Sorrow's Wind: Poem by Ohikhuare Isuku

When the air-borne disease
Found refuge in our nostrils,
It was our manly strength
That paid the deadly prize

Sorrow was the hut
Under which we took rest,
Tears caked upon
Our charred skin

The chilling wind
Seduced himself in
And embraced us
With his deadly arms

We were mystified;
It was the January harmattan wind:
Dry and hazy;
The pang like machete's

We stayed put
Through the hideous times:
Our breaths on nostrils' tips;
Lo when morning came,
We were few that survived