When grown- not fully- men, play football on a sand pitch, they raise dust resembling a Sandstorm's attempt to gain momentum- but failing to move past stirring dust.
From a distance, you see it, the colored fogginess, and wonder if it is yet another figment of the moisture-less harmattan. A man passes by, nose shielded by dust-absorbed handkerchief. You think that it must be bad, and proceed too, to shield your air waves.
The closer you go, the browner the scenery. Only it's not just brown- it's loud. Neck cranes leftward, and like dawn, the realization gradually settles. This has been yet another of life's lessons in literature: one more metaphor to use. Because now, you will know just what you mean when you compare something to grown- not fully- men, playing football on a sand pitch.