Just when high winds accompany the blaze of sunny days
And gales and whirlwinds made blitz over the plane,
When the fireball moon journeys late down the horizon and casts a topaz ray,
As overdue crops fall to the scythe and with bundled sheaves, farmers trudge their way;
When the searing sun has evaporated the earth’s moisture,
And the waters had again accumulated in the sky, waiting to pour;
Just as the fields fallow, ready for the plow, and yam seedlings keep piling,
And then, just after the gloaming, streams a chill air that brings
The morning whitewash air and noonday shades of brown, then it’s time to sing:
Happy Arrival Harmattan!
O thou intermediary between the great wet and dry seasons
Who shortly arrives to mediate their long dispute in friendship.
The windowpanes blur with dew but are later burnt by burning rays;
Such humid air but much of the day fraught with haze.
By morning, the plants are firm and drippy but soon to limp and shed.
Fever and pneumonia besiege humans, scabs upon animals invade;
The hamlet a golden gloss at dusk; growths tainted with rust;
Frame trees that shed their leaves to be layered around the hut,
As the atmosphere swings, lo, we await a birth with the carol song:
Happy Arrival Harmattan!
Fly higher, higher you forlorn birds, fly where comfort you may find.
The forest is bare, your nest jeopardized by hard cold and winds.
Where are flowers and sapp for you by morn as men do with coffee?
Your morning hymns are silenced by chillness, same in bed do men keep.
Rather cheerfully chirrup the passing dryness and expect the coming rainfall,
When again would sprout the forest green and sweet freshly bloomed flower balls.
And all you wild forest dwellers, do I hear you wail or hail your estrangement?
Often I hear you overnight and more often seen from the forest fringe;
Nevertheless, your bother is hinged upon no choice but to say:
Happy Arrival Harmattan!
Up in flurry, all in a flurry, plow the earth and make the field a furrow;
Sift dry sheaves from rafters, gather the seeds, stalks, and roots;
Mend roofs and crannies, make drains and barrages, the rain comes anon,
Hunters have swells of games, banes stuffed, grains preserved for months;
And as tiny as ants gather bits into heaps to sustain for the period.
Are the seasons wet and dry? Then there’s no relief.
Are you bored of long wet or dry season weather? Here is solace.
Hence, we create not or make the change at a whim, the space,
All work best for our good, and so in response to the sweet psalm we sing:
Happy Arrival Harmattan!
