CHRISTMAS IN HARMATTAN

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Green turning amber
as old hair turn grey

The slender trees wither
and the tiny grasses too
The blades will not cut
blunted at the edges
by the taste of harmattan

The biege crust of sun-baked mud
with cracks, as the lips of a desert derelict
As if already begging for water
when the cold is yet to come
When only the aperitif is served
the full course still on course

The sun of the Sahara
smiling upon arid cities

I, await, the cold taste of harmattan

The smoky smell of Christmas
The cries of fattened broilers

I await Christmas in Harmattan

Written by: Adesina Collins Dhonphonie
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson

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