Remembering Hurricane Beryl

A government that doesn’t come to its people’s aid in a time of trouble can’t earn the people’s trust. Only standing by the people in times like that shows the humane side of those in power and earn them unconditional love.

When Hurricane Beryl eventually unfurled itself over Houston, it was a howl leaving the city trembling beneath its weight, the sky bruised a deep, threatening purple, and the streets seemed to fold in on themselves as the rain poured down in relentless sheets.

Neigbouring cities like Richmond, Cypress and Katy also felt the pang of what the winds had been heralding for days.

In homes, windows rattled in their frames like nervous fingers tapping against a glass pane, and the walls seemed to pulse with every rumble of thunder.

The wind pressed against glasses, a fierce pressure, as though it were trying to find a way inside, to slip through the cracks and wrap its fingers around their lives.

Beryl wasn’t the first storm the city had weathered but, in a way, it felt like the most intense. The internet and phone networks soon vanished.

Where I live, the lights flickered once, twice, and finally gave up. The house went dark, save for the flicker of lightning that painted the walls in pale, ghostly hues.

The rain was not falling—it was hammering, sheets of water slamming against windows, as if the sky had broken open and decided to empty itself in one breath. Every gust of wind seemed to push at homes, like some invisible hand testing its strength.

As the night wore on, the storm outside began to weaken.

The following morning, I set out for Southwest Houston; my car moved slowly along the highway, the storm’s fury now a memory, but its presence still lingering in the air, like the echo of a scream. The sky above was a dull, bruised grey, as though the clouds hadn’t yet decided whether to stay or drift apart. The sun fought to break through, sending pale beams of light through cracks in the sky, casting long shadows across the landscape.

I pressed my foot down on the gas, steadying myself against the wind’s push, eyes fixed on that distant glow. Inside the car, there was only the quiet beat of my heart and the steady hum of the engine.

The road was littered with the storm’s debris—a mix of broken billboards, neon signs, tree limbs, leaves plastered wet against the asphalt, and small, forgotten things that had been lifted from one place and carelessly dropped somewhere else.

Power lines sagged like weary soldiers, leaning over, some still trembling from the night’s assault. Puddles, deep and wide, shimmered in the morning light, reflecting the broken world around them.

The trees along the road, those that hadn’t been uprooted, stood like survivors, their branches stripped bare in places, torn leaves scattered like confetti from some violent celebration. Palm fronds lay strewn across medians and shoulders, their once proud, upright forms now sprawled helplessly across the concrete. The landscape looked as if it had exhaled all at once, a heavy sigh of exhaustion after a night spent bracing against the hurricane.

There was a quiet stillness in the air, one that didn’t quite feel like peace, but rather, a kind of numbness, as if the earth was still catching its breath. The city too was waking slowly, like someone recovering from a fever. The buildings stood, some bruised, others seemingly untouched, but all of them marked in some way by the night that had passed. A few stores had boarded-up windows, hastily scrawled messages still visible—’Stay safe’, ‘Closed until further notice’—small signs of human resilience in the face of nature’s indifference and assault.

I passed through neighborhoods where the streets were eerily quiet, the houses crouched low, their roofs dripping water from eaves that had sagged under the storm’s weight. Fences were down, mailboxes tilted at odd angles, and trash cans lay scattered, rolling slowly in the breeze, as if unsure of where they belonged. The people were just beginning to emerge, cautious and slow, their faces etched with a mixture of relief and weariness, stepping out to assess what Beryl had left behind.

The air still carried the scent of rain, but beneath it was the smell of wet earth, of things newly exposed—soil torn from the ground, damp wood, and the faint, sharp scent of ozone that always lingered after lightning. It was the smell of something raw, something unsettled.

Returning home took hours, hours of turning back from flooded roads, roads closed because trees had fallen on them, roads dangerous for humans to drive on. At a point, I drove into the compound of a Southwest Farmer’s Market, parked and tried to sleep. The store was closed like every other business on the complex.

When I eventually hit the road again, I tried a road earlier blocked by a police vehicle and the vehicle was no longer there, but the barricades were still there. A small opening let my car glide through and I escaped to the road to my home. After some twists here and there, I got home. There was still no light, but less than thirty minutes after, the light came on and the internet also came back. The generators some neigbours used to fill the blank died and silence ensued. Many other neigbourhoods waited for days before electricity was restored. And businesses struggled for longer to regain what nature took from them.

My final take: Within days, the government unveiled a palliative cash and within days, thousands were sent cheques for foodstuffs lost because of power failure, damages to properties and so on. That is what responsive governments do. They have no control over the hurricane but they offer succour to the people. 

A government that doesn’t come to its people’s aid in a time of trouble can’t earn the people’s trust. Only standing by the people in times like that shows the humane side of those in power and earns them unconditional love.