UNSEEN PROSE AND POETRY
The month of July crept in. The sky, like a hooded monk wore black, as in mourning, ready to shed its load. The sun was mystified while heaps of sand and dust spiralled high up in the sky, sending high and low alike scurrying into hiding. The town had never known such a downpour, it was forty-eight hours of weeping by both the heavens and the inhabitants of Olusi who lost most of their life's savings in this destructive blessing.
The expression the sky, like a hooded monk wore black, illustrates
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