Harmattan rolled in with much ceremony, mid-December when we’d begun to think it’d never come. That disquieting fog and cold and scratchy feeling in the air had eluded us until January last year, setting in fresh on the first as I trudged home from church miserably, clutching at the inadequate scarf that I’d torn off my head to protect my shoulders from the biting cold. It was 1 am, and I’d performed my obligatory good Nigerian child duty of attending the crossover service with my mother. She’d all but bundled me into her car, but I’d mostly complied. God would mark my name in the register of people who’d spent 11:59 pm to 12:00 am with him.
the emotional journey is so real, felt like i was there every step of the way