Stormy Night 22

It was raining so heavily that water seemed to be gushing down from the sky and blanketing the earth all around us. Wind was blowing strong and hard, causing all kinds of mayhem, forcing the rain to splash against the windows of my house with loud, nonstop thuds of varying intensity. I could hear the tree in my yard fighting for its life. The storm was shaking it violently from the top while the rain was softening the ground it was rooted in on the bottom. Forces of nature were working against nature itself, in a twisted dance of doom and destruction. Some of its branches that were hanging over my house were scraping the roof tiles, as if asking the house for some help. But the house had its own problems. I could hear the heavy flow of rainwater rushing past my bedroom wall to the drainage ditch just outside my fence, chipping away at the foundation by cutting the dirt around it and sweeping it away with the flood waters.

Botswana rains are always accompanied by heavy thunderstorms and unbelievable lightning strikes. This rain was no exception, with the bright flashes lighting up everything: the sky, the earth and all that is in-between. Their accompanying loud thunders were coming fast and furious, some from near and others from afar, all filling the air with their terrifying roars. As if the lions of the Kalahari had somehow metamorphosed into metaphysical beings protecting their territory from competing predators.

One of the amazing things about our lightning strikes is that they are not always vertical, from clouds to earth or from earth to clouds. Many are also horizontal, from one cloud to another, shooting across the sky. Such strikes cause rolling thunder, which travels sideways, filling the air with gurgling sounds that seem to actually travel away from you instead of coming towards you. As if God was having a marathon game in His heavenly bowling alley.

I had turned in late that night, hoping for the fury of our winter storm to die down without causing any major damage to my low cost, one bedroomed BHC house. The house had some structural problems, endemic to the design of all BHC houses, as if the government required all such houses to have those problems on purpose. Those structural problems were only being exacerbated by the stormy weather, making me pray for things to settle down before the roof collapsed on me—literally—as all the ruckus seemed to indicate that it was about to do so.

The water that was running into the drainage ditch was going through the fence with so much speed that it was actually jumping over the ditch and flowing right onto the tarred road on the other side. Some of it that did make it into the ditch, had no room to actually flow anywhere because of all the weeds and the grass that was growing there, which our friendly Gaborone City Council had failed to clear in time for the rains. There was so much of the bush growing in that ditch that the water was actually moving in the opposite direction and overflowing into the houses a little farther down the road.

I felt sorry for the people living there, and for the people living across the road from me, because their houses were built at a lower grade than the one I was in, thus causing the water to flow into them and out through their backyards, where the terrain was even lower still, as it met the small river flowing through Ginger—yes Ginger—the name of the suburb where I was residing. The river, which is dry most of the year, is about 500 metres away from my house and has its work cut out for it during such rains. Just like the drainage ditch, the river also had a lot of bush and many trees growing in it, thus affecting the flow of water in a very negative way.

I was trying to sleep through all that noise, but it was proving to be a very difficult task. I tried to cover my ears with my pillows, even tried hiding under the blanket with all sides tucked under my body, but to no avail. I finally just gave up and tried to keep my eyes closed, praying under my breath as some sort of meditation, listening to all that hullabaloo outside and hoping for it to lull me to sleep. However, the strong, gusty winds were keeping the rain fairly arrhythmic, thus taking away any chance of that happening.

It took me a while to hear the knocking sound that seemed to be coming from many different directions as the storm blew it all around. There were many other sounds, stronger sounds, which distorted and overpowered it. When I did hear it, I didn't pay much attention to it, thinking that something must have come loose, thus causing that knocking sound. I didn't want to go out and investigate in such weather. I figured I'll check it out in the morning.

The sound only got louder, making me somewhat worried that the damage may be serious. I sat up in my bed and listened hard, trying to pinpoint the exact direction where the sound was coming from, in order to get a better focus on the damage being done. As I listened attentively, I swear I could hear the wind calling my name. Not surprisingly, the voice of the wind was a female voice. It was screaming my name.

Soon the knocking and the screaming became louder still. Then someone threw a heavy rock which hit the side of my house with enough force to make me realise that it wasn't the wind calling my name; there was someone—or something—outside calling for me.

I say something because this is Africa, and something is as much a part of our culture as is someone. When I heard another rock hit the house, I jumped out of my bed and rushed to the window to see if there was someone at the gate. As I peered through the window, I saw a ghostly figure standing at the gate, waving furiously at me. She must have seen me as well through the bedroom window because there was plenty of light around from the lightning flashes to illuminate my presence.

She was drenched—and I mean DRENCHED—because there was so much water pouring down from the sky. I panicked when I realised that something terrible must have happened to bring my mother to my house at such an odd hour and through such a downpour. It was past midnight and even if it wasn't raining like that, there still wasn't a good enough reason for her to be at my gate at that hour. Something drastic must have happened for her to trek her way here.

There was no electricity in the house. One of Botswana Power Corporation units must have tripped to cause a blackout because we weren't scheduled for any load shedding, and quite honestly, I thought we had found a solution to our electricity problem.

I fumbled around to find my keys. I rushed out as quickly as I could, not realising that I was only wearing my boxer shorts. Even though it was a short run from the front of my house to the gate, it took me some time to unlock the lock, remove the chain, and open the gate to let her in. I was soaking wet within that short period of time. There was so much water pouring over my body that I felt like I was in the middle of a stream. Boy, was that rain cold—and I mean COOOLD!

My mother ran in as I locked the gate back and followed her in soon thereafter.

The house only had floor tiles, so it didn't matter if she dripped huge puddles of water all over on her way to the bathroom. I did the same, only smaller puddles, because I didn't have that much of clothing on me to hold much water. Her shoes and her pants were full of mud from the road, which left a big trail behind her as she went straight into the bathroom. I had also picked up a lot of mud from my front yard as my feet felt very heavy. There were a million goose bumps all over my body from the cold rain.

As I entered the bathroom after her, she had already started stripping out of her clothes. Her hair was plastered to her head and her clothes were stuck to her body. She started to peel them off of her as I jumped into the tub ahead of her and ran the handheld showerhead over my legs and feet to get rid of the mud. I didn't care if the water was cold; I just wanted the mud to be off of my legs as it was starting to itch. By the time I finished and stepped out of the tub and out of her way, she had already taken her shirt and pants off. She only had her bra and her panties on as she stepped into the tub. I gave her one quick look as I darted out of the bathroom to get her a towel, being careful not to step into the mud we had spread on the floor. She was running the water out through the mixer to get some hot water from the geyser. But the geyser had no hot water left because it was not insulated, and the cold rain had been falling on it for hours.

I stripped just outside of the bathroom to get rid of my wet boxers and threw them in before running naked to my room. I quickly dried myself off and put on my shorts and a T-shirt. I then selected my biggest towel and my only robe for her—which incidentally was a gift from her on my 28th birthday and which I had never used—and took them to her in the bathroom.

The scene in the bathroom startled me. My mother was standing in the middle of the tub, completely naked, with her head bent backwards and the showerhead pouring cold water over her forehead, down her neck, and over and across her breasts. It was an incredible scene, with the lightning enhancing its visual appeal with every flash. I had never remembered my mother to be so good looking. She had nice firm breasts, nice and fairly flat stomach, shapely legs, and a firm, round bum. I couldn't help but notice her nipples that were so erect due to the cold water and the cold weather.

I had come in to give her the towel and the robe, but I practically froze in the middle of the bathroom when I saw her in that pose. Water was running over her body, enhancing her sex appeal. It flowed from her top, over her stomach, and down between her thighs and over her legs. I could see her wet pubic hair flowing protectively over her pussy-lips in a very provocative way; apparently, she hadn't had a chance to trim them much.

I didn't know what to do. I was just standing there staring at her, wanting to move away but at the same time wanting to keep taking in that view.

It took her a while to notice my presence but when she did, she just held the showerhead on her chest, letting the water run over her breasts and looked at me inquisitively, as if asking me what it was that I wanted. She had thrust her butt forward to maximise the amount of water covering her body, pushing the area between her legs even more into my view, thus increasing the provocativeness of the scene.

I felt a bit embarrassed, but she didn't seem to feel embarrassed at all. I just said, "I got a fresh towel and robe for you. I'll leave it here on the basin." She said nothing and just waited for me to do as I had said I was going to do and then waited for me to leave the bathroom before resuming her shower. I wanted to look back one last time, as I knew that this was probably the only time I was going to see her that way, given the circumstances of that night.

I couldn't look back though. It wouldn't be right. I kept repeating that to myself. Mind you, I was feeling a bit guilty for wanting to look back, but that sight was so unexpected, so alluring, so sexy—and so unbelievably ARTISTIC—I was able to forgive myself for the desire to see it again.

She took a long shower to get all the dirt and sand off of her body. After she dried herself off, she wrapped her hair in that towel, and wrapped herself in my robe before she came out. I noticed that the robe was only loosely tied, as I could see the flaps hanging somewhat away from her top and showing some cleavage. I had prepared some tea in the meantime on my gas stove and gave her a cup as soon as she settled on the sofa. I had lit some candles to make it easy to see around the living room and I had our gas heater on full to get the room warm and comfortable. I normally use that heater in emergencies only, to save on the cost of gas.

I sat next to her and asked her, "So, what has happened?"

She didn't answer right away. She took a few sips of the tea before saying something.

"Your father, that's what has happened!" She said softly, as if trying not to say it at all.

"What did he do this time?"

"Nothing really; just the usual. He came home drunk—again—and looking for a fight. At first, I obliged, but when things started to get ugly, I decided to run. I didn't want a physical altercation. I have had it with him."

I listened attentively. I guess that's what she needed at that time. Someone to just listen to her.

"I hailed the first cab that passed by our flats and came here. I am actually lucky that there was a cab in this weather. The cab dropped me off on the main road because the driver didn't want to get stuck in this area because of all this rain. I had to trudge my way to your house through rain, mud, and small floods, and I almost got hit by lightning once or twice."

I put my arm around her to comfort her. She leaned into me while holding her cup of tea and stretched her legs across the sofa. Just my luck, her flaps opened even further as she held the cup in both hands and stretched her elbows out to keep them from hitting me. I had such a clear view of her breasts! I don't know if she was aware of the fact that I could see her breasts so completely exposed. Her nipples were still hard, which I assumed was probably due to the cold from the shower and the rain.

I didn't want to, but I couldn't keep myself from looking at them. Since her eyes were turned away from me and she couldn't really see me staring at her—nay, ogling her—I didn't see any reason to avert my eyes. I noticed that she had really thin and fairly long nipples that actually extended quite a bit from her breasts. Her breasts looked really nice and I felt a slight movement between my legs. I was looking at my mother's breasts and I was feeling slightly turned on. I had this strong desire at that moment to cup those breasts in my hand and squeeze her nipples between my thumb and forefinger. I quickly had to shake the idea out of my head, as those breasts belonged to my mother.

With the music of the thunder playing in the background, heavy rain dancing outside, the howling wind playing a mysterious, supernatural song, the view from the bathroom constantly playing in my head, and now those breasts so on display, I couldn't help but feel aroused. That full, unrestricted, and uncensored sight of those breasts stoked something inside of me. My breathing picked up some pace and my blood started to flow a little faster through my body.

"I don't know what is wrong with me," She continued, and I just listened. "I do everything possible to make him happy, to be a good wife, and what do I get in return?"

I didn't answer. There was no answer. I assumed it was most likely a rhetorical question.

She sipped her tea as she paused for some time. The silence was quite loud, to borrow a metaphor. I turned slightly to my right to ease the pressure she was putting on my shoulder. Her back was now against the right side of my stomach, with the back of her head touching my chest. Her head was just below my chin. My hand was resting along the top of the sofa. As she leaned back a little lower, the flaps of her robe dropped down and covered her breasts from my view. I couldn't see them any longer, but her nipples were still pressing through the material of her gown. They were still quite hard.

I wanted to ask her about the problems that they were having, but I was afraid that she would then probably tell me everything, and I didn't want to hear it. I didn't really want to hear the details of her problems, because in most marriages, the problems usually revolve around money or sex, especially sex, where one spouse is either uninterested in having it or is having it with someone else, while the other tries to hold onto the marriage and make it work.

She started telling me about the petty fights that they were having and how minor issues became major arguments. She described his behaviour towards her and how he did this, and he did that, basically venting to me all of her bottled-up frustrations. I listened to her as she described how he was no longer paying attention to her feelings and how she was being taken for granted. She didn't quite come out and say it, but I could sense that there was some physical abuse as well.

There were long pauses during her tirade, and I used those pauses to caress her arm or give her a slight hug to show my moral support.

Then she blurted out her main problem. "You know, it's been months since we've had any sex."

Dammit! I cursed in silence. I didn't want to hear about it. Even worst, I didn't want to respond to it, because that would only bring about more details.

"I don't even remember what a penis feels like anymore. My body is all closed up."

Shoot! Those were some of the details that I didn't want to hear.

"The problem is you men," she said as she was contemplating something in her head. "You guys don't know when you have something good. You only realise it when it is gone."

There it was! The eventual male bashing in such situations. I had to take it and I was thankful that she had finally reached that point. Now we could finally start winding down.

"Then again, maybe it is me. Maybe I am not good-looking enough, or sexy enough, or young enough." I could sense her tears well up as her male-bashing turned to self-pity so quickly.

I took the cup away from her and put it on the coffee table. I then held her in my arms and let her cry, as I said the comforting words that I knew she needed to hear, "It can't be that, mom. You are a very beautiful and sexy woman."

She had turned towards the sofa, her arms around me, and her upper body pressing gently against my chest. She said, "You are just saying that." Apparently, she was fishing for more.

"I am not just saying that. I mean it. I sincerely think that you are a beautiful, sexy, and rather young-looking woman." Okay, so I overdid it with the young-looking comment, but it seemed like that's exactly what she wanted to hear.

She looked up and said, "Thank you, son. I hope you never turn out like those guys."

"I don't think I will, mom. If I ever find a woman like you in my life, I would cherish her for all she is worth." Those words came out in the heat of the moment and they seemed like the right words for me to say to comfort her.

Then I decided to make light of the situation, hoping for a break in her gloom. "I promise that if I have a woman like you, I would never let her body close up on her."

I said that as a joke and I was smiling. She looked at me and I could see a smile on her as well. She gently hit my hand and said, "You've always been kind of naughty. I have actually been missing that."

I decided to go a little further and see if I could actually make her laugh. I said, "I promise I will pry her open as many times as humanly possible." I even chuckled myself just to see if she would respond accordingly.

I could sense that my comments were lifting the clouds from her mood. Her tears started to dry up and she stopped crying soon thereafter. She even got out of my arms and sat up.

I took the cup to the kitchen and then fetched a pillow and a blanket from my room. My plans were to let her sleep in my bed while I took the sofa for myself. Instead, she took the pillow and the blanket from me, waited for me to sit down again next to her, and then she placed the pillow in my lap, covered herself in the blanket, and rested her head on the pillow. Her knees were bent into a foetal position, facing towards the TV. I put my hand on her arm and started to caress it gently. We both sat there, listening to the rain.

Before long, she was fast asleep. I kept caressing her arm until I was sure that she was in fairly deep sleep. I guess she was quite tired from her ordeal and from the trip through that heavy rain. I could hear her snoring over the noise of the rain and the wind. After quite a long time, I decided to ease myself out from under her head. I fixed her head nicely on the pillow, covered her properly with the blanket, turned the heater on low, and went to my room to sleep, which, again, must have taken a long time to come.