7:14am, Ota time. I can feel in me the nasty exigencies of the sultry
weather as I walk to the bus stop. The air smells old and rusty, the
kind that makes you feel your body has been whisked away to Northern
Nigeria overnight by mystical winds. Yes, the sailing winds seem like
they can conjure voodoo; the mist of the early morning is sapped by the
wind and the air is white and foggy. The sky looks dead too.
Dust paints every object in sight. It settles under my fingernails
and on my skin. Five minutes into my walk, my feet are now a hue of
white, like those of a sand castle building kid. Even the goats and
chickens aren't spared. Seems they've got catarrh, as the bleats and
crows are stifled and far between. Their hairs and feathers appear a bit
eroded too, as if the wind contains acid instead of moisture.
You'll leave your skin if you hear me cough or talk. The dust lines
my throat and makes me drawl each time I speak. "E kaaro ma", I greet
the petty trader I meet on the way. She reflects aridity too.
Ara 'deinde
December 2014.
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