It’s the first few days of December. Cold northern winds scour the land bringing with them the unfriendly friend- harmattan.
Cracked lips, dry, whitish skin, it’s a perpetual struggle to stay warm. Moisture seems to be nothing but a fevered dream. Water dries off like there’s a meeting in heaven it just cannot afford to be late to.

Anything left in a spot for a long while is covered with a thin film of dust.
The sandy footpaths are filled with that same earthy brownish-orange dust. Even as it rises in small clouds, pummeled under the feet of hasty villagers going about their daily business. There is no time to wait and exchange more than the barest pleasantries. Stay still for more than a few minutes and the cold begins to take little nips at your exposed flesh and if you still wait like a rabbit frozen in a bright beam of light, it gets into your very bones.

It is in this harmattan period however, that UzoChukwu, a young, virile boy from a clan of warriors, one who had braved seventeen harmattans successfully, must attain his manhood or be shamed forever among his clansmen. Armed with just a loincloth, a thick fur blanket, a spear and some rations, he must spend a week in the thick forest at the boundary, alone and without help.

On the day set aside, UzoChukwu and several other boys of his age grade meet at the agreed upon meeting place, the huge palm tree in the market square. They shake hands and trade insults. If they prove their courage in their different places of assignment, they would meet in exactly one week as men. Those who failed would have to pay a steep fine, to be set by those who passed. And then, the next harmattan, they would be opportuned to take the test again with their younger ones. Every boy present wears a grim face. They know what is at stake.

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