• Akosua Biraa

Sudden Storm







She stepped out ill prepared for the worst. After all, the mute-grey blanket of the sky threatened nothing more than a bland muggy stillness—as that had been the weather’s state all day. Still, just in case, she kept a small umbrella—at the ready, tucked under her arm.


Walking briskly, she passed several hedgerows that quivered in response to a subtle change in temperature. And as they did so, a spitting rain began its descent—giving her umbrella purpose.


By and by, the minute water droplets created a shimmery sheen on the surface of her umbrella, sliding in unison over its curved form. They gathered momentum on the outer edges of the black umbrella, just before sliding off and down, far, far onto the ground.


Soon a frisky breeze joined into the light fare, sending random bits of rain onto her clothes and ostensibly into her face. This she met with indifference, although picking up her pace in response to what she could see was a darkening sky.

The breeze, no longer content with whispering about her, began an aggressive joust. And not to be left out of the burgeoning brawl, the spitting rain began a serious shower that pelted her brolly.


The wind blew the rain hither and tither, as vertical sheets of the downpour darted diagonally from place to place. It seemed now to be intentionally targeting her legs, back, arms and even—most definitely—her face.


At this juncture, a sneaky gale came clean out of nowhere. It whistled down and then up and under her brolly, forcing it backwards—inside out—against a straining handle. It then began a tug-of-war, buffeting an already fluttering and flailing umbrella, which was failing miserably in protecting her from the downpour that now included little pellets of ice.

All original purpose lost, forgetting why she had stepped out in the first place, she fought a losing battle with the gale force of the wind yanking back and forth, while the hail-filled rain viciously lashed her about her face.

Drenched, she recognized her folly and so let the umbrella go. It skittered left, right and then kite-high up into the pitch black.


She was now alone in her exposure and defeat, but she spotted a modicum of shelter. Unexpected. It was in the shape of an old-fashioned phone booth—a relic, reminder of days long gone.


She quickly made her wet way towards it.


She flung herself into the red booth, only managing to do so after a mini-battle with opening a highly wind-battered door.


She was so very glad to be out of the elements—albeit standing in a small rapidly swirling puddle of water, where her shivering too set in.


Here, she would have to wait out this sudden storm.




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