Damina season slowly closes..

The light in Abuja has been shimmering bright for the past couple of days. On the way home from work yesterday evening, Aso Rock looked looming and imperious against the deep azure of sky. All of a sudden, I felt a flutter of breathlessness pass through me like the shadow of a cloud. The cumuli up and to the left of the rock looked like whispy Himalayan peaks. I succeeding in fooling myself once again (the trick can only last for a few seconds, before the regulatory fascism of the conscious mind stamps out all sub-conscious fancy) that I lived amidst snow-capped mountains, breathing air stroked fresh and lightly perfumed by mountain flowers. It reminded me of the magic of last Christmas, when we finally saw the high peaks in the distance while visiting a Mandir in the foothills above Ananda. Damina season is slowly seguing into Harmattan...

I am still not in track with the seasons here. The temperate body has the four seasons wired into unconscious anticipation. The body feels the first pangs of spring with a subtle erotic force after the closed doors of winter, sinks deep into the languid torpor of high summer, then, with the crystallised dying of the late October light, fills the mind with mild foreboding at the lack of light in the months ahead. But in the tropics, the temperate body is adrift. How long does it take a body to adapt fully to a different climate? Perhaps never.