Village boy Impressions

  They call her North who know her not or prefer the bliss of their own ignorance. Not I, and a million assorted voices Speaking a thousand tongues of men Whom she nurses in her fertile valleys And dandle on her rolling grassy plains We call her, home...   Land of many colours and contrasts; A vast desert of dusty brown in off-season; Battered black and broken with wind and fire.  But wait the rains in their time,  And yonder before us lie verdant valleys An endless stretch of wood and grassland, Amid which countless streams run, Sparkling in the sweet morning air!  In cultivated fields, women and men, daily Rejoice in the dignity of their labours, Children hop and play around every homestead, With unfeigned childhood delight and innocence. Herds of lumbering cattle graze across lush plains And what a delight to the eye to behold Every flower and blade of grass with pleasure,  Enjoy the very air they draw! My heart leaps at the sight of the meadows! The warmth of the breeze heals my he

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