Читать книгу: «The Half-God of Rainfall»

Òrúnmilà, the God of vision and fiction,

whose unique knowing is borderless, whose wisdom

unmatched, who witnessed the light of all creation,

to whom all stories are lines etched deep in his palms,

from the heavens above Nigeria read the qualm

of oncoming conflict, shook his head and looked down.

- x -

The local boys had chosen grounds not too far from

the river, so a cooled breeze could blow them twisting

in the heat. The boys had picked clean its battered palms,

leaves left from previous years, to make this their grounding,

their patch, their pitch. These local lads levelled it flat,

stood two shortened telephone poles up, centering

both ends of the field. Then they mounted tyres, strapped

one atop each pole and stitched strips of fishing nets

to these black rims. Court lines were drawn in charcoal mashed

into a paste and the soil held the dark pigment,

the free throw lines’ glistening geometry perfect.

They called it Battle Field, The Court of Kings, The Test,

for this was where warriors were primed from the rest,

where generals were honoured and mere soldiers crushed.

Basketball was more than sport, the boys were obsessed.

They played with a righteous thirst. There were parries, thrusts,

shields and shots, strategies and tactics, land won and

lost, duels fought, ball like a missile, targets | + | locked, such

that Ògún, the Òrìṣà God of War, would stand

and watch. He’d stand and watch. The Gods were watching on.

One child, named Demi, was kept from play. He was banned.

He’d crouch on the edge of the court watching boys turn

and glide in the reach towards the rim, a chasm,

a cavernous emptiness between him and them.

He was banned from games for if they lost, tears would come.

Demi would drench his shirt, soak his classroom and flood

whole schools as once he’d done their pitch, the soil swollen,

poles sunk, it all turned to swamp for weeks. Their lifeblood,

the balletic within them, their game had been stalled.

They never forgave him turning their world to mud.

They resented more than they feared Demi and called

him ‘Town Crier’, loud, mercilessly chanting this

as they crossed over the brown orb, dribbling, they’d call

Town Crier! Watch this! They worshipped Michael Jordan, ripped

his moves from old games. They’d practise trash-talking, those

dark boys, skin singing to the heat. They’d try to fit

Nigerian tongues round American accents – close

but not close enough – Dat all you ghot mehn? Ghottu

du betta mehn, youh mama so fat, giant clothes

no fit cover her hass! till a fist-fight broke through

their game and war spilled out, the Gods laughing, the ball

r o l l i n g__towards Demi__.__.__.__who, that day, bent to scoop

it up, desperate to join their lush quarrel and all

he asked for was one shot, the five foot four of him

quivering on the court. No said Bolu, stood tall,

the King of the court You’ll miss and cry. Boys, grab him!

Demi fought in their grip, eyes starting to water,

Just one shot or I’ll cry and drown this pitch he screamed,

his voice slicing the sky, clouds gathering over.

You small boy! You no get shame? Remember this belt?

Pass the ball before I whip you even harder!

But the King’s voice hushed as the earth began to melt,

the soil dampen, telephone poles tilt and great tears

pool in Demi’s wild eyes. Far off, Modupe felt

that earth wane. Modupe, Demi’s mother, her fears

honed by her child, knowing what danger wild water

could do let loose on land, left everything – her ears

seeking Demi’s distinct sobbing – the market where

she worked, utter chaos in her wake, in her vaults

over tables stacked with fruits and fried goods, the air

parting___for her, the men unable to find fault

in the thick-limbed smooth movement that was her full form.

Back at the court, Demi held on as the boys waltzed

around his pinned-down form beneath the threatening storm

One shot oh! Just one! the arena turning mulch

beneath them. Alarmed, the King yelled Fine! But shoot from

where you lay. Demi spat the soil out his mouth, hunched

till he could see one dark rim, gathered his sob back

into him and let fly the ball, his face down, crunched.

Years later Bolu would recount that shot. Its arch.

Its definite flight path, the slow rise, peak and wane

of its fall through the fishing net. Swish. Its wet thwack

on damp earth, the skies clearing, then silence. Again

Bolu said, pushing the ball to his chest. Again.

Demi, do it again. And the crowds went insane.

The rabble grew and swirled around them on the plain

of damp soil chanting Again! each time Demi drained

the ball down the net. Modupe arrived and craned

her neck but couldn’t glimpse Demi, so, a fountain

of worry, she splashed at one. What happened? Tell me!

You didn’t see? Town Crier can’t miss! He just became

the Rainman! Make it rain, baby! Yes! Shoot that three!

Ten more shots, each flawless, and they hoisted Demi

onto their shoulders, his face a map of pure glee.

Two things Modupe would never forget – that glee

when Demi became the Rainman was the second.

The first, the much darker: how Demi was conceived.