When will the rain come

Written by Mpho Leteng(Botswana), Donald Kuutsi(Zimbabwe) and Blessing Masora(Zimbabwe)

Mountains stand like sentinels,  
guardians of secrets whispered in the wind,  
the baobab trees hold tales in their gnarled arms,  
ancient stories of drought and survival,  
while the sun beats down, relentless,  
a fiery orb, demanding tribute  
from the weary soil.

Children run after shadows,  
their laughter mingling with the dust,  
tiny feet chasing dreams  
that swirl like the dust devils,  
as mothers gather water,  
from wells too deep,  
carrying hope on their heads,  
and in their hearts.

When will the rain come?  
The farmers await with seeds in hand,  
their fingers itching to delve  
into the welcoming embrace of moist earth,  
to plant the future,  
to harvest the promise of tomorrow,  
each droplet a note in the symphony of life,  
a rhythm that speaks of abundance,  
of green fields swaying in harmony,  
of rivers swollen with joy,  
the pulse of the continent.

And the animals,  
the great herds that roam,  
searching for the lushness  
that only rain can bring,  
the elephants, majestic and wise,  
trumpeting in the distance,  
as if calling to the clouds,  
"Come! Dance upon our backs,  
wash our spirits with your grace."

The sky, an artist of moods,  
paints with strokes of grey and blue,  
while we, the children of this land,  
watch and wait, with bated breath,  
for the first drop to fall,  
for the symphony of thunder to roll,  
and the dance of the rain to begin,  
to quench the thirst of the earth,  
to fill our spirits with hope anew.

So tell me, when will the rain come?  
Will it arrive like a gentle lover,  
or storm in with the fury of a tempest?