Prose poem for Eid Mubarak

In the local park, hundreds are out in their finery. Young men wear snazzy Bez-specs; little girls are startled in their wedding cake frocks, while older girls and women wrap translucent shawls over dresses in the northern style.  

The pony handlers are doing brisk business, two-up per under-nourished horse.  The grass smokers loiter contentedly in their usual spot, puffing out sweet herbal clouds.  The photographers’ patch is thronged, a little photo printer rolling out future nostalgia inside the scrum.

The tensions of the last few days: no fuel, insecurity and the Mpape demolitions, seem to float off, at least for the while.

And then, the firmament opens.  Damina rain gushes down with pent-up fury.  People race for cover under the trees, cram beneath sparse umbrellas and sardine their way inside the keke napep.   

All scamper except for one or two rollerbladers, who sense that a stage is theirs.  One has lights on his blades that sparkle to his rhythm; another twists and turns in arabesques of rain-soaked delight.

All of life waits for the downpour to stop.  And I trudge home, drenched to my bones.