Harmattan!
Your teeth is as sharp as
A butcher's knife:
You pierce through Africa
Leaving us with
Sketchy lines on legs
And lips
Striking us with your
Sultry wind.
Harmattan!
My grandmother you confine
To her mat,
For her weak bones cannot
Stand your dusty incursion.
Laughter ceases on our lips
And in its place
Stands a cheeky frown.
Harmattan!
Your cold han chills
My bones.
Be kind enough to spare
Our green field :
You wrench leaves
From their nodes:
Wreathed our trees
And hills in dew,
But in all, you come-
Yes, you come with
A gift of sweet sound sleep.