Snowflakes and Harmattan

Snowflakes falling, thick and fast float in the air as the winter announces itself with a vengeance.
When I first arrived in England, the very first thing that struck me was the weather; it was freezing cold with droplets of snow, white and slippery and as I walked on it, I knew that any missed steps could be a fall or worse. I was in a dilemma wondering what these white fluffy drops were as they enveloped trees and made them look so picturesque. I was at the window of my flat in Bayswater and could see the roof tops all covered in white. It was really shocking and at the same time exciting. Shocking because I came from a tropical country where the weather is always sunny and the temperature is usually over 40 degrees. Exciting in the sense that this is nature and it is part of me.
The sound of the icy blasts on the window pane turned my thoughts to the cold in the north of Niger. The noise was like that of harmattan, the season of a dry wind that brings with it dust and the occasional sandstorm from the Sahara desert. The cold wind of harmattan is a welcome relief from the heat but at the same time a hazard as the wind and the dust irritates both the people and animals.

It also changes the scenery. Plants and foliage shrivel and die; the branches of trees dry and the bark peels off, leaving people to run helter skelter looking for cover to escape the wind and dry sand getting into their nostrils, eyes and mouths and making them spit. Doors and windows are shut to prevent the sand getting indoors. Clothes sway from the washing line in the strong breeze as if dancing to the tune of the wind, and kitchen utensils such as pestles, mortars and calabashes are swept up and ripped apart. The dust is everywhere and dusk is approaching fast as the wind continues to gather strength. Some trees are uprooted from the ground as well as some mud huts.
As I thought of this I remembered Mallam Sani, a hardworking farmer who is proud of his yields and his relationships with nature. He adores the land and the secrets buried within which he unearthed with pride by digging, cultivating and harvesting. He has recently been made Sarkin Manoma (King of Farmers), the status that every local farmer aspires to. He is dressed in his big flowing robe of red and black with a turban wrapped round his head and looks like the tall baobab tree. It’s a status symbol associated held in high esteem by the town and village people alike.
Mallam Sani is affected by the harmattan like everybody in that town. Every year, he counts the cost of the damage caused by the weather. This year he has lost the roof tops from his mud huts and many of his granaries where he stores his grain. They are thatched roofs made of straw and have been blown away by the harmattan leaving clutter and disorder in and around his compound. But he is carefree and unassuming - the kind of man who always looks at the bright side of life and faces challenges head on. He retained his humour even as he surveys his compound and the animals at the back of the yard. He was already thinking in his mind of how he could reconstruct and build a stronger roof that can withstand any weather conditions and one that everyone will admire and imitate.
Then there is Binta, a middle aged woman who like Mallam Sani was affected by the Harmattan but unlike him is saddened and depressed as she counts the cost of damages and repairs. In her compound, you can see utensils (calabashes, pestle mortar, baskets, dishes, spoons, ladles) everywhere, broken and damaged, scattered or piled up on top of one another like a rubbish heap. The broken branches of her baobab tree are bent and hanging down, like they are bowing and saluting the ground. It is a scene which an artist might find impressive but not Binta, who is wondering where to start the work of putting things in order. Binta is vulnerable.
But after the harmattan comes the rain that leaves everywhere drenched. Soon the farmers are able to sell grains such as millet and maize along with cassava, groundnuts, ginger, cotton and many other agricultural products that they will put on display in a fair. Unlike harmattan, this is a time of celebration, of abundance and prosperity. As the farmers are busy selling, the musicians some of whom are farmers and dressed in colourful flowing robes and some wearing turbans, are going round the market beating their drums in frenzy, doing special dances and chanting songs of praise and gratitude to the Almighty God and the abundance of nature. Dancing children follow them as they sing and people are giving them money, grains or clothes to show their appreciation and gratitude. This is an age old tradition dating back to thousands of years where musicians visit markets at harvest time to celebrate and exhibit their art.
As the musicians and drummers entertain, a showcase of other talent is on show ranging from a solar water heater developed by college students to a model of a mechanical digger made by a deaf man after once seeing a real one. The body of the digger moves like a caterpillar as the arm extends, and the bucket scooping up the mud from the ground. Then there is the partially blind farmer who weaves brightly coloured rope furniture around welded metal frames; he was trained by a Good Samaritan who saw him begging in the streets and has trained other blind people to weave furniture like him. They in turn are teaching other people to weave and make a living and to stop them begging in the streets. His hands move carefully over the string, counting each one and remembering the number of colours he has woven. As the dances continue, each dancer demonstrates a style of dancing to reflect not only farming but social meanings as well.
But Binta is still sad and disheartened about the whole weather phenomenon.
As the images run like pictures in my mind, I was suddenly brought back into reality by the cold wind slashing against my home; I realised I am still in England and my life is here now.
I moved away from the window and made my way to the kitchen to gather my thoughts and comfort myself by nibbling some waina, a traditional Niĝerian food similar to oatcakes. All the time I was wondering how I could help these people ravaged by harmattan, and how I could help Binta to start building her life again, to return to some sort of normality.
Portobello market is the place to start looking for the things I need to send. It’s a market where you can find a variety of things; from food o antiques to traditional clothes and antiques - you can find anything that you fancy as long as the market is not covered in snow and gripped by ice. It reminds me of the town market in Nigeria but without the festival and the funfair. I saw an image of cowrie shells flash before my eyes and before I knew it, I was on the phone with my mother telling her that I would help Binta.
As I came off the phone, I felt homesick, perhaps irritated and sad like Binta whose life is changed each year by the harmattan. I felt paralysed by the falling snow which was keeping me indoors and helpless to do anything. I see the similarities between my circumstances and Binta’s.
And then as I reminiscent ... The cowrie shells…. of a dancer flashed through my mind……
A dancer has a leather belt tied to his waist with shells dangling from his waist as he twirled and swings around. He is proud to be celebrating and has reason to be, particularly as he is now ready to get married to a young girl.
Even though there was devastation and destruction all around caused by nature, people still celebrate, pray energetically and remain resourceful, determined and unbelievably resilient, adapting in ways you cannot imagine. They are eager to breathe a new dawn of revival.
Eventually the London snow melted away and with it the snow man decorated with household items - like carrots for the nose, coal for the eyes, nose and mouth, with hat and shawl draped round the neck. Electricity, gas supply and telephone lines that failed had been restored.
As everything brightened, Mallam Sani’s friendly face sprang to mind and I knew that his compound, which resembled a dump during harmattan, had been restored to its former glory. And I knew that with my help Binta’s home life would also be returned to normal again, even better than before the disaster, thanks to the contribution of family, friends and me through my mother.
It was a time of renewal. The flowers and branches on the trees were blessings to sore eyes and so was the cool refreshing rain after the harmattan. Butterflies buzzed around people’s faces and species of all kinds came alive again. It was an unbelievable sight.