Nigerian Harmattan Vs. American Winter

(By Okey Ndibe) - "I was not altogether ignorant about winter. . . . I had always thought that winter was the American version of what the Igbo call ugulu, otherwise more widely known across West Africa as harmattan. Harmattan is a dry cold wind that emanates from the Sahara Desert and sweeps through much of West Africa from the latter part of the -ember month through to March.

            Growing up in Nigeria, I had witnessed many harmattan seasons. The harmattan brings fine granules of dust that cause coughs, redden the eye, color the skin ashy, and lend the atmosphere a patina of grey. It also gives the air a tinge—a mere tinge—of cold. At the height of the harmattan season, the temperature drops in the mornings, hovering around fifty-five degrees fahrenheits. In tropical Nigeria, that’s what we call cold.

            Whenever I had come across the word ‘winter’ in print, I mentally transposed ‘harmattan’ in its place. Why would I pack a special winter jacket for my trip to New York City when my people had never needed to invent harmattan jacket? The entire arsenal of our combat against ugulu-grade cold consisted of Vaseline (to sheen up dry, scaly skin), a sweater (usually worn by the very elderly and children), a handkerchief (to ward off dust), and a pair of sunglasses (to protect the eyes from airborne sand).

            Harmattan pretty much left you alone, unless you provoked it. And the gravest act of provocation was to take a cold bath or shower early in the morning. The body and cold water were at war during harmattan. The touch of cold water on the skin made you wince, whistle. Whoop, and jump. If you know what was good for you, you warmed your water before bathing. . . .

            In my first letters to friends and relatives in Nigeria, I strained to find the language to convey what winter felt like. No, ugulu, the harmattan, couldn’t stand near—much less beside—winter. In the end, I figured out the only comparison they could relate to: Winter, I wrote, was akin to living inside a refrigerator.”

Okey Ndibe

Never Look An American in the Eye, 2016, pp. 43-45.