Mr Katundu

In a town where it hadn’t rained in seven years, people stopped believing in clouds. They painted blue skies on their ceilings and told children that thunder was just a myth—like dragons or kindness. But Luma didn’t believe them. She was twelve, wore mismatched socks, and carried a glass jar everywhere. “For the rain,” she’d say. “When it comes.” They laughed. Called her Rain Girl. Whispered behind her back. One night, she climbed the old bell tower and whispered to the wind. Not a prayer. Not a wish. Just a dare. “If you’re real, prove it.” The next morning, the sky cracked open. One drop. Just one. It fell into her jar like a secret. She ran through the town, holding it high. “See? It’s real!” They didn’t believe her. Said it was dew. Said it was sweat. Said it was madness. So she left. Years passed. The town stayed dry. But stories spread—of a girl with a jar of rain, wandering from village to village, whispering to the sky. And wherever she went, clouds followed.