As a frenemy of heat,
I always await harmattan with glee.
Cladding myself in a cardigan,
Hiding my figure underneath a baggy but thick sweater.

The feeling of coolness,
The goose bumps that left mouths speechless,
Is what lovers love in harmattan.

But as for me, harmattan falling into my arms,
And embracing it with a smile that reaches my eyes,
Dressing my cracked lips with a gloss that shines,
Sleeping for hours,
Under my double layered quilt without sweat as disturbance,
Are my best feelings ever!

For I do not have to make my fingers an hand fan,
I do not have to sleep with no securities on guard;
No quilt or any piece of clothing on for that matter!
With the windows left ajar!

And I do not have to endlessly
pray during the day for NEPA's light at nights
So I can keep my fan standing right
at the foot of my bed to deal with sweats.
And to chase away mosquitoes that want to, on my blood, flex.

Recently, all these are just like a myth in history,
For in this supposed harmattan season,
I still sweat profusely.
Why do I still not sleep well at night?
Why do I still sleep with no securities on guard?
Why yet, am I not all so clad up like an old lady in America?
Is it that harmattan is gone and it's never coming back?

Day: 002/100
#the100writingmarathon

© AM Odunayo