(cover photograph direction: David Obi)
The brown dust on the horizon,
speaks of the cold to come beforehand,
and the fresh memories of the festival
in December, a time when the Saharan
storm thrives.
The young and old tour home to feast
with loved ones. The smell of the dust tells
of foggy mornings, smoky mountains, and city
dwellers parading their pearls to fizzle out of the
village, as the new year approaches, carrying a lot
of debt for the foolish villagers, one who borrows
money to impress the hamlet and the city-dwellers
who incur debt to entice the young girls. They,
the city-dwellers plant illegitimate seeds in
the young and scurry on time to dismiss
this claim when accosted.
January ends the fête. It extends the season’s dryness
and gradually paves the way for the heat.
The streams cease to run. Water goes into hiding.
The price of pure water is hiked. The sun reigns
In the sky. It wields its power overall. We weep through
our skin and patiently wait for the rainy season.
As time glides on, we learn about the aftermath of
the fete in the village.
