Harmattan

The rains are now a distant memory;

All that was green now a dusty brown 

Over the hills and vales, and 

through every crack and crevice,

the dusty gusts rummage.

The land, is blanketed by

a chilly fog of dust, stirred by

persistent long drafts,

The mighty Harmattan.

That leaves the streams thirsty,

kisses dry lips bloody,

cracks heels and soles sore, 

makes dry tunnels of our noses,

stretches our skins taut dry,

making a bruise thrice as painful,

a playful pat on the back

quite a punishment to giver and receiver, 

and dashing the foot against a stone 

brings tears to the eyes of a grown man.

Yes, that's the Harmattan! 

The north wind that sweeps the land;

bringing the flu, the cough, and the cold.

Sends us all to bed sooner,

and wakes us later,

makes the children skip bathing, 

and our mothers conceive sooner,

yes, that's the Harmattan.

What shall we give to appease your chill?

Tattered sweaters on bony frames

and early fires from every compound,

men, women and children gather 

to draw warmth before the sun rises

to dispel the stiff chill 

Only to usher in the dusty flares.

Thus have you been, and 

thus, are you now.

Neither concrete nor stone walls,

can brake or still your chill.

 

Teach us your will and charm

To tread as defiant in your stride

Not to supplant you, no

Only to seek your passion,

To learn your devotion

So to pursue our dreams and hopes

And never be daunted by rock or barricade.