The Rain That Broke My Pride

The first real lesson I learned as a boy was simple but unforgettable: always have a backup plan

It was a grey, brooding afternoon in our village, the kind where the skies growl their warnings before letting loose their full wrath. The old mango trees swayed and whispered secrets to the impatient winds, and the smell of wet earth already teased the nostrils. Everyone knew rain was coming — the kind that made rivers out of footpaths and turned the air itself into a noisy drum.

I should have stayed inside. Even my grandfather, Baba, who loved me more fiercely than the sun loves the earth, begged me to take the old family umbrella. It was big and strong, older than me, with the smell of wood and age clinging to its frame. Its black fabric, patched in places by Baba’s careful hands, had seen more storms than I had birthdays.

"Take it, ‘inda," he said, his voice a low rumble of concern, "Even the strongest man bows to the rain."

But pride, that sly enemy of many young men, had already set its hooks in my chest. I was eleven, full of all the foolish bravado boys seem to think will shield them from the world. I shook my head, laughed, and said, "It’s just small rain, Baba. I’ll be quick!"

He gave me a long look, the kind that holds both love and disappointment, and watched silently as I jogged off, kicking stones with the energy only a stubborn boy can muster. I felt his eyes on my back, heavy and knowing.

The errand was simple enough — deliver a small parcel of herbs to Mama ize at the other end of the village. It should have taken fifteen minutes, maybe twenty if I stopped to chatter with friends. But barely five minutes into the journey, the heavens split open.

It wasn’t the playful, teasing rain that sometimes tickled the village during the dry season. No, this was a war cry from the skies. It was as if all the waters of the Niger had decided to descend at once. The rain pummeled me, cold and relentless, flattening my hair to my scalp and filling my shoes with gritty water. My thin shirt clung to my back like a second, miserable skin. I tried running, but the earth had turned to slippery red mud, and I slipped and stumbled like a newborn calf, more than once falling to my knees.

From behind their wooden doors, the villagers watched, their eyes silently speaking the wisdom they’d long since learned. I caught glimpses of faces peering out: Mama abdul, old Mr. thankgod, even the mischievous twins, fattai and abdul. Some even called out offers of shelter, their voices warm against the cold, but shame tightened my chest. I kept moving, drenched, freezing, and miserable, clutching the sodden parcel to my chest like a drowning man would clutch driftwood.

By the time I finally staggered back home, dripping like a broken tap, my teeth chattering uncontrollably, Baba was waiting at the door. He said nothing — just handed me a dry towel, his rough, calloused hands lingering a moment on my shoulder, and a steaming bowl of pepper soup, the smell of ginger, garlic, and hot peppers filling the air and thawing the icy pride that had nearly frozen me.

That night, as the rain drummed lullabies against the corrugated iron roof, he sat by my bedside. The room smelled of old wood and warmth. He tucked the blanket tighter around me and said, in that quiet, steady way of his, "Pride is good when it makes a man stand tall. It is foolish when it makes him ignore the storm."

His words sank into me deeper than any scolding could have. From that moment on, I’ve carried a reminder: true wisdom doesn’t always come from grand victories or loud triumphs. Sometimes, it comes from the small, humbling moments — the quiet humility of accepting help, of knowing when to bow to the storm, even if it’s just by carrying an old umbrella on a rainy afternoon.