The rainy days is mating season for HOOMANS

It’s that time of year again. The rain is back, and with it, humanity’s collective urge to couple up like rabbits sensing the end of the world(Hump hump). I step outside into a damp, grey morning Addis in its full-blown July drizzle and already, I can smell it: not the rain, not the wet soil, not even the mud on someone’s overpriced boots. No. It's the scent of mating season, human mating season.

You know how animals do it? Penguins huddle for warmth and procreation. Lions roar and fight and mount with no subtlety. Peacocks display their feathers in a sad, desperate fanfare of glitter and flair. At least they’re honest. At least they do it within the bounds of instinct and biology. Humans, on the other hand; They do it with soft core trauma porn and then PDAs.

I walk into the office compound, umbrella in one hand, phone in the other, dodging puddles and existential dread. On my way, I witnessed two teenagers on the sidewalk, one sitting between the legs of the other as if the concrete wasn’t wet, as if love makes you waterproof. She giggles. He whispers something. Their foreheads touch. My eyes roll so hard I almost fall into a ditch.

I’ve never understood the compulsion to publicly display affection. If you’re cold, buy a jacket. If you’re lonely, read a book. If you must love someone, why punish the rest of us? There should be a permit for holding hands(or sharing saliva) in public at least then it would be regulated. This city already feels like a hormonal jungle, why add to the mess?

Rainy season makes people desperate. The cold seeps into bones and hearts, or whatever’s left of them. And so begins the seasonal migration: single people migrating into pairdom. I call them the Monsoon Mates, formed not from compatibility, but from a mutual fear of wet beds and empty weekends. You’ll find them hogging benches, clogging sidewalks, or worse, taking mirror selfies at restaurants pretending to be "lowkey."

What fascinates me isn’t that people fall in love, it’s that they keep doing it, again and again, as if the last time didn’t happen. Like moths to a flame, except the flame is a cringe

“I am cold.” followed by

“If i was there I'd warm you.” text

and the moth is wearing matching hoodies.In the office, it's no better. Mating season creeps in like humidity.

Suddenly, Mr. X from IT is spending just a little too much time by the HR desk. The woman from finance who’s been single since her last boyfriend cheated on her and keeps swearing off men one to many times is now glowing suspiciously. Something’s up. I sip my tea and watch them like a BBC wildlife documentary narrator:

"Here we see the male accountant attempting to court the female admin assistant by explaining the glory of his investment portfolio. Observe the flex of the elbow, the casual lean against the copier machine. A true marvel of artificial courtship."

What is it about the cold that convinces people they need another body to survive? I’ve lived through twelve rainy seasons, and am still breathing. Still functional. Still not moaning on sidewalks.I know, I know. I sound bitter. Maybe I am.

But it’s not because I’m unloved. It’s because I’m sane.( my friend always eyes me when I say this and says “Well, that's subjective.”) Because I’ve seen what romance does to people: it turns them into puddles of bad poetry and cliché bouquet buyers. It makes them write “forever” under photos that barely last a season. And most tragically, it makes them slow down in the middle of crowded streets to kiss. To kiss. In traffic. (I saw a man kissing a woman with full በቆሎ in his mouth.)

Maybe I’m just too uptight. A malfunction of the species. I don’t crave cuddles when it rains. I crave peace. And space. And dry socks. I don't dream of a partner; I dream of a world where people stop acting like romance is oxygen. It isn’t. It's a delusion wrapped in hormones, sprinkled with social pressure, and sold as salvation.

So yes, animals have mating seasons, and so do humans. The difference is, animals don’t make it a Netflix series. They don’t write cliché love letters about fate or dance in the rain like they’re not allergic to colds. They do it, then they move on. Efficient. Elegant. Honest.

Meanwhile Humans, We turn it into a soap operas. A seasonal epidemic of illusion, bad decisions, and tangled tongues on park benches. And as I walk past yet another couple sharing a single umbrella like it’s a metaphor, (or a parasitic infection) I pray for the sun not to dry the rain, but to dry the romance.

Let the mating season end.

Please.