THE dense harmattan haze rose with the climbing sun on this new day in Ede. The air was heavy with fog, sending dry chills that made things break.
Even the softest skins broke and tore.
Morrow slept through the night like a weary fighter. He’d drifted to sleep the moment he hit hard ground, then only woke briefly when he turned.
Still this was like weather for two in a region where the noon sun touches the head. So Morrow rolled over his lady several times; yet each of those times she barred him off.
Things were that cold with those two.
Soon the sun was high; and it was daylight tearing through the fog that woke the man up. It was mid-morning with the thick clouds lifting.
Yes, the day shone through the cold and everything felt bright again. So when Morrow looked by him and saw no one, he went round the house to douse the fear.
He found his spouse preparing breakfast. He saw his kids too, helping.
The man smiled, then called his older son.
‘Go call your uncles,’ he rapped. ‘Tell the two I like to see them—hurry now!’
The boy said yes and sped off to the place. Then her mama lost her own peace.
She got up to ask the matter. ‘Is there any problem, my lord?’
‘Problem? About what?’
‘You suddenly said you want to see—!’
‘Oh is that what you called problem? Go back to work, my dear – stop startling me every time!’
Morrow wouldn’t have the hide-and-seek game anymore. Wura’s frantic efforts at defence that only made him want to question...
No, he wouldn’t take that way.
He’d only thought to see his brothers to catch up on things. But he might be learning about his wife, too, so Wura lost it.
‘But you said—!’
‘Wurahh!’ Morrow went stern. ‘Go back now—that’s what I said!’
That moment the silence began between a man and his lady. For Wura went back to kitchen, cooking and musing thoughts...
Then Morrow must meet with the two men.
◘◘◘
Morrow stood in his veranda, chewing a brushing stick and staring long into space.
He wore thick clothes of aran fabric, wrapped his neck in a muffler of ọja cloth and donned his head in a woven fila.
He stayed there in the dry harmattan cold to watch the sun grow. It was something to him that the rays were tearing through air.
His boy returned to tell him that his brothers were having breakfast. That they’d go to him just when they finished.
The little kid of nine went back to tell his mother same thing.
Morrow chose not to care about the whole drama that went on beneath his roof. He preferred to stay outside and watch nature play.
So the 50-year-old stood there till the fogs lifted. Then a small dense cloud passed in sky and hindered the sun.
‘What is it with this proud one? Will you pour down rain this harmattan? Or what makes you hurry?
‘Look, turn this way come next Planting. I’d have leased out my farmland and you can pour all you want!’
Yes, the man smiled saying all these. For he was retiring from his labours.
Now a small rainstorm drove his way—in spite of the season.
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