Susan had come to Botswana from England to work as an engineering consultant on a water development project. Right through the winter months, when she arrived at the office, she stood at the window through which you could see Gaborone’s city centre. I thought she was admiring the newly refurbished Onion Tower that stored the city’s drinking water; or perhaps she was studying the shiny, modern-looking structure where Botswana’s diamonds were sifted and sorted; once in a while she seemed to smile at some private joke. Maybe she was amused by the commotion that played out every morning at Gaborone’s newest, busiest set of traffic lights.
On the day the first rains arrived – a warm September morning – I searched for her at her vantage point but she was sitting at her desk, oblivious, it seemed, to the pull of the downpour. Standing where Susan usually stood was a Motswana draughtsman taking a break from drawing plans; I joined him at the window. ‘Finally, we can start to plough,’ he said. Together we watched workers scurrying across the road; a few carried umbrellas; most, caught unawares by the storm, ran for cover under bus shelters. There may have been a few complaints, but they were drowned out by pleasure that others in the office expressed. We stepped away from the window to get on with the day’s work. All morning it rained. Pula ya sephai (steady, gentle rain): the drops slapped the ground, settled the August dust and chased winter away.
