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kubra Abba Dec 2014
Harmattan!! Harmattan!!
My favourite season
Embrace of the crisp air
Sending chills through my body

Harmattan!! Harmattan!!
a little bruise
With so much pain
Such is my bodys fragility

Harmattan!! Harmattan
The mufflers, sweaters and gloves
All giving warmth
A universal feeling
Which makes us one

Harmattan!! Harmattan!!
The flu, cough and fever
Drowning my sickness
With pots of  hot soup and tea
Though, you come with so much baggage
I love you always and forever.
John okon Dec 2018
HARMATTAN.

How often stealthy rats squirmed about the
Hallway.
Harmattan blew colder than the warm heat of
My sitting room hearth.
I miss those awkward squeaks these days,
And the creaking errieness of my door,
Felt like,harmattan was inviting some
Saturnine stranger to cook my needless oats.
Festac streets at night glowed with misty fog,
Giving the streetlights this sort of luminous
Strangeness.
The furling greenness of my compound
Bitterleaf now overgrown,seemed to be
Peeking at me every night.
The profound sounds of night crickets and
Twinkling lights of those fireflies aided
Silence much less.
As for the night sky,ever pale as unseen
But felt sadness that failed not to hallow her
Majesty - the white-bright moon.
Yet the star studded few lines and boundaries - tall cranes and giant masts
All lost their formidable heights in the Seemingly hazy,plain clouds of midnight stay.
It brought upon my lips benign boils and made my nostrils as dry tunnels.
My eyes were constantly worried with rubbing itches that turned them slightly red.
Although I am all alone to myself most passing days,
To nobody's surprise - the harmattan refuses
To efface still.


    -   Jahmenmuze.
The awkwardness of harmattan.
ALEXANDER K OPICHO

(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

Poetry is a network of rivers
One river flowing into another
A big river into a small river
A small river into a big one
Some rivers are dead in the catacombs
Others are rapidly flowing down
And up their course making noisy
Roaring waterfalls and poetic whirlpools
Full of the ripple circumlocution as
The whirlwind of gales in the harmattan
And this is the spirit of poetry.

I will sing the songs of Schiller
Hugo, Shakespeare the bard
Alexander Pushkin and Mayakovski,
Homer and Dante the Frenchman son of Maugham
And Dante the Italian father of the divine comedy,
I will sing their songs as they are European rivulets
Of poetry flowing into huge water masses
Of African poemocracy in which
The poetic dystopia is clearly
Couched in the gears of black and white.

I will sing and chant the songs of India
Land of Tagore by shouting his name
Rabitranathe Tagore! Sing for me
The ways of the Indian baby
Your Indian voice is mellifluous like the
Zulu ****** dances Song in full watch
Of King Mswati with dint of libido.

I will sing the songs of revolution
From Bolivia and Chile, neighbours
Of Mexico and Brazil; Brazil in which
Pablo Neruda the dog burrier is a religion
In which was born Paul Freire who forgot
To sing for the world chants and the songs
Of pedagogy of the dystopian poet
Pedagogy of the utopian thespian
Pedagogy of the dystopian bourgeoisie
Pedagogy of the cacotopian capitalist
And pedagogy of the utopian Marxists
Who are mealy mouthied with mutton in  between their ears
Manufacturing and venting dystopian phantasmagoria
I will sing.

Poetry is the river Nile of Africa
Cradling from Uganda at Entebbe
Flowing to Egypt into the Mediterranean Sea
Leaving the statue of Mahatma Gandhi at the cradle
Chanting the pearls of the satyagra
That; in God there is truth and
In truth there is God,
As poetry of Nile flows upwards
Not carrying only poems of love
Or bourgeoisie cosmetic Haikus
Singing carols of summer and Christmas day
But its poetic fluvial is washing away
The heavy social **** of Globalectics
Fearing Pushkin and his love
Shakespeare and his **** of Lucrece
Vladimir Mayakovski and
His slap in the face of public taste,
Schiller and his Cassandra
Master Homer and his Odysseus Iliad
Mocking in an ugly  snook
The Albatross book of the English verse
In tune with Yeats and Rudyard Kipling
Reversing the stanzas to sing of
The world as the Whiteman’s burden.

I will sing everyman and his *****
Every woman and her *******
Every ****** and her flower
I will sing them all and their names
And duties of roles pertinent
In healing the world, abode of mankind
From the impish Mr. Hide of cacotopian streak
To pave way for the saintly Dr. Jekyll
To lull man to sleep in his Cinderella
Of social utopia
As Robert Louis Stevenson
Holds the world a stage
Of dystopia.



Thank you for your audience!
Let me climb the intellectual bandwagon of Chamara Sumanapala of the Sunday Nation in Sirilanka, to recognize a world literary fact that Taras Shevchenko was the grandfather of literature that paid wholesome tribute to Ukrainian nationalism. In this juncture it has to  be argued that it is ideological shrewdness that has taken Russia to Crimean province of Ukraine but nothing like justifiable law and constitutionalism. Let it also be my opportune time for paying tribute to Taras Shevchenko, as at the same time I pay my homage to Ukrainian literature which is also a cultural symbol of Ukrainian statehood. Just like most of the European gurus of literature and art of his time, Taras Shevchenko received little formal education. The same way Shakespeare and Pushkin as well as Alexander Sholenystisn happened to receive education that was clearly less than what is received by many children around the world today.
Like Lucanos the Greek writer who wrote the biblical gospel according to saint Luke, Taras Shevchenko was Born to parents who were serfs. Taras himself began his life being a slave. He was 24 years a serf. He spent only one fourth of his relatively short life of 47 years as a free man. The same way Miguel Cervantes and Victor Marie Hugo had substantial part of their lives in prison. Nevertheless, this largely self-educated former serf became the headmaster, the guru and fountain of Ukrainian cultural consciousness through his paradigmatic literature written basically in the indigenous Ukrainian language. He was a prototype in this capacity given that no any other writer had made neither intellectual nor even cultural stretch in this direction by that time.
And thus in current Ukraine of today, Taras Shevchenko is a national hero of literature and collective nationalism. But due to the prevailing political tension between Ukraine and Russia, his Bicentenary on March 9, 2014 was marred by hoi polloi of dishonesty ideology and sludge of degenerative politics. For many us who derive pleasure from literature and diverse literary civilizations we join the community of Ukrainians to remember Taras Shevchenko the exemplary of patriotism, Taras Shevchenko the poet as well cultural symbol of complete state of Ukraine.
There is always some common historical experience among the childhood conditions of great writers.  In the same childhood version as Wright, Fydor, Achebe, Nkrumah, Ousmane and many others, Shevchenko was born on March 9, 1814 in Moryntsi, a small village in Central Ukraine. His parents were serfs and therefore Taras was a serf by birth. At the age of eight, he received some lessons from the local Precentor or person who facilitated worshippers at the Church and was introduced to Ukrainian literature, the same way Malcolm X and Richard Wright learned to read and write while in prison. His childhood was miserable as the family was poor. Hard work and acute poverty ate up the lives of the family, and Tara’s mother died so soon when he was nine. His father remarried and the stepmother treated Taras very badly in a neurotic manner. Two years later, Taras’s father also passed away. Just in the same economic dint poverty ate up Karl Marx until the disease known us typhus killed her wife Jenny Westphelian Marx.
The 19th century Russian Empire was largely feudal, Saint Petersburg being the exception, just like the current Moscow. It was the door and the window to the West. Shevchenko’s timely and lucky break in life came when his erratic landlord left for Saint Petersburg, taking his treasured serf with him. Since, Taras had shown some merit and knack as a painter, his landlord sent him to informally learn painting with a master. It was fashionable and couth for a landlord to have a court painter in those days of Europe. However, sorrow had to build the bridges in that through his teacher, Shevchenko met other famous artists. Impressed by the artistic and literary merit of the young and honesty serf, they decided to raise money to buy his freedom out of serfdom. In 1838, Taras Shevchenko became a free man, a free Ukrainian and Free European.
As it goes the classical Marxist adage; freedom gives birth to creativity. It happened only two years later, Taras Shevchenko’s collection of poetry, Kobzar, was published, giving him instant fame like the Achebean bush fire in the harmattan wind. A kobzar is a Ukrainian string instrument and a bard who plays it is also known as a Kobzar. Taras Shevchenko also enjoyed some literary epiphany by coming to be known as Kobzar after the publication of his collection.
He was dutifully speaking of the plight of his people in his language, not only through music, but even poetry. However,  there were unfair and censuring restrictions in publishing books in Ukrainian. But lucky enough, the book had to be published outside Russia.

Shevchenko continued to write and paint without verve. Showing considerable merit in both. In 1845, he wrote ‘My Testament’ which is perhaps his oeuvre and best known work. In his poem, he begs the reader to bury him in his native Ukraine after he dies. Not in Russia. His immense love for the land of his birth is epitomized in these verses. Later, he wrote another memorable and compelling piece, ‘The Dream’, which expresses his dream of a day when all the serfs are free. When Ukraine will be free from Russia. Sadly, Taras Shevchenko came to his demise just a week before this dream was realized in 1861.
Chamara Sumanapala wrote in the Sirilanka Sunday Nation of 16 march 2014 that, Taras lived a free man until 1847 when he was arrested for being a member of a secret organization, Brotherhood of St Cyril and Methodius. He was imprisoned in Saint Petersburg and later banished as a private with the Russian military to Orenburg garrison. He was not to be allowed to read and paint, but his overseers hardly enforced this edict. After Czar Nicholas II died in 1855, he received a pardon in 1857, but was initially not allowed to return to Saint Petersburg. He was however, allowed to return to his native Ukraine. He returned to Saint Petersburg and died there on March 10, 1861, a day after his 47th birthday. Originally buried there, his remains were brought to Ukraine and buried in Kaniv, in a place now known as Taras Hill. The site became a symbol of Ukrainian nationalism. In 1978, an engineer named Oleksa Hirnyk burned himself in protest to what he called the suppression of Ukrainian history, language and culture by the Soviet authorities.
There's history in my hair please don't touch, handle with care.
It's the same as this perfect pigment,
this melanin I wear
Richly rooted in my blood
Whether dark or fair

Sun kissed and kinked in bliss
More love for my 'rough n tough Afro puff'
She shines like the Sahara sun
She smells like the salt of the Gold coast sea.
Theres a hint of the bittersweet seed of the cocoa tree.
Feels like the pillow that holds all your dreams with the dry Harmattan wind brushing against your cheek
She'll whisper secrets of the motherland.... If you get close enough

She holds like Mina
Curls with pride
Falls with grace and integrity.
Stubborn like the struggle of the ones before me.
Gravity defying masterpiece that's just a single piece of me, a reminder of my ancestry.
It's my glory, my covering

Don't take it lightly, don't misunderstand, I'm a work of art so please peep but just don't touch.

© Raphaela Israel Öbeñg
Dada Olowo Eyo Dec 2017
The brown of harmattan,
Dry, windy and dehydrating,
But if there be one thing,
Peace from the silent, old noisy fan.
Joseph Ogbeide Sep 2014
The crunch
Of the leaves that
Carpet the earth
Beneath me
Is not music to
My ears. Yet,
The still light
Of a demure sun on
The scattered shades of brown
On gold, and gold on the wilting
Crisp reminder of a season
Just gone, is a
Beauty that should leave one
Amused.

Yet on this day,
When the sky holds
No clouds, and the air,
with the chill of death itself,
Takes every breath and gives one the colour of the dead.
I can not help but think
Of what
One very tiny spark might do to all
This...
Perhaps
Anguish, fear, destruction and maybe even despair, and then
Again
It might not even burn too far.
But I know that if such a flame should tame the wind, the heritage it might leave for us;
ashes, soot, charred wood,
Though the first of things to come,
Will be in time, the least of our thoughts.

Many new days shall come,
With new joys, fears and sadness
In humble mix.
But on this very tranquil day
I only imagined what a small flame could do to the last vestiges
Of a season past.
Dada Olowo Eyo Nov 2015
Red dust everywhere,
In the wake of every gear,
Now the rains are gone,
Time to have some hot, dry fun.
Dada Olowo Eyo Nov 2013
Harmattan is coming!
Harmattan is coming!
No more grassy lawns!
No more bushy paths!
Get your sweaters!
Get your warmers!
It's gonna be a cold, dry! spell!
It's gonna be a cold, dry! spell!
Oluwatobi Jimoh Dec 2018
In the beginning, you were red,
Soft
And so succulent,
That's what i heard

You were so small and short,
Yet made others warm and hot
Infact, you were a pillar to hold, when everything did go cold,
Even for the ones that had grown old

Moisten you were, you never hurt
That's what i was told
You moistened them like a frog,
others that were ragged like a toad

But,
That was then
Yes! Long dead
Later,

You changed frm red to pink,
This' what i could ink
Watery like a sea,
That's what i could see

Though pinkish, you still brought light
And made everyone hopeful
So charming, you made others lost nights
because you were more beautiful

But that's in the past again
Now, u changed from pink to tan
The parching dust-bearing season of harmattan
Made you to change colour again

But why this continuous change?
Were u a chameleon?
Why this sudden pain?
You made me rage!
What did you stand to gain?

I didn't know what you did gain, but I'd be fine
My pink/red you, I must to find

Yes!
And I soon found.
The white men behind you,
Exposed you
They ate every you from behind
They would not stop; they knew where you did hide

Alas!
U came back softer
The tan colour were no more,
They were nt pink either
But reddish they were and more brighter

Thank God i came back strong,
After, you made me weak
You and my red shirt now became identical
Even more reddish than my tongue



OMOLUWABI
Aaron Salzman Sep 2014
Symphonic
My fist was first five fingers
Flowing Favonian into the palm of my radiant mother
As cheeky as a sprite, soon I revelled in the
Crisp light of the fridge and all its chilled visitors,

A skin-deep draft last week, a raging harmattan yesterday,
Barren among the fruitless lands of Mesopotamia.
Crawling, my sergeants and I led the way through our childhood fantasies.
Ali Baba's fortress, the ruins of Babylon, and up to the lately perturbed Euphrates.
I dropped my automatic rifle,
hurriedly snatched it up in the unforgiving desolate,
just in time to
narrowly dodge the absent onslaught of enemy gunfire
Only to witness a serpentine strike and an explosive splash
Of metal violating my infantile hand, a hand that was trusted and was caressed
Now merely a bludgeon to satisfy the steel-clawed slash of the shrapnel
A buffer to the skin of my wide-eyed physiognomy.

Waking up in the loose sheets of a completely unremarkable beige bed,
With the deoxygenated breath of the novice surgeon liquidizing in my veins,
It was almost too much to handle (if you'll pardon my pun).

These days it is
The good hand with which I
Uncork, pour, and serve.
It's with the utilizable limb with which I
Ignite, shift, and steer.
It's with my brain that I
seethe
And it's with my stump
That I knock.
Hands Nov 2012
He catches me in lovin--
liking
him

and it's always striking
how my body acts on whim.
He always looks the best
not wearing any clothes,
makes my ***** point west
with their ***** woes.
He makes me think in lovely
and dresses me in kisses:
purple,
black,
red and bruised up
kisses
(he never misses).
I have a necklace ringing
all around my skinny neck,
I wear his love
like a trophy,
do I look a-wreck?
I make him wreck my body
night after night after night
because I want his gaudy,
pale and beautiful might
to come down all at once
and bury me in flesh;
to fill my ears with grunts
and turn my soil threshed.
Thresh me, thresh me hard,
my beautiful man,
my body's prettier marred
with your harmattan
breezes blowing on my sands;
how I really,
really,
really
like
my
man
because he buries me in hugging
and hides me in his warmth;
he always has me shrugging
the yeses from up north
in the epicenter of all pleasure
rooted in my mind;
it's the greatest measure
of our loving time.
He spanks me 'til I moan,
I **** him 'til he's dry,
his touch turns me to stone and
his stroking makes me cry.
Though it may be sore
after a day or so
my heart is always hurting
from the constant flow
of his body's beautiful fluids,
white and clear and true;
who needs a beautiful blue
when I have my like,
my really,
really,
really
like;
it's better than number two.




(I really,
really,
really like you)
this shouldn't feel so long ago.
Dexter Terzungwe Dec 2015
The lighting of streets' corners -
Even those corners that hitherto were dark and unwelcoming.
As the sunset bleeds
on the city's disappearing silhouette.

The shimmering traffic;
The blares of multiple cars as they try to rush home.
As windows smile brightly to passersby.
The return of Santa Claus!


The holiday seasons,
Winter to the snow laden,
Harmattan to the arid lands.
Chilly on all sides.

The warmth of the fireplace,
The joy of the days to come.
The jingles of merry bells.
The bright lights of Christmas trees.

A reminder that all of humanity can still be happy.
That there is still hope.
That we can share in each other's joy.
And always be there for each other.
Merry Christmas and a Prosperous New year...
Safana Oct 2020
An evening scattered
in the beginning of
harmattan cloud in
the western kano
when the sun shine
is dimmed,
a green feathered
birds longing their
beaks, flying their
wings and hiding
their legs at back
Dexter Terzungwe Mar 2018
Achia,
That's the name of my town.
There's a path surrounded by yellowing bushes that go green in autumn,
Brown in the harmattan,
that joins Achia to Jato-aka town.

At the head of this path is a junction
You'll notice another path to your left here.
And that our own path is to the right of it

I call it our own because that's the only path followed by the villagers.
The other hasn't been in use in recent years
You can see the undergrowth,
Bent and unrepentant,
Daring you to trample on it and watch it regrow

Everytime we use the right, i always wonder
Where would you lead me to, Left?
Are you like many of our life's (in)decisions,
The unexplored choice?
The one that time will eventually erase?

So I've decided,
That the next time we get to that point
I'll take the road less favored
And see the quiet secrets that it has had to maintain over the years.
And i hope that that will make all the difference to it.
How can you be something when all you do is nothing?
KAMAU Oct 2020
The wind of change
the wind of Revolution,on our sails
  soon it will sweep across all countries
all over my beloved continent
Stronger than the harmattan I hear it is
the cry has been heard
the wails are too loud
the battle lines drawn
young nigerians say no to tsars
and hell noooo to SARS
message is one #abolish SARS
a united no to oppression
fear not their portion
Beginning of the end
they are ready
ready to reclaim the soul of Africa
message is one from young Nigerians
we want to live,we want to be safe
Respect our existence
or expect our resistance !!!
VictorMaria Dec 2014
CASHEW NUTS EATEN, BY AN OPEN FIRE
It's air in motion, the sound too soft to the ears and appealing to the senses.
The air so crisp, dust-filled and ice cold
The moon-lit skies, looking like the red night goblin was about to shower bars of chocolate and descend with his wrapped toys.
Some sweet jazz christmas music was playing in the background, Nat King Cole for sure.
From the old turntable came the music. Well mixed with the breeze thus presenting a never-before heard rendition of the song playing.
Once again the breeze blew heavily.
Trying to have its way with the open fire, burning some metres away from the large hut.
Earlier in the week, the cold North East wind had brought along some wild fire.
One happy family was sitting around the fire.
A man in turban and his wife with their handsome boy and cute little girl.
All dressed in warm woolly glittering sweaters and thick trousers.
They were all engrossed in what the father of the house was saying. And almost forgetting the wild fire had made them homeless. They had to settle for the large abandoned hut.
In between, they seemed to be chewing something.
Of course roasted nuts from cashew in a flat plate. All they had left to eat.
Father downing some fairly warm wine as he spoke.
He was telling them tales/legends of christmas and santa from all over the world.
Even the chewing horse relaxing next to the family, was enjoying the story-telling session.
Father closed his story book.
Together the whole family made and sang a remix of 'the christmas song' replacing the first line with 'Cashew nuts, eaten by an open fire'
Half way through the song.
They heard a loud bang close to their hut, something had landed in front of their  hut.
It was a large box filled with swiss chocolate, other yummies, gifts for the whole family and most of all,  a map telling them about a place of hope along the West.
On the right-hand side of the box was a large label with the words 'From Santa with love'.
The family, now relieved from the sudden heart-pounding sound and excited by the arrival of the gifts, cheerfully and gratefully started their song all over. This time it sounded like a 'reprise/outro' to an epic album.
This was the night before christmas and Harmattan just got serious.
Happy Christmas!
West African folklore about Santa Claus
I must compare thy glowing eyes to the giant sphinx of pretty Egypt
Thy gorgeous lips to thy glitterings earrings of jade
Thy fine feet to thy golden pair of ears that beam a hundred variety of beauty
Thy skin of glass to the sweet dawn breezes of harmattan
Thy black hair to the magnificent face of late cleopatra
Thy face I must liken to the beautyful history of old Egypt
And thy love my birthright.
In grandeur of eminence the Sun celebrates her power
In the thick forest of the darkest the Moon flourishes in her glory

The tidal wave is in tinder of a brand new glory, catching fire of a mad harmattan, refining gold and diamond in the expansive field of a glitzy pearl

And transcendence on our way it's roaring of the tidal wave, uprooting dark moons and burying scourging suns in infernal graves!

See our warriors surfing on the tidal wave of this season of victorious glory,
manifesting us to the world, declaring the glory of the Glory, shooting pearly flames in clouds of glory and power

As quotidian stinging tides are being uprooted in routing defeat with eerie eruption of volcano of joy and power in uncommon grandeur.

Oh! Alluring sun of glory
Oh! Alluring moon of majesty
Festooning our sky with power-stars
As rain of victory drowning us in splendor!

Oh! Tidal wave of beatific season, harvesting us barn-full glory at morning dawn of the victory crow!
Olufunke Kolapo May 2016
My tears are dried up
like the rivers in
harmattan

They are sealed
in the inner sanctum
of my soul

Now, you must cry for me
for I've no more
tears left
Alexander K   Opicho

(Eldoret,Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)


the hand of the poet
like the ******* of a ******
they are sensitive to touch
as the poet's hand with
a pen in it on the caricateur
of the key board which has
helped to pass the world across
the turmoil of the maliceous hearts
to peace and love two battle grounds
in which political romance blooms
like a bush fire in the Achebean harmattan
wind blowing down and away all the chaffs  of human ribaldry
Dada Olowo Eyo Dec 2013
Even when the sun shines,
Over the hills and climes,
The chill of the harmattan morning,
Cheers us on until the dawning.
Olufunke Kolapo Apr 2016
I've known pain
I've known fear chilling than the harmattan air
Pain, fiercer and harsher than the whips of a thousand horsemen


My soul sank deep into the river of pain and fear


I sought refuge in the ***** of the younger dawns
I hid in their embrace and they comforted me
I dreamt of the rebirth of her garden in all its glory
I felt the healing miracle of the morning sun when Eva
bathed in her warmth; and I saw her inhabitants,
came alive with the songs of the birds, and fluttering flowers in the breeze
I've known pain;
Nameless, faceless fear


I sunk deep into their depths
And they hurt no more
You're the best simile,
                                      You're like the nile,
            That jaunts elegantly through the                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     .                                                          Valleys,
                                     Into the great lakes,
                                           And breaths life
                       To the horn and the basins,

                                  For even your anger,
                     Is like the exuberant floods,
                                   That leaves rich~silt,
                       In the hearts of the gullies,


                                            Your resilence
                                      Is like the seedling
              That blossoms beautifully in the                                                          .                                                   Harmattan,
       And shy away the dusty trade winds,

                       For your throne is patience,
             And your feet rests on tolerance,
                   Out of your words is the light
That illuminates the mind and thoughts
                                                         Of kings,

                                               Like the eagle,
                                        You've flown high
                       And higher above the skies,
And your compatriots perches on trees
                                                    And leaves,                                                                           .                  Mesmerized at your prowess,
  Panting cowdardly impuissant to catch                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      .                                                                  up,

                 You're like the mystery victory
                  That has failed all replications,
                                    Through out history,

                                 You're the best simile,

                                     A Poem Written by,
                                  ©Historian E.Lexano
Diána Bósa Dec 2017
In this my time of need,
I dream about
those Harmattan-breezed stories
you left unsaid on my skin,
for you were so dreaded by the thought
that your light may come alive from its slumber,
that I may reflect and echo you.

And I am whispering now,
repeating the song of your beating heart,
before you could also withdraw your touch,
and say: rather stay blind than to face with these all.

I unbound my hair...
I cried these dirges brashly,
After these long nights
While my skin cracks;
Irrigating it with my dry tears
By the desperate harmattan;
My cries are a rustling of leaves under a sun
That never fades- washing my face in strict rays
Its attendance is long overstayed;
Resting on my absent mind

I sit outside in the world’s
Quick-witted; criticizing eyes
Weeping proudly without a rush of blinking tears;
This everyday world isn’t my beloved home to own-
A shelter neglecting to cover my nakedness

I sit outside in the world’s
Quick-witted; criticizing eyes
With a tiny cloth left damp, sodden and weary
By the stretched tears flowing down my bare *******
The world quickly suckles on my grief –
Biting, pulling, and scarring them by their buds
calling it all fair by its, “Budding remarks”
With the goalmouth of getting itself full up;
Never nursing the agony.  

                     Oh, how my heart hurts!
Bayo Aderoju Dec 2018
We are on a journey to a known destination
But we've not found the way.
Drought, famine and violent breeze
The season is still harmattan;
Dew and mist
despite the passage of several days,
Months and years, we are still in the morning.

The unpleasant interlude_ his own time bought with brute_
The previous night was spent chasing away
Our exploiting messiah; but showed us not the way
Who only pointed to the promise land;
And mocks us now with hypocrisies.

Wet by the morning dew,
Chilled to the bone by the violent breeze of this season
And blinded by the mist patches;
The bodies are not able and the eyes can barely see.
Weve still not found the way,
How shallow and unbecoming, but we keep going!

Africa, in this jungle,
Must we employ the robber who destroyed our door to help repair it?
Why do we run around begging for sycophantic helps?
Why do we not pause and reflect:
Find means of getting some warmth and weathering these patches of fog?
Why dont we act wisely and intelligibly?
lorphe May 2019
dust pirouettes before the eyes of the sun,
sinking softly towards an ocean of its own.
heat’s forceful palms press against the sand,
disturbing the air’s careful disposition.
but he is not watching the rich colours melt overhead.
he pays no attention to the ripeness of the horizon.
he watches her,
a grace so light in her bones it feels strange to compare
to the weight sinking in his throat.

he tells her of the winds,
the way they re-carve a desert,
its dunes reborn.
he tells her of the aajej and the harmattan and how
it rolls and rolls,
producing showers so thick with sand
they were once mistaken for blood.

at night his fingers trace,
a vague map he once had memorised,
against the plains of her skin.
her veins cutting through her wrists like rivers,
each blemish a town unvisited,
and the hollow between her collarbones,
an oasis still unnamed.
based on almásy’s love for katherine in the book ‘the english patient’
Ayodeji Oje Aug 2020
On a sudden sobbing night
in west african harmattan,
Light wasn't smiling
in the thickness of naked darkness
but for a dying flame
sitting on a frail candle stick.
In the deep sea of life,
tiniest things spark hope
When beyond we see.
Sitting round
The fire of love burning
The harmattan blowing
With explosive sparks
In gunpowder season
Consuming hate season.

The season of love
Is in season running
Love in rivers
Tumbling on plateau
In waterfall of glory.
Everestnow Nov 2020
It’s Christmas morning
Not with a well lit Christmas tree decorated with presents at its feet
not with jingle bell playing in the background
not with the anxiety of getting to open up the presents

It’s Christmas morning
Not with children playing in the snow and erecting poorly erected “snowmen”.
not with peppermint sticks hanging over the burning furnace
a plate of cookies and a cup of warm milk was not placed under the chimney for Santa to enjoy because that is not my reality

It’s Christmas morning
Mother has vaseline dripping from my face. And my lips. And my hands.
Because, harmattan dare not make your dark skin white.
The only thing your mind sees
is
yourself
In your long anticipated “Christmas clothes”
You dare not misplace any of your accessories because mothers wrath would descend on you like an eagle. and what comes after?
she’ll remind you of how she struggled to get them. how. you. have. no. idea. they. came. about.

It’s christmas morning.
you’re excited. elated. fully euphoric.
you’re in church.
church takes forever to end. no. you’re just anxious.
being a show off during this christmas morning is fully acceptable because you waited a whole long year to try on your outfit.

it’s christmas morning
and now the night time has come
you’re anticipating your next christmas
forgetting
you’re aging. getting old. mother won’t be there to baptize you with johnsons baby oil and vaseline
she won’t be there to scold you and remind you how reckless and careless you were for misplacing the accessories she got for you.
who do you think will prepare the ceremonial christmas rice. not mother because she’s old. reaping the fruits of her labour. expecting you to take charge.

it’s christmas morning
it’s. christmas. morning.
Emeka Mokeme Apr 2019
Everything changes.
Our lives change,
our face change,
our bodies change.
The firmament and
the cloud changes.
The environment changes
due to the
tear and wear,
our houses and
homes change.
The weather changes.
We change our
minds and plans.
Opinions changes,
so is our
relationships.
Our purpose and
preriorities changes.
Even our moods changes.
Our gait changes.
Our eyes change
to reveal our
innermost thoughts.
Our physic changes
as we grow
into maturity
Things changed
about us.
All that we
do is just
nothing but change.
Even the universe
changes for our good.
The season changes
to summer,
fall,
autumn,
winter,
and spring.
And here,
we have monsoon,
and harmattan seasons,
that is the rainy
and dry seasons.
All changes are
welcome.
They are needed.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Hey babe!
Can you slide the curtains for a while?
for the moon awaits your presence and the night is ready to stretch a beautiful portrait of you in the dark.  
can you feel the wind struggling to caress your jelly skin and the harmattan trying so hard to kiss your succulent lips?
Take a glimps at the sky and let your emerald eyes ascend to heaven, connecting every dotted starlight beneath the cloud into a beautiful shape of love.
Heaven's smiles at its own...
So sleep now Angel and let the stars and moon keep you company... GOODNIGHT!
.
Ralph Akintan Mar 2019
Now that the feast has ended
And the beats of biripo has stopped
But dance of joy ceased not
Leaping us to a greater strata of blissfulness.
Neighbours peeped through the gate of fellowship
To cheer in our success.

Basked in the euphoria of success
We counted the baggage of jubilation.
Our celebration detonating the explosive dynamite of joy like harmattan wildfire consuming the field of sorrows.

Now that the feast has ended
Let the bembe of celebration resonates.
Safana Jul 2020

One and more...
the time to feel,
Uwani, the nickname
Maryam, her real
Bright and shine
She is, a beautiful
If she glanced
Nicer, if she speak
Feeling innocence
Not fulani, like me
Had a beautiful eyes
Toffee nosed, not
She is neither a tall
A short not she is
Having fair face
Feeling so shy

She steal my heart
One very night
I feel to report
But no police
station
I call, for
an emergency
And no one helped
I just surrendered
Because
No any solution


She accepted me
Like presidential
Candidate of no
Primary voting
I struggled harder
In the rain and
Dry, and harmattan
I loved her
energetically
with passion
And fashion
I felt like she is
a running fluid
in my veins

*
But,
I found somewhere

I am null
in her

That's the end of
The real story
Safana Mar 2021
Every Morning and the night
Every noon and the evening
Every day and the week
Every month and the year
Every decades I spent
In the dry and the wet
In the hot and the wind
In the rainy and the harmattan
When I am healthy and the wealth
When I am poor and the sick

I don't want to miss to see the smile on your beautiful face

Because, I love you
Safana Feb 2022
We will join the queue
Next summer to vote for,
Not our right but our
death in series of order
Every day and midnight
In both north and south
In the sunny and rain
In harmattan and dryness
Yenson May 2020
Men, women, the teens with jutting *******
they put the chains round their necks
they could not breathe
they could not breathe
In the mouldy dank cargo hold on galleons
rawhide tether their necks to rusty deck rings
they could not breathe
they could not breathe
In the strangest of land with the strangest of faces
the mother and father of cold harmattan winds blows
they could not breathe
they could not breathe
In cotton fields and plantations where dogs were better treated
and strong strapping men were ******* and bull-whacked
they could not breathe
they could not breathe
When temptations overcomes female gentries into forbidden ways
or the hued rock hard beasts dared refusal and fingers are pointed
the lynching party marches to the sycamore trees
hapless wild beasts are for stringing high
they could not breathe
they could not breathe
When you fool yourself you have freedom, liberty and equality
and you are arrested and as is proper, they kneel on your neck
you cannot breathe
you will not breathe
When they see a black Prince, regal, distinguished, accomplished
they will try to extort money from him, they will burgle him
And if he fools himself that he has rights and stands up to them
they will slander you, defame you, demonize you, harass you They will hound you, humiliate you, torment you, isolate you
and mob you from dawn to dusk
until you cannot breathe
until you cannot breathe..........

— The End —