HARMATTAN by Emmanuel Ayeh's

Comes the cold witch
the harmattan
from across the sahara desert
corroding the clan

Ibo’gijo, the men,
fold and stretch
as you lash with your whip;
faces pale, their skins wrench

Okolobias, the young boys
in gratitude
to the early morning fire
squat, waiting for Mama’s breakfast

Igbeles, the young girls
return from the stream
with cracked feet and lips
as they shiver from your whips

By mid-day, cold witch
you strike about;
dancing in gyrations
in glee of your catch

Cold witch, all are touched by you
So fires are set to the bushes
to clear the aisle for
your maddening toss

By dusk you hide in the caves
for your victims to recover
while you come again
at dawn to repeat your cycle