Now the dry season has come
finally the fog has descended.
The harmattan has come
the season of chilly mornings has begun.
In the sky, the sun is standing
like a hot plate of custard stuck up there;
its once radiant glow is now comparable
to the glow of a torchlight with dying batteries.
Helpless it seems to be
for its fiery heat cant tame the biting cold.
The cold always seems to creep
thro’ cardigans of varying thicknesses;
making people shiver
like vegetable seedlings swaying to a zephyr.
The clouds it seems are tired and have fallen,
the fog seems to get thicker and thicker
day by day
and it looks as if we are inside smoke without fire.
Or is the neighbour’s house on fire?
Nothing there is to do about the cold
the creator we cannot blame
for the seasons he hath created well.
To suit our mercuric desires,
all we can do is wait till noon
when the sun will fully recuperate
and expel the raging cold.
For these I tell you are the harmattan mornings.
Credits: Ayanjompe George.