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The people of Sikakrom woke up one morning to find something strange in the air literally.
A cool breeze drifted through the village, gentle but odd. It smelled faintly of mangoes and, according to Auntie Akos,"just a pinch of nonsense."
Children ran outside screaming, "The prophecy! The wind has changed!"
Indeed, it had. For the first time, the Harmattan had a hint of blue. Not the sky the wind itself.
"Blue wind," whispered Kweku "Google." "That's what the prophecy meant. It's time."
"Time for what?" asked his father.
Kweku didn't know. But it didn't matter Sikakrom was convinced.
T.T. the Trickster declared himself Minister of Wind Interpretation, wearing a scarf made from mosquito netting. He stood on top of the community centre, sniffing the air like a confused cat.
"Good people! The wind speaks of change. Of wisdom. Of... imported rice!"
Cheers erupted. No one knew what he meant, but the wind had clearly turned the village upside-down.
Pastor Isaiah, not wanting to be outdone, launched a new sermon series: "When the Wind is Blue, Your Enemies Are Through."
At the school, Miss Adzo made students recite:
"Blue wind above, blue wind below,
Tell us the secrets we need to know."
Parents started selling bottled air labeled "Authentic Blue Wind Limited Edition."
Auntie Mansa was now marketing smoked tilapia as "wind-aged."
And in a dramatic turn, Nana Kwabena summoned the Council of Elders for an emergency declaration:
"We hereby declare a public holiday: Blue Wind Festival."
Drumming began. Old men danced. Someone brought out the leftover Christmas lights and strung them between cocoa trees.
By evening, Sikakrom looked like it was auditioning to host the next World Cup.
But deep in the forest, where the trees whispered real secrets, the real cause of the blue wind stirred.