It was the kind of rain that knocked the power out. As thunder cracked, lightning lit up the sky in short, dramatic flashes. The chaos of a Namibian thunderstorm—a thing of raw and awe-inspiring beauty—unfolded in all its savage magnificence.

Inside the house we light oil lanterns and lay down towels to help with the worst of the water leaking into cracks and gaps beneath the doors. We hear the aggressive tapping of raindrops on the tin roof overhead and the pattering against windowpanes. A heavy noise, if sounds had weight, draws our attention to the garden outside where a large Apiesdoring tree has fallen over. Succumbing to years of drought and termite-eaten roots. No longer strong enough to withstand the gusts brought on by the storm.

A stunning storm. Beautiful in its ferocity.

Raw beauty aside, what it symbolises is so much more. In a land where rain is not just a weather event but a defining force, its arrival is met with a mix of gratitude, relief, and sometimes, bittersweet longing.

The farmer runs out to his rain gauge the moment the maelstrom settles into a gentle drizzle. How much reached the ground? How much was carried away by the winds, drifting to the east or west, soaking another stretch of soil no more or less deserving? The drought took its toll on us all, and even with the knowledge that others, too, deserve this blessing, it’s hard not to feel a pang of disappointment when the clouds skirt around your piece of earth—teasing, threatening, but ultimately leaving you dry.

And so, the ritual repeats. Heading out into intermittent drops, petrichor in the air, eyes fixed on the millimeter reading of a simple plastic cone that has become the keeper of your happiness. The measure of your mood.

The next morning, my husband drives out into the veld to check the other rain gauges scattered across the farm. The air is fresh, the dust momentarily settled, and even the animals seem to carry themselves with a lighter step, their expressions reflecting our own relief. He stops by a dark red termite mound, where the first omajova have pushed their way through the damp earth, a gift from the rain. Gathering them in his arms, he brings them home, a harvest of gratitude, ready to be cooked into a meal that tastes of the land itself—a reminder of how nature provides, when it can.

In a desert country like Namibia, so much depends on rain. When it comes, the earth responds with open arms, bursting into a vibrant celebration of life. Savannah grasslands rise again from barren hard-packed earth. Bright green leaves burst from stark black bush branches. Even the sands of the Namib, ancient and patient, rejoice—verdant patches of grass emerging almost miraculously across long-parched once-barren dunes.

Yet, as we celebrate the rain, we also brace ourselves for its absence. Each season is a new cycle of waiting, hoping, and worrying, a poignant reflection of life’s uncertainties. Its highs and lows. Its gifts and its cruel withholding.

But for now, we stand in the drizzle, faces turned upward, and whisper our gratitude to the skies. Navy thunderclouds roll in the distance.