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,...
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