Harmattan

A Poem by Chebem Ike

The rain has packed in its wet bag
It's fearsome thunder and startling lightening
To-I-know-not-where
The wind from the sea of sand - sahara
Unpack's from it's dry bag, dust and drought
On old, natural, dark and dauntless Africa
Skins are turning white, lips cracking
Like the old man's mud house
Whose thatch roof was set ablaze
By stray fire from the burning bush
Blown by the gusty white wind
The children dart about
Puffing and panting, coughing and sneezing
And catching on their drying palms
The ashes of the old man's roof
Falling like snow on white European street
And crunching as they go, with their broken
Some bleeding heels
The dried out leaves of emaciating trees
Now the old man daily sits and smiles
His gray hair laden with dust
Under the time-eaten orji tree
At the cross road of generations
Having refused to acquire for himself
The shiny, yet rusty zinc of modernity
Now the cities are emptying into the villages
All road leading to home towns
Now there are more folks( mostly those who daily sleep under the zinc of modernity)
To laugh at the old man's "petulance"
Yet the old man is unwavering
Even as the blazing sun in the afternoons
Mocks our shivering bodies in the mornings
Still he sits daily smiling
The children are most excitable
The parents sullen and anxious
All in anticipation of the new king born
And the year's end