As I watch the hazy sky through my window, there's wonder at the natural world. It is another harmattan, dry season to you, if you have never been to Western Africa. The rains are done & every flooded place, every eroded place is now a dry foot path through the earth. This is the time of movement, of play, of children, of poetry.
The moon is big this evening, and bright. It spreads its light as if it is not a borrowed crown; the moon but a brilliant reflection of the dying sun's rays. The dust is high in the air and if you put your nose to the sky, you can almost perceive the scent of dust storms, the breaching of the Sahara into the communities that survive on the verge of that giant desert. This is the time of drought.
In different parts of Africa, farmers turn away from their farms empty handed and in some cases, the issues are worse than harvest; there are no waterways, no rivers or streams to irrigate the land. Even as I write, the Sahara slowly encroaches into the city with big flies and fat mosquitoes at its heels. Yet this is the time of freedom.
There are no more rains so the roads are better, travel is easier and the paths are clearer. The children play into the night because there is always light in the sky. It is a beautiful time, a time to rest, to hold hands with your lover and wander. It is also the time of chaffed feet and cough and flu and dusty rooms. It used to be so but things have changed. The heat is all now. The wind is barely felt. The dry whistling in the trees is absent and because we are all focused on our phones, there are no children playing under the moonlight.
I await the moon as I write. I hear the scrape of people moving on the land. A gentle breeze flits in and out of my room. I make do. Soon, very soon, all will be dust; hopefully.
