A temperate Nigerian Girl
Let the music of the wind wet your skin with the sweetness of rainfall upon parched earth -the type we have toiled so much to till.
Let your hair dance in the harmattan breeze so much as I would to wipe off the dust from your eye lashes and chisel a smile upon your face.
Let your shawl dance with the rest of the leaves that the ruthless sun hath spared,
Though he be gracious enough to leave your skin aglow like the leaves upon an olive branch .
Let the storms from Sokoto blow.
Let the rains from Lagos pour and flow,
Still, let me be the one that makes your blood boil and spill over to mix with the wind, the streams and the storm.