A random tale by Kweku Abeeku
It is that time of year again when the baobab tree stands bare, its bark thick and parched beneath the relentless sun. Dawn arrives wrapped in a heavy fog, a quiet shroud through which drivers carve their paths with the precision of blades forged from light itself. The elders caution against venturing out unless absolutely necessary; this is a season that demands respect.
If the shea butter tree is not your trusted companion, the dry, biting winds will soon become your adversary, leaving your skin raw and neglected. The earth aches for rain—each crack in its crust, a quiet cry for relief. It longs for the gentle kiss of morning dew, yet the barren ground bears the painful reminder of a sky that has withheld its gifts.
Still, as I walk through this landscape of dust and stillness, beauty rises from the desolation. The warm, golden light casts long, wandering shadows, painting the world in hues of memory and longing. The few surviving leaves tremble on their branches, whispering secrets to one another—their resilience standing in defiance of the season’s sternness.
In this stillness, love blooms quietly. It emerges like a seed waiting for the first drops of rain to awaken its potential—a tenderness shaped by the harsh embrace of the Harmattan, reminding us that even in the coldest seasons, warmth can still be found.
The days on, each one wrapped in the familiar veil of dust that softens the horizon and slows the world into a contemplative hush. The Harmattan has a way of making time feel suspended—like the pause between a question and its answer, or the silence before rain remembers its promise.
In this muted season, I begin to notice small things:
the way footsteps linger on the brittle ground,
how the wind hums through empty branches,
and how the sun rises with a weary brilliance, pushing through the weight of its own thoughts.
It is in these quiet observations that I begin to understand love differently.
Love is not always the rainstorm that announces itself with thunder and clarity.
Sometimes love is the Harmattan: subtle, slow, arriving in whispers instead of declarations. It settles on you gently—grain by grain—until you realise you are covered in it.
I think of the cracked earth, holding its breath for moisture.
I think of my own heart, waiting for something it cannot name.
And I wonder: is longing not also a form of love?
There are moments when the wind picks up, carrying a memory—your laughter echoing like birds startled into flight, your presence lingering like warmth trapped in the folds of a blanket. In those moments, the distance between us feels thinner than the fog at dawn, as if I could stretch out my hand and trace the outline of your silhouette in the air.
The trees stand mostly bare, yet their roots remain alive beneath the unyielding soil. They remind me that what appears dormant can still be growing, quietly, beneath the surface. Perhaps love, too, survives underground—taking its time, gathering strength, waiting for the season to change.
Perhaps it does not wither; it only rests.
And so I walk through the Harmattan with a heart both heavy and expectant—
heavy with absence,
expectant of the possibility that when the first rain finally falls, the world will bloom,
And so will we.
For now, the wind carries my thoughts to you, and I let them go, trusting that in this vast, dusty quiet, something soft and enduring is still unfolding.