I predict fire. I predict that my little Ghanaian village will bring in the new year with torches of fire, as they do every year. They will throw the torches into trees and bushes, burning away all the mistakes and disappointments of 2009. They will grab fresh new branches and march on to the chief’s palace, declaring a new slate, another beginning.

And then they will dance.  

I predict a long and miserable dry season. The African sun will suck the green right out of the grass, the fat right out of the cows and the sanity from my soul. It will slurp the Guinea Worm invested water from the dams. We will sweat until our shirts stick to our skin. I imagine there will be some dust. Billows of dust (rather) that will consume our lungs and eyes and break all the material things we love.

I think a few children will be born. I think a few more will die. They may be mourned, they may not.

I imagine men and their sons will collect yams and cassava from their farms. Some will be eaten, most will be dumped on the floor a bushel at a time, peeled and dried to last the dry season.

I foresee hundreds of children in a school fit for only a few classes. I have a feeling there will be more playing than learning. Not my students. I predict they will be working harder than they ever have before, because ten of them will be taking an exam that will determine whether or not they will leave this village and make something of themselves against all odds. I predict a turnover of teachers every month. And I don’t think they will take their students very seriously, because, as they say, “they are only village kids.”

Deteriorating mud huts will be torn down. Boys and men of all ages will rebuild them, one mud brick at a time. New thatch roofs will be woven together. Mud and manure will be spread over decrepit flooring. The following day, I think women will pound away at the new flooring with wooden rods, all in sync, while chanting a blessing upon the house until it is as smooth as marble.

I predict an old man dies of heat exhaustion.   

I predict an old woman makes a joke on my behalf.

I think all the bugs of the earth will bury themselves deep into the red soil. I think the crocodiles will make their way up from depths of the diminishing dam. They may even walk from the dam on one side of the village to the one on the other (to everyone’s horror) in hope of finding more water.

I foresee a young woman getting married. She may never know the romance that you and I do. But she will love and she will be loved, till death do them part.

The heat will probably become so strong, that our throats will be too dry to talk. We will converse in lazy gestures. Dry trees and bushes will burst into flames at any given moment. We will endure sleepless nights and napless days until we go mad.

One evening, we will hear a crack in the distance. A wind will come through that will knock everything off our shelves. It will blow branches right from their trunks. Grab your children and hold them tight, they may very well also blow away. A low rumble will echo. The sky will brighten, just for a second, with another crack.

And then it will rain.

I don’t know about you, but I will be out there, letting it drown me, till I can’t see my hands in front of my face.

I predict it will continue to rain like this for some time. I think students will stop going to school, because their fathers need them to farm. When it rains, we will seek shelter for the day and sleep off the dry season. When the rain stops, we will trek to farm before the sun comes up and make our way home as it sets.

Practically overnight, the landscape will turn from a dusty brown to lush greens, yellows and reds. Life will come back to the village. I think young boys will swim in overflowing streams and fish with strings tied to thick sticks. Girls will play hand games and braid hair.  

Women will sit in large circles and crack groundnuts under the shade. Men will play awari until their fingers hurt.

My students will get the results of their exams. Only three will pass and be able to continue their education. The rest will spend their life in the village, as their fathers did. And while it will break my heart, I know the life ahead of them has been livable for hundreds of years. They will be just fine.

We will lift our skirts and trousers as we attempt to walk through the muddy market. Roads will be flooded and closed. We will be stuck in our village, left to fend for ourselves.

I think a child will swing from a makeshift tree swing above a field of corn.

The population of goats and sheep will triple.

Feverish children will be lined outside the clinic, vomiting in buckets and crying in pain. Their mothers will throw basins of water over their heads to cool them down. A handful will die of malaria.

Crocodiles will slide back into the dams. Insects you didn’t even know existed will climb out of the ground and eat all our clothes and food. They will crawl over our body as we sleep. And we won’t care, small price to pay for rain.

The young woman will have her first child, a girl. As tradition has it, she will give the infant to her sister as a servant.

I think our clothes may take a few days to dry on the lines. I predict everything we own will be covered in thick white mold.

A man will predict that this rain, it is the last one of the season. The sun will scorch the earth and the mud will turn to dust. This dust will rise heavily into the sky, hiding the light, and thankfully the heat. The temperature will drop significantly; we will have to wrap ourselves in blankets to sleep. The dust will burn our eyes and nose, and everyone will have runny noses and harsh coughs. Leaves will die and fall, leaving dry branches and bushes.

I then predict fire. I predict that my little Ghanaian village will bring in the new year with torches of fire, as they do every year. They will throw the torches into trees and bushes, burning away all the mistakes and disappointments of 2010. They will grab fresh new branches and march on to the chief’s palace, declaring a new slate, another beginning.

And then they will dance.