All it took was one rainy night to change the world. 
The suffocating March humidity, the kind that makes your clothes stick to your skin and robs you of sweat and strength, has almost left the Kenyan coast, giving way to April showers. 
One of the first questions I get asked by Italians who want to visit Kenya is about the weather. Will it rain? Will it be sunny? 
Are the heavy rains heavy in the sense that the raindrops are superhumanly large? Are we sure that in the third week of the tenth month, from seven in the morning until three quarters of the twelfth hour, the barometric pressure will remain between 1012 and 1014 hPa? 
Will the wind be blowing from the south-east or perhaps from the south but a little more from the west? 
I thought Italians were known to be obsessed with food but, in all honesty, I've hardly ever been asked about the availability of Parmesan cheese or pasta in Kenya. Internationally, we'd probably deserve the title of weather maniacs. 

I always struggle to answer these kinds of questions. 
Firstly because with the climate changes of tomorrow there is no certainty, let alone of the next season, and secondly because I am in love with every climate and I experience every change in the weather with the surprise of a child waiting for Father Christmas (or Saint Lucia for the people of Brescia like me listening). 
In January I can't wait for April. 
The light, incessant rain beating on the roof, the leaves that look like velvet on which the drops rest when the weather clears up, the flowers that open and close to quench their thirst, the sea that puts the beach to rest under a duvet of seaweed. 
In May I dream of August with its mild and peaceful climate, the flowers dressed to the nines and the treetops styled to perfection, the warm sea that stretches and sometimes gets angry, the rain that comes suddenly to give a piece of its mind to the cows that graze recklessly on the roadside. 
In September I anxiously await the return of the Kaskazi, the wind that pushes the sailing ships across the ocean from November to March, the palm trees that let themselves be dishevelled, the swallows that are born in the nests they built years ago on the balcony beams, the bright sun baking the eggs in the little pans on the windowsill, the mosquitoes arguing about whether or not to go out, and about whether or not to wear a coat, considering the short rains. 
I hated March, but it hated me. It and its damned humidity, the month that chased Kaskazi from its days and refused to welcome Kuzi, who won't arrive until April. A month of clouds that grab you by the neck as if to suffocate you, a valley of gasping and sweat. 
But in the end, I survived it again this year, and so I believe that March plays a role in my love for the April showers and therefore should at least be appreciated. The low season with its indomitable rains make me feel at home and that's why I love them so much. It's hard to explain but for me it works like this: the rain starts to fall. 
Once, twice, three times. The wind returns to blow cool and the temperature drops by three or four degrees: irrelevant for tourists, the looming winter is important for me and for the Kenyans with whom I live and work. 
We take out Maasai socks and sheets to put on the bed, jackets and scarves, I even cook potato pie and gladly accept invitations for a hot chai instead of an espresso. 
It has happened that someone has made fun of me, or at best asked me for an explanation: ‘why are you wearing long sleeves, it's hot!’ The fact that I feel cool when it's only three degrees less than the rest of the year makes me realise that I now belong here. 
That my body has forgotten the torrid summers and harsh winters of the Po Valley, that my bones no longer await the warm return of the sun in spring and that my soul is no longer ready to get depressed about the impending autumn. 
And so I respect the rains that show me where Home is. Don't ask me, and don't even ask yourself, what the weather will be like! Nature will choose how to express itself and reveal itself. And you come to Kenya tomorrow, in May, for Christmas, in November and always. 
Be amazed by the sun that always sets at 6.30pm, by the beach full of seaweed that wasn't there yesterday, by the cold wind that makes you put on a sweater by the ocean in the evening, by the tides that eat away the sand and leave behind crabs and shells. 
Stop and observe how much a plant can change colour when pampered by a storm. 
Let the sun roast you, the rain soothe you and the wind chase you. For that week of holiday when you really want to switch off, switch off for real! Take off your watch, your weather app, your diary. Stay in the moment of the passing minutes and the dancing clouds and you will see that your soul will blossom with wonder too.

••• Michele Senici, 1993. Educator, teacher, project coordinator. I opened Casa Hera in Diani because I didn't know where to continue my life. Have I understood that now? Certainly not, but that's okay, at least I observe, think, write.