Orange Rain



Fallen leaves, rotten fruit, earthworms, chicken feces, and charcoal residue mix with orange-red earth, the mud from our backyard is full of many little things. I remember huddling under patterned cloths, waiting for sweet petrichor , the smell after earth and sky have made peace, a smell that I still can’t really describe. It’s unique.
In Freetown, I loved the experience of rain so much.Well,at least indoors.I heard rain and I heard an inner beating of the earth’s rhythm, an orchestra of the elements. I drew dreams and created beautiful stories, as the sapphire tears pounded heavily on aluminum roofs, and seeped into vats and plastic buckets.
I remember how I would go to the back yard and look up at the sky, as the clouds gathered to form graphite darkened beauty:
rain de cam jisnor”,I would yell out to whoever cared to hear,  trembling slightly  from the cool wind and with anticipation of all that was to come with the rainfall: my mother massaging my feet with ori* so I wouldn’t be too cold; my father,  convinced he was about to get a bout of malaria as a result of the nation of mosquitoes the rain summoned, would boil lemongrass and make tea( he still swears it’s a good prophylaxis), and the odor would glide gracefully through our house, soothing…calming…
However,my favorite part about rain, was the sound. Have you ever listened, no, really listened to the sound of rain? Shut away all your thoughts …and just… listened?
In nursery school, our teachers,underpaid and constantly irritated, read from dusty tattered textbooks sent to us from the “enlightened” and “civilized” ,and instructed us that the exact sound of rain was



…but I never heard my rain that way, and even then,I knew that the teachers were wrong. And I still know they are wrong, because when I listen to the sound of rain… in the cacophony of thunder, water, and earth, I hear music, music so gentle, but yet so stirring, so calm, but yet so frenzied. I hear the intricate  symphony of orange rain.

*Ori is the Krio word for Shea butter, sometimes mixed with menthol or mint oils.

6 Comments Add yours

  1. There is nothing like the smell of the first rain which is immediately drank by the parched land. Beautiful!


    1. ngozicole says:

      Thank you


  2. Angel Nduka-Nwosu says:

    I just discovered your blog via Brittle Paper.
    And I’m already loving your mind so so much. I’ve kinda been on the lookout for Sierra Leonan millenial feminists I could read.
    Cause I’m Nigerian and often on social media it’s Nigerian feminists who dominate the discourse on West African feminism which I don’t think can be helpful to the common goal of liberation.
    I am on a Twitter break right now but when I’m back please follow me @asangelwassayin. I’d love to talk. I also have an AfriFeminist support group for young African Feminist writers. Our blog is
    We’ve never had a Sierra Leonan writer. If you are interested in jo


    1. Angel Nduka-Nwosu says:

      *if you are interested in joining or writing, you can email me.
      I really look forward to hearing from you. Thanks sis😘😘😘


      1. ngozicole says:

        Hi! Great to hear from you! I can’t believe I’m only replying now. I think we’ve connected on Twitter and I love your work too. Thanks so much for reading and supporting, and I’ll check out your website as well.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. No problem sis. I follow you on Twitter 🤗

        Liked by 1 person

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