Years ago, when the olds of West Africa were young;
admired were those seasons of the years.
when the rain had stopped;
And the sun rose.
when every morning is blessed with a dazzling beauty,
And it was not too hot either.
The cold and dry harmattan wind,
was blowing from the north.
At that time, the harmattan was very severe;
And a dense haze hung on the atmosphere.
When old men and children sit round log fires,
warming their bodies.
Now, I remember my own childhood;
how I had often wandered around,
looking for a kite sailing leisurely against the blue sky.
I mean the first kite that returned with the dry season;
Then, children sang songs of welcome to them,
as soon as we found one, we would sing with our whole being.
welcoming it back from it's long, long journey,
And asking it if it had brought home any length of cloth.
© Omorh