The harmattan came that morning, throwing a blanket over the sun and filling nostrils with the smell of Christmas coming. The daytime darkness it caused was unnerving to the people of Eko.

There may be no mention of your name

no legacy to impregnate with grandeur over drinks;

the mythos of your being lies underneath the lid of a marble box with what is left of you

In the humid warmth, 

the smells of the city 

are carried by airless breeze