A harmattan Thanksgiving

It rains every day through July and August. Then the rain tapers off in September. By October, the air is thick with un-rained water--thick and warm. Not like everywhere off the plateau. Not like Lagos or Port Harcourt. In those cities, when you take a breath, you feel as though you might drown; that's how thick the air is with hot moisture. Jos isn't like that ever, but the closest it gets is in March-April and again in October. That's when you cringe every time you see a baby bundled in four layers, including a knitted cap and mittens. In October, you sigh heavily whenever the electricity goes off because it means the ceiling fan won't be stirring up the wet air. And in October, the students always ask the teachers--every year without fail, "Why aren't there fans in our classrooms?" Every October.

Then you wake up one day in November, and the world has changed overnight. The sun rises as it does every morning--at almost the same time year-round--but shines weakly. You say, "It's trying-oh." The air is still thick, but overnight the moisture has evaporated. In its place is fine reddish brown dust. The windows were left open at night--as they almost always are, and besides, you can't really shut them because they're slatted and not designed to seal--and you can see the thin layer of dust covering the windowsills. If you were to take a napkin and wipe the table, you would see the reddish tinge on the napkin from the dust that has settled overnight. 

The harmattan has come in. 

It happens overnight, while everyone is sleeping. It steals in and permeates everything. Yesterday was hot and humid; today, the temperature has dropped 20 degrees. There is a morning chill. When you step outside, you notice the difference immediately. Dust hangs in the air like fog. When the sun rises and sets, it does so at a horizon clouded with dust--so much so that the sun disappears a full half hour before it actually sets. The closer it gets to the horizon, the more orange it looks, murky.

And people start getting sick. They say it's the change in weather. It messes with their sinuses. Allergies. A few of the Americans with asthma begin to struggle just a bit more to be able to breathe. 

As the days go by, the temperature continues to dip. It never freezes, but it lowers down to the mid-40s at night and mid-60s in the daytime. It's cold in a land without central heating. Most people bundle up and huddle around the fires along the street--vendors selling kosai bean cakes and fried yam. Everywhere people drink "tea" out of insulated mugs or thermoses--maybe black tea with lots of milk and sugar, maybe Bournvita or Milo hot chocolate, also with lots of milk and sugar. 

And everywhere, dust: a reddish brown film on every surface, inside and out--in your hair and on your skin. Everything dries out. The rivers turn to trickles. City water in the tap is off more than it's on. Your skin becomes chapped and cracked. When you use your fingernail to write, "DRY," on your leg, the word stays there for an hour.

This is November: the beginning of harmattan.

And while the word "Thanksgiving" means a great deal here in Nigeria, it doesn't refer to a single day of the year or to turkey dinner with the extended family. Nor does it refer to football or pumpkin pie. "Thanksgiving" refers to any church service centered on gratitude, of which there are a fair few. "Thanksgiving" refers to an offering taken up out of this gratitude. Though there is little electricity and even less running water; though meat is too expensive to eat except on special holidays; though children are struck down with cerebral malaria, meningitis, and typhoid; though peace is a thing of the past in our city; even yet we are all grateful, thankful--for life, for Jesus, for the family we do have.

"American Thanksgiving" is just another Thursday in November. Even at the Christian school where the missionaries send their children, classes are held as usual. There is no turkey dinner. Seniors scramble to prepare for their opening night of the senior play. Around town, different groups of expats have potluck suppers--probably with chicken and maybe with yakwa sauce instead of cranberry sauce. There may be pumpkin pie, but it will be from scratch, and if there's apple pie, it will have cost dearly at over $1 per apple. This is "American Thanksgiving" in our city.

And we Westerners celebrate it. Even the non-Americans join in the festivities, for who wants to be left out of a feast? There is prayer and probably a time of sharing. For we're all thankful. We're thankful for the days we do have water and electricity. We're thankful for safety on the roads and in our homes. We're thankful for anti-malarials and vaccines. We're thankful even for the harmattan to cool off the air. We're thankful that God brought us to this place, this time, and we are thankful that our lives are richer for it.

This is our harmattan Thanksgiving.

Photo courtesy http://pilot-blogbook.com/2007/01/harmattan-daze/