Harmattan| Chimezie Umeoka
and it begins:
across the leaves and every flaying thing
across the receptacles of heat and passion
western dust becoming starwind.
a child masquerade saunters in the streets
his mystic costume soaking the dust as
he travels like a floating god.
a group of children surround him
singing rituals and libitations as though
they are trying to remember history.
the birds have learned to sing again
they perch on electric wires for way too long now,
and the squirrels are playing everywhere
through the jungle of bamboo branches; eating leaves
while neatly mirroring the form of a praying mantis.
in the distance a fowl tries to fly
away from the land imperialism of
a dog dry-nosed with clumps of catarrh.
we do not wait for the rains any longer
we sprinkle water on the gardens when we can
we water the floor before we sweep
we put on nose masks and socks
we smear creams heavily on ourselves;
we know someday, the rains will come
but this is no time to wait for it.
this is the time to reflect
on all the rains that had fallen
on our yearly life
it is the time we try to film ourselves
through the camera of memory.
we watch the dusts coat the ghommid
faces of a million cassava leaves,
we watch them bite the greenness of the forest
with their fangs of dryness.
we warn smokers to keep away from our farms
so that our plants do not snatch the capacity of burns.
and it begins:
the genesis folk of gentleness
the endless windsong and sandstorms
drying our pains and tears
with its brittle sub-saharan feelers,
like a voice whispering from the beyond:
step out—step out from the dampness of your sorrows.
so we gather at moonlight to tell stories
we laugh at the dryest child on the streets
we cook elaborate meals while waiting to celebrate
the thing that Mary’s pregnancy conceals.
we wait, as the giant ghost of the Sahara
takes a walk along the African West,
with the rains soaked in clouds over its head
like all of us waiting in the harmattan—
like all of us waiting for it to fall.
