Bored of the monolith the house had become,
I stepped out of it, barefoot, even if
it was still drizzling, silver sabers
collapsing from the sky. This was the wrong time.
Rain in the last week of November
in Kaduna? Where was the twisted tongue
of harmattan lashing at the houses’ eaves?
The sun, departing, washed me in oily light―
I didn’t use to think this was striking
enough to forsake my chores to watch it.
But now, it reminded another part of me
of the promise to grow sage next year,
something to force me to forget the grief
I had been made to experience this year.
The dog pawed out of the house and joined me
in fathoming the fathomless sky.
For the first time she was not troubled
by the quiet. Just look at her, matured,
as she joined me in worshipping the silence,
the brown dough of her face resting on my feet.