Hot days, cold nights.
Longer nights, shorter days.
I could hear the cold breeze hiss pass our zinc roof,
It’s hands hit our newly replaced glass windows with a loud bang,
As it returned dust and sand to our veranda.
The sun governed the day with pride and reckless abandon.
The earth grumbled.
The flood gates of heaven were shut and their keys stashed in the sand.
The streams refused to carry water.
The deep gully caused by the rains in June had created a plunge on the path of our streams.
The rains seeped through our roof and spoiled our ceiling.
It was the season of full moons,
The planting season for tomatoes, and the season for harvest of yams.
I saw my lips tear, stained with a tint of my my own blood.
A different kind of air greeted my lungs with every inhale I drew.
A pound of haze in the early hours of the morning circumvented my dim illumination.
I fancy this time of the year, the cold that accompanied morning baths. The chills and shivers that runs down my body with water as I screamed with excitement at the intense sensation.
The sound of the wind that salutes me on my way to school, as I struggle to go against its direction with eyes half-closed.
“Apply some lotion on that dry skin of yours and wear a cardigan, harmattan is here,” mother yelled.