The rains came in April like they always do,
like a relative who says they'll stay a week
and stays a season.
Mombasa Road went under by four.
Your office sent everyone home.
Mine didn't, so I sent myself.
By six the city was a wet animal lying down,
matatus stopped with their music still playing,
and we were in my flat with the power flickering
and two cups of chai going cold on the windowsill
because neither of us could remember why we'd made them.
I had my hand against the glass. It was cool.
The rest of me was not.
You came up behind me — not touching, close,
close enough that the hair on my arms
knew it before I did —
and you said, very low, near my ear,
_how long do you think it'll rain?_
All night, I said. All night.
Maybe all week.
And you put your mouth on my shoulder
where the strap of my dress was,
and moved the strap a little with your teeth,
and the rain on the tin roof of the building next door
went from a whisper to a drumroll
as if the whole sky had been waiting for a cue.
Let it flood. Let the roads close.
Let the whole of Nairobi stay home and listen to the water.
We have chai. We have candles.
We have, it turns out,
everything we need
and a very, very long time.
