Drops and dreams: Accra’s rainy day tales

And just like that, at 4am, the pitter patter of the rain on the roofs turns gentle dreams into weather-forecasts: Accra’s official annual rain parade had already begun. In this city, every rainy day is a mix of drops and dreams, of stories waiting to be told.

By sunrise, children are already plotting their routes dodging puddles deeper than their backpacks, hoping their uniforms stay dry enough to pass for morning inspection in school. For many others, the rain means classes under trees are cancelled or sometimes soggy textbooks that do not stand a chance against nature.

Meanwhile, “Amelia” the ever cheerful “Hausa Koko” seller stands under her tiny umbrella eyes on the empty streets.

The rain has kept her usual customers, mostly school children at home, leaving her pots full and her earnings uncertain.  She worries about how she will feed her children tonight, glancing down the road for any sign of business as the rain continues.

Not far away, the rain writes a different tale for Kwame. Water drips steadily from the patched roof of his single-room self-contain, landing in a battered plastic bucket. 

The sound mixes with distant traffic and the occasional shout from neighbours braving the rains in search of their daily meal. Kwame sits on his mattress, watching the water creep closer to his last dry spot. 

His phone buzzes, a message flashes on his phone from the landlord: “Your rent is due, pay me or move out.”  There is no mention of the leak, just the same demand.  Kwame sighs, shoulders slumped, as the smell of dampness fills the room.  He wonders how much longer he can keep patching both his roof and his hope.

A few miles away from Kwame’s leaking room, traffic on the motorway has ground to a halt.  Inside a ‘Trotro,’ passengers sit quietly, soaked from the rain, the air is thick with frustration. A dispute breaks out over one cedi change, with the mate explaining there Is no small notes.  Some passengers urge patience; others join the demand for change.  As the rain continues, frustration grows, echoing the city’s everyday struggles when it rains.

 And who am I? I am just a tale bearer observing a city that is blurred by drops of heavy rain. So, as the rain falls, remember: Accra is always alive with drops and dreams, each one a story waiting.

Until we meet again,

Eyram, the tale bearer.