Promises in the rain

The rains came early that year. Our small town, usually covered in dust and heat, turned into a place of puddles and dripping roofs. The air smelled of wet earth and mango leaves, and the nights were filled with the sound of rain falling steadily on our tin roof.

It was during one of those evenings that Emmanuel and I walked together under his old black umbrella. The market had closed early because of the storm, but he insisted on walking me home. The streets were muddy, and the sound of our footsteps splashed in rhythm with the rain.

“Do you know what I like about the rain?” he asked, his hand brushing mine as he held the umbrella high enough to cover both of us.

“What?” I asked, though I already found myself smiling at his tone.

“It hides things. Tears, for example. No one can tell if you’re crying or not. But it also makes things softer, quieter. Like now. The whole world is just us.”

His words wrapped around me like the rain itself—gentle, insistent, impossible to escape. I felt my heart pounding in my chest, the kind of rhythm that made me both afraid and alive.

“You talk too much,” I said, trying to sound playful, but he laughed and reached for my hand. This time he did not let go.

That night, when I returned home, Lydia was waiting for me. She leaned against the doorframe with that knowing smile of hers.

“You’re glowing,” she teased. “If Mama sees your face, she’ll start asking questions.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t hide the truth. Something inside me had changed. Emmanuel wasn’t just a young man in town anymore. He was the person who made my world feel larger than the narrow streets and gossiping neighbors.

Over the weeks, our bond deepened. He came to our compound often, always greeting my parents with respect. Mama seemed to approve of him, though she asked many questions. Papa, on the other hand, remained quiet. He observed Emmanuel with sharp eyes, but never said much beyond the ordinary.

One Saturday afternoon, while I was washing clothes behind the house, Papa came and sat on a stool nearby. He was not a man of many words, so whenever he spoke, it carried weight.

“Matilda,” he began, his voice calm, “you must tell me the truth. Has this boy said anything about marriage?”

I looked down, embarrassed. “Not yet, Papa. But he says he loves me.”

My father sighed, his hands clasped together. “Love is easy to say. Promises are even easier. What matters is action. Be careful, my daughter.”

I nodded, though my heart refused to hear him. Emmanuel had promised me more than words—he had promised me a future. He often spoke of how he wanted us to build a life together, how he would never let me suffer. He said it with such conviction that I believed him, as if the world itself would bend to keep his promises alive.

One evening, as we sat beneath the old neem tree near the churchyard, Emmanuel leaned close and whispered, “You’re the only one I see, Matilda. I don’t care what anyone says. One day, you’ll be my wife.”

I felt tears sting my eyes, not of sadness, but of joy. I believed every syllable. His voice was steady, his gaze unwavering. At that moment, I was sure I had found the love of my life.

But life in a small town is never private. Whispers began to spread—neighbors murmuring about how often we were seen together, how close we had become. Some smiled at us kindly, while others shook their heads in disapproval. I ignored them. To me, Emmanuel’s love was worth more than gossip.

Still, Papa grew restless. One night, I overheard him telling Mama, “I don’t trust him. There’s something in his eyes I cannot place. He is hiding something.”

Mama tried to calm him. “They are young,” she said. “Let them be. Maybe it is love after all.”

I wanted to believe Mama was right. I clung to that belief as Emmanuel and I grew closer, as he began to visit me more privately, slipping notes into my hand, stealing moments in quiet corners. He told me I was beautiful, that no one could ever compare. He made me feel seen in ways I had never known before.

And yet, sometimes—just sometimes—I caught him looking away, his eyes clouded with thoughts he did not share. When I asked, he would smile quickly and change the subject. I told myself it was nothing, that perhaps I was imagining things.

Looking back now, I realize those were the cracks in the foundation, the signs that love was not as perfect as I thought. But at the time, all I saw was Emmanuel, and all I felt was love.

That love would lead me down a path I could never have imagined—one paved with secrets, betrayals, and a truth that would shatter everything I held dear.

But for now, in those rainy days of my youth, I let myself dream. I let myself believe that promises spoken in the rain would last forever.

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