Rising earlier than dawn; Like a thick ice broom, It sweeps across angrily At my naked feet. A cold feel; an onrushing wind; A crystal slap to my face. Its unmerciful hands... Icy, just too icy! Out in the mean open, It moves, determined and reckless; A blinding dust, Riding, viciously, on nature’s wheel. Icicles in my nostrils, And foam on my tongue, As I succumbed to the cold embrace Of the harmattan haze. Ikenna Igwe, 2024.