You have come mightily upon my brows,
Yet blessing my folly when I had cried nude and
Watery,
My vagitus loud with the frenetic timbre of wartime
You have swept through the corridors of
Silhouetted stalks, fanning lean, vertical leaves that shield
The nakedness of the African seasons —perched
And soggy,
And at waking time, when November bares its
Thunder-whetted fangs with the ruthlessness of a Puff adder.
It is cold and skin-whitening.
Streaks of flaking, dancing rods descend on femurs un-pumiced.
Dehydrated throats accompany ancestral hymns on the
Humming bees’ melody, stifling the courage of the Tchagra.
Drab, and cracking the serrated softness of heels and
Stale, moss-ridden kernels, the waves of the storm,
Blinding, besiege our common sempervirence,
Long lost among the blurred firmamental gaze
And straw-gold material upon this prostituted earth.
Snuggly warmth comes by the power of woodsmoke
When dawn, shy from the raillery of the rising sun,
Hastens to the coronation of sacred rain beyond
Our limits —a pomp of relegated and flustered seasons.
The sky was draped in night’s black cloak,
With a sprinkle of white specks in bloom.
The yellow moon slipped into a gibbous cocoon,
As sunshine fretted in crescent-shaped kites.
But the streets today were painted in bright colours—
They cloaked the rainbow in a toga of envy.
Many danced and sang in melodious harmony,
Dressed like masquerades with neither masks nor veils.
The clouds were clear and gleamed with a faint glow,
Since the last drop of rain they’d stored was in October.
It was the music, played on hand-held instruments,
That shook off harmattan’s dryness from trees and grasses.
"This carnival is like no other,"
A lady in red and white whispered to her husband.
They, like many others, had traveled from far and wide,
To sway their hips and jiggle their feet to Motherland Africa.
The hordes of strange faces mingled with local ones—
Each year, new loves are sparked, and babies are born.
Many a mulatto grows with one half of their roots in photos,
Yet every year brings memories sweet and strong.
1
Autumn, harmattan
—forest everywhere
births green or rust hue
2
Harmattan
—my lips are eager
to map the season
3
Fog-ensnared ocean:
fishermen gasp
in the net of harmattan
©Nket Godwin
CATTLE EGRET
Makinde Adebayo Adeniyi
Silken, snow-white feathers
Slender, elegant legs
Lovely long sinuous neck
Beautiful and benignly noble head
Stout, straight, sharp beaks
The cattle egret
Seen in the dry season
In symbiosis
With cattle and the wild
Visitors to the quiet countryside
Feeding on ticks and insect
Migrating with the arrival of the rains
To distant arid land
The cattle egret
Harmless as a dove
Graceful in flight
Beautiful in sight
Her arrival, like the sweet angels
Bring the sandstorms
Dusty, dense, dry vegetation in cold weather
Interspersed with hot noons
And that sweet aroma of harmattan
bounty body blushing
heaving hoisted hankering
under tainted touch
callous harmattan clutched
felon feelings fostering
damped desires drooling
smoggy soles scrunching
gaunt hands groaning
laced lips whitening
la-de-da limbs lurching
voluptuous treachery vying
indifferent services squashing
damped faces drying
nocturnal nature smirking.
20:01:04:11:17
~Note~ Dedicated to this crazy harmattan.
The icy talons of nature
Claw for my soul
Leaving my body
A broken home
First, my sense of smell
Then, my power of speech.
Left distraught I was,
Incapable of roaming the earth
Wreaking havoc vengefully,
The dust of the earth did
Slither into my nostrils
And down my spine
And like gods against a man
The frost of stars fallen
And that which man was born of
Came with the curse of harmattan
Harmattan Is Upon You
When cooler nights delay arousal
from the peace of sleep's blindfold
and the joy of a monthly paycheck
is blurred by the inertia to rise up
The Sun remains robed in a haze
even long after daylight's first glow
and her regal radiance is enfeebled
into a wretched imitation of winter
Leaves, each, in prayer for the next
As they smell their deaths in the air
dessicate, turn golden and fall off
and are blown into uneven spreads
Lush green grass patches go bald
evocative of ringworm infestation;
your skin turns white and flakes
or, is covered in a Vaseline shine
Valuables and wastes, a spark away
lie in idle wait to be thoroughly licked
by red dancing tongues, into oblivion
at nature's mirth, or someone's folly
Kids are fixated on the long holidays:
fancy clothes, carols and merriment
as, in bold ambition, dust laden wind
brings to you, a piece of the Sahara.
HARMATTAN.
The early morning breeze,
That makes us freeze,
On our bed covered with blankets,
As if we lay inside a casket,
Putting on stockings that are anklets,
Being reluctant to wake up,
And not considering to dress up,
For the day to start off.
Wet garments easily dehydrated,
As if it was stiffened,
Glasses covered with dust,
Wind raising dust,
As strong as elephant tusk,
Fires warming in the dusk,
Ignited by the dry coconut husk.
THE HARMATTAN
Prepare,prepare,O prepare
The white breeze is invading
The sun is winning the race
The rain is in coma
The dust is dancing and ringing its whistling alarm
Mothers covering their children with their Hijabs
Young ladies no longer enjoy the nunu trade
Shepherds and nomads leaving the northern game for the grasses are beginning to fade
Bring the Vaseline for anointing the lips
The war have began and the lips suffer the defeat
Children are now becoming white men
Their ebony dark skin fading
Their handsome black faces fading
Ladies carry lipstick like the Chaldean princess
But the battle must be fought for long without victory.
As the dust settles on your windscreen
I appear
I’m here!
I’ll write you a harmattan letter
Yeah, that’s me!
If I wish to be naughty,
I’ll draw you a caricature
I’ll write you a love message
Or maybe I’ll instruct you,
“Wash me!”
“Dust me!”
“Clean me!”
Or
“Please, love me!”
Hehehe…
I’ll write you a harmattan letter
And then, I’ll run away!
Far enough to watch you scream
To see you shout
And curse your heart out
How amusing that would be!
Mischief at its peak!
Oh! How I love the harmattan!
Dusty and dry!
Brown everywhere
Dust on cars
Dust on my car
Dust on your car!
So as you read this poem
Please check your windscreen
You’ve got mail, honey!
I sent you a letter
A sweet harmattan letter
Read it with a tender heart
Hehehe…
Lots of love from me
Your sweet sweet Harmattan Joker
XOXO
By Sylvia Chika
[email protected]
http://sylviachika.blogspot.com/
http://sylviachika.wordpress.com/
https://www.facebook.com/sylviachikablog
Instagram: @sylviachikawrites
BBM Channel: C002F2845
Twitter:@sylviaoz
© 2016 Sylvia Chika
As cold dry wind blows all over,
Skins get cracked like hole with no cover,
Several white faces move sluggishly,
Harmattan is here.
Throats request for soothing water,
Babies need warmth which is better,
Flu and cough mingle constantly,
Harmattan is here.
Whistling wind that makes cherries blossom,
With falling leaves which is now a custom,
Sweaters and coats appear colorfully,
Harmattan is here.
Vaseline and menthol high in supply,
Poor visibility ,pilots have to comply,
Coffee ,tea and wine become friendly ,
Harmattan is here.
Jeez! ,my throat and nostrils are dry,
Night is cold ,dawn cozy ,I can,t cry,
For this weather comes once yearly,
Harmattan is surely here.
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
Harmattan is here again!
The air is cold and dry
Gone for the while is
the rain
The children are cold,
hot and so they cry.
Their parents
themselves are on the
brink
Of frustration cos
everywhere is covered
in dust
And scarcely available
is water to drink
Cos the wells are
getting dry and they
have to thrust
And tug at the drawer
to get the coloured
solvent
From the abnormally
deeper well
Which had been made
so by no other agent
But the harmattan dust
that no one can tell!
Harmattan is here but
we are alive
And kicking. As as in
the years past, it we
shall survive!
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