In her maiden harmattan
The cold breeze whispers fiercely
Upon her cradle skin;
It freezes her fragile form
Looking like dried tilapia,
Something tiny milky like frosts
Barricades her nasal doors

Her pitiable running stream is
Consumed by the fire of the cold
Her crying lips ask a question;
Capable of uprooting an ocean
In my fatherly eyes:
“Where am I?”

Written by: Dennis Dighimini-sanami
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson

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