It’s Saturday, my favorite day of the week. I wake up to the smell of “thiouraye” (a traditional incense made from plants). I wake up my brother, have eggs for breakfast and get ready to go play with our neighbor, Binta. I wear my favorite pink Sketchers, some blue shorts and a tank top, ready to head outside. 

It’s hot and the trees are not moving at all, but luckily my friend’s house is in front of ours. We ring the bell and the housemaid opens the door. Just like any other Senegalese house, we are welcomed by the smell of “thiouraye” and  the cooks loudly chatting  in the kitchen about how the price of the potatoes have gone up and gossip about their husbands. 

My brother and I climb up the stairs and we open Binta’s room ready to start painting. However, to our surprise, we see her crying and her mother next to her calming her. 

“Massa.” (It’s going to be OK in Wolof.)

She kisses her on her forehead in order to reassure her.

Tears start running down my cheek and I wipe them off as soon as I feel them so my brother won’t see; it’s my duty as the eldest to be strong. We immediately ran home in complete silence. When we arrive, my grandma is sitting down on her prayer mat in our yard. 

“Grandma,” I say, “Why isn’t Mommy here whenever I’m sick or here to play with us? Can’t she not just take a plane?” She looks at me and says “Oh dear,” as she gives me a hug.

Just  like every time she never answers.

Growing up, while my friends would cry about things and complain to their parents, I had my grandparents. They did their best to make me feel like I was like any other kid, but it often felt like a lonely journey. I longed for someone to hear my endless passions and dreams, as other children did with their parents. 

True comfort came when I snuggled up with a blanket by the window, watching the rain. The sky suddenly became darker, the thunder teared through the sky and its scent always evoked a nostalgic longing for a reality I had yet to experience. Rain wasn’t just a source of comfort; it also carried a sense of hope. My grandmother always says,”Rain was a divine blessing. Whenever you ask God for something while it rains, He will answer your prayers.”

Therefore, whenever it started pouring, she would fold my tiny hands into hers and whisper a prayer, asking God to appease my heart and to protect us from any adversities. In those moments, rain transformed into a spiritual ritual of hope and healing. 

From time to time, I let the water trickle down from my head to my toes, feeling the drops wash away my worries and fears. The rain doesn’t just clean the earth; it cleanses my soul, carrying away the negative energy I’ve been holding inside. Looking back on my childhood memories, I can feel its presence as if it was part of me. Just the scent of rain in the air makes my heart race, knowing it’s about to start drizzling. It feels like reuniting with a long-lost friend, one I haven’t seen in years.  

The scent of rain reminds me of a mix of the ocean’s mist and the fresh, earthy aroma of soil. It reminds me of our deep connection to nature, a bond that’s both humbling and comforting. The steady rhythm of raindrops is a melody, a song that never fails to fill me with nostalgia. I feel grateful and happy I’ve opened my heart to it, that I can embrace the rain as my companion, as a friend and teacher. 

Whenever I visit my grandparents now, I reminisce about those moments where I felt so lonely and craved unconditional love from my parents. Now, however, I know I have other things to fulfill that empty hole: the song of the bird, the moonlight on the river, the rain, the space and connections with people. I realize I’m the one who’s truly in control of my emotions and feelings – those moments taught me a lot about myself, and awakened my love for art and the unknown.