Harmattan

Chalk-white faces, chapped lips and infected footsoles, Harmattan, she has come again, announcing her presence like a proud royalty's entourage. Mothers clad their infants in thick clothes like north pole elves, motorcyclists cruise around town with watery eyes mourning the chill of the early morning continental trade wind. Dry tree leaves dance to the rhythm of the wind, the dance of death, as they fall to the ground amid rising dust, dry air and hazy skies, gathering mist sits atop the mountain like a crown on a King's head. The local tea shop owner beams with a toothless smile envisaging high patronage, and from the eastern horizon a seemingly shy thermal source rises slowly