she observes, looking at my
two-hoodie, jeans-under-a-long-skirt and gumboots combo. I raise my eyebrow as I
look at her outfit, which is exactly like mine, and we burst into laughter.
“It’s a good thing we don’t work at Vogue,” she says when we compose ourselves.
The mention of work reminds me of my actual job, which is due to start in a few
days.
“Say your fiancé left you at the altar and you’re scared to face the people who know
you because they are all throwing pitiful glances at you, what would you do?” I blurt
out, watching the road ahead determinedly.
She maintains her composure impressively, managing to look completely unfazed,
the only reaction being a deep intake of breath before speaking.
“Hmm, I make sure I do not pity myself, because self-pity has a scent, and you were
reeking of it,” she begins, making my jaw drop open.
She laughs at my reaction. “I’m joking, I’m joking, but you were so sad that you
looked almost breakable...”
“…You make peace with it. Do not dwell on it, but don’t deny it. Realise that the
storm has run out of rain.”
I whip my head around for the second time, almost snapping my neck. “You know
that quote?”
A knowing smile spreads over her face. “I heard you say it so many times under your
breath that I couldn’t forget it if I tried.”
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