I sing of the days when the North winds wove whirlwind
Spirals of dust and dry leaves
And, wearing the dust on our feet as stockings
We would race about as carefree as the icy air itself

I sing of chapped lips and loving mothers’ fingers laden with
Vaseline to soothe the cracks

I know when we stretched cold hands over dancing orange flames
When the barns were heavy with yams and grains
When we lazed in the biting hazy evenings trading riddles and folktales

But, maybe, listening through leaves and eaves
The Harmattan knew more of us and our ways
Than other seasons, they got jealous
Imprisoned her liberty in black soot
Thick with fumes and carbon
she lies confined where even soap fails to cleanse

Come back sweet harmattan
Awaken in me again that nostalgia of barefooted Christmases
The misty past of my early childhood
The early loss of parents and lonely hymns from in orphanage.