The rains have stopped a while
The sun roars out a challenge
” Now who to stop me ?”
The tress are undressed except the ever shy mango
The green fields are red and brown and then yellow
Like a chameleon for fear of the earth trembling from
It’s footsteeps, running among the shoulders of trees
It is harmattan and the pathways add extra make up
To the beautifully polished shoes and hills making
Them blush like a white man hearing the smell of “kpalgu” and smelling the noise of a zambarama tune

Miaze and millet have been harvested in the Savannah
And the rice sown under them give a strong sigh
The policeman birds and the masquerade tussle
Everybody waited for the last rain but it had fell
The rice frowns now and start to dwindle. Here
Man forces the pregnant teens grains to reproduce

It’s harmattan and the air is dry and wild
It’s sharpness too digging valleys in our feet
And cracking the lips so we can’t kiss the laddle
That fetches the “Bra” soup from the earthen pot
Our only protection we knew was from the Shea tree
But where is it now ? At least we have “pum da” now.

It’s harmattan and everything starts late
If snow could fall they would in the mornings
School children miss the school bus
For mothers too fear the early cold
It’s harmattan and everything is fast.

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