Harmattan, ọ̀rẹ́ atijọ́, do you remember us?
Once we counted your fingers on our zinc roofs,
and held our breath in white mornings,
our lips cracking prayers into the air.
School bells rang through sweaters and stiff knuckles.

Now, the dawn coughs with heat,
and dust lies like forgotten bones across the streets.
We search the sky for your shadow,
but December limps in without your blessing.
The wind is a pale echo,
a memory stretched thin,
dragging through the hollow rooms of our mouths,
through eyes that once squinted against your light.
Children no longer learn your patience,
the hush of frost,
the slow grace of chilled mornings.
Our ancestors whisper from the fissures of clouds,
their fingers tracing the absence of your breath.
Harmattan,
what name shall we call you now,
for the frost that no longer kneels
at the altar of our earth?