The Half-God of Rainfall

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The Half-God of Rainfall Page 1

by Inua Ellams




  Copyright

  4th Estate

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.4thEstate.co.uk

  This eBook first published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2019

  Copyright © Inua Ellams 2019

  Cover design by Jack Smyth

  Inua Ellams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008324773

  Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008324780

  Version: 2019-03-12

  Dedication

  For Veronica Ellams, Mariam Asuquo, Hadiza Alex Ellams, Claire Trévien, Annabel Stapleton Crittendon, Imogen Butler Cole, Joelle Taylor and Michaela Coel.

  In solidarity with women who have spoken against or stood up to male abuses of power in all its forms.

  Epigraphs

  I’m a poet so I can empathise with minor gods

  – Chuma Nwokolo

  The first madness was that we were born,

  that they stuffed a god into a bag of skin

  – Akwaeke Emezi

  I, too, once dribbled that old bubble, happiness,

  and found in time the scramble and the rules

  doubtful

  – W Belvin

  I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

  welling and swelling I bear in the tide

  – Maya Angelou

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  Portrait of Prometheus

  ACT ONE

  BOOK I

  BOOK II

  BOOK III

  ACT TWO

  BOOK I

  BOOK II

  BOOK III

  ACT THREE

  BOOK I

  BOOK II

  BOOK III

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Portrait of Prometheus

  Portrait of Prometheus

  as a basketball player.

  His layup will start from mountains

  not with landslide, rumble or gorgon clash

  of titans, but as shadow-fall across stream –

  some thief-in-the-night-black-Christ-

  type stealth. In the nights before this,

  his name, whispered in small circles, muttered

  by demigods and goddesses, spread rebellious,

  rough on the tongues of whores and queens,

  pillows pressed between thighs, moaning.

  Men will call him father, son or king

  of the court. His stride will ripple oceans,

  feet whip-crack quick, his back will scar,

  hunched over, a silent storm about him.

  Both hands scorched and bleeding;

  You see nothing but sparks splash off

  his palms, nothing but breeze beneath

  his shuck ’n’ jive towards the basket

  carved of darkness, net of soil and stars.

  Fearing nothing of passing from legend to myth

  he fakes left, crossover, dribbles down

  the line and then soars – an eagle chained

  to hang time.

  – Inua Ellams

  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 gtowards 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 a
s 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

  partingfor 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.

  They say when Modupe was born her own mother,

  who worshipped the God of vision and fiction, screamed

  when she foresaw the future looks of her daughter:

  the iridescent moon she’d resemble, the dream

  she’d seem to men and thus the object she’d become.

  Her mother had known these men her whole life, had seen

  them all … from the weak and pathetic overcome

  by lust, to warlords who to crush rebellion

  would attack the women to daunt their men and sons.

  She’d suffered such brands of violence. It had churned

  her for years. Knowing her child would need protection

  from a God who could wash the eyes of men and numb

  their hot senses, the young mother took swift action,

  stole her child to the shrine of the River Goddess

  Osún, she prayed for protection, poured libation,

  straddled her daughter and to show conviction lest

  Osún think this a token act, split her own womb

  with a knife, the blood pooling on her daughter’s chest.

  Skies above Nigeria, far above the gloom,

  in the heavens over Earth where the Òrìṣà,

  the Yoruba Gods and Goddesses lived and loomed

  Osún wailed. Voice like cyclones, she swore an oath as

  Modupe’s mother bled: no mortal man would know

  this child. No one will come near! She swore to the stars,

  to the galaxy’s dark. Osún’s oath shook black holes.

  Woe to those who would test me! To those who would try!

  She made Modupe her high priestess, her go-to,

  her vessel, her self on Earth, and built her a shrine

  and compound by the river’s edge, where the soil soaked

  with water meant Modupe could move land, unwind

  the swamp into a weapon should she be provoked.

  And though it became widely known that Modupe

  was untouchable, it never stopped men. It stoked

  their prying eyes and their naked hunger. On clear

  nights they’d secretly watch her. They’d see the full moon

  beaming to the rippling and pristine waters where

  she bathed. The water, like liquid diamonds, cocooned

  her with light. This happened years later, when she was

  fully grown and legends of her beauty had bloomed

  into foolish shameless lustful moans and prayers

  pitched to Sàngó, the brash God of Thunder, who too

  would grab his godhood, gaze at Modupe and pause

  to stroke himself. If she could humble thunder too

  how safe was she among men? In his palace up

  among storm clouds, Sàngó squeezed himself, slow, imbued

  with dreams of her beneath him, dark skin ripe, breast cupped

  whenBOOM!rang the doors of his palace, the room shook

  BOOM!I’M THE GOD OF THUNDER! WHO DARES INTERRUPT …

  Oh, greetings, Osún. She swept in. Her garments took

  the deep thick greenish tinge of low waves. Her crown quaked

  with new-moon jewels. The River Goddess, angry, shook.

  Sàngó! That’s Modupe! You shouldn’t even take

  a peek! You know the oath I took/Yes but/Nothing!

  Now, go clean yourself. I bring news. For your own sake.

  Moments later Sàngó returned, low-thundering

  with each step. Don’t sulk! A ah! Now, I know his name

  angers you, but the Greek God-King, Zeus, is warring

  and mankind again is at risk. Modupe’s name

  is drawn among the list of likely casualties

  if you react, Sàngó. Now, our sage who has tamed

  all possibilities, Òrúnmilà, who sees

  all stories, him, our God of vision and fiction

  who saw the light of all creation, sends his pleas.

  Tonight, he says: Sàngó, be still. Cause no friction.

  Whatever happens, throw no thunder, hold your bolts,

  for an omen rules the skies. Be wise. Use caution.

  And just as Osún spoke, then struck a lightning bolt.

  A ferocious white blaze shook the grand hall and struck

  its ancient paintings to confetti, jolting volts

  of fire burned the cracked pillars. Look how he mocks

  us! Thrice now my dear! No! Sàngó grabbed his loudest

  thunder, his blackest fire, his closest friend, ducked

  before Osún could utter any calming words

  and was gone! Osún stared from the broken stairs down

  to Earth, down at young Modupe, and feared the worst.

  For thousands of years, Gods enjoyed full dominion

  over the lives of men. From the northernmost poles

  to the southern, from the east of the sun’s rise down

  to the west of the sun’s set, men promised their souls

  and gave their all in penitent servitude but

  this century marked a change. Their lives, from sole

  god-worship, turned to fleshy pleasures and the glut

  of property. As prayers which fed and assuaged

  the might of Gods dwindled, they felt their power cut.

  Zeus, who had been glorified on film, song and stage,

  felt this keenly, grew vengeful and sharpened his bolts.

  That lightning lord, that God-father, whose ancient rage

  once frightened kings, whose influence, whose merest hopes

  were turned to laws, and laws supreme, realised too

  late this dwindling servitude of men and hurled volts.

  He killed
them. Other Gods grew benevolent, cooled

  down, conserving power, but Zeus smote those who strayed

  from him, bolts asunder, this way, that, so thrice through

  Sàngó’s wide window Zeus’ terrible aim flayed

  the walls and Sàngó had enough, thundered, vexed,

  sped towards Mount Olympus. As he charged, his way

  was watched by other thunder-gods: from Egypt – Set,

  Chaac – Mayan, Indra – Hindu, from China – Feng Lung,

  Whaitiri – Māori, Thor – Norse God and the rest

  too numerous to count watched Sàngó’s raging run

  to Olympus knowing chaos would come. Sàngó’s

  first bolt hit the doors with such force Hera’s throne spun.

  Hera – Queen of the Greek Gods, screamed to Apollo

  – God of Archery to take arms against Sàngó,

  as Ares – God of War, sat back to watch the show.

  Artemis – Goddess of Hunting, grasped her long bow

  but Sàngó burned it to ashes, his black fire

  wild in his hands. He hurled it at Hera, grasped low

  its shaft when it struck her throne, whipped back its fire

  at Apollo. With the two archers down he hewed

  from a distance. He struck column after spire

  after pillar after stone. Sàngó’s anger stood

  down every attack, slaying their weapons until

  Zeus arrived in a thunderclap, primed for a feud.

  You dare attack my home, Sàngó? Sàngó laughed, thrilled,

  for Zeus’ arrogance would sweeten his vengeance.

  Let he without fault throw the first bolt! How d’you feel?

  Find yourself … wanting? Zeus? Thrice you’ve struck my palace!

  /My aim was not for you! For men! Those bolts I threw

  to smite them./Zeus, killing innocents is callous.

  And my palace is wrecked. Redress is what I’m due!

  /And of all the ways, Sàngó, furnishings? You crush

  furniture? Are we men or are we Gods?yelled Zeus

  Choose better! He turned, snapping his fingers, the lush

  beauty returning to the halls as though Sàngó

  hadn’t happened. Zeus, weakened by the effort, flushed.

  Your power dwindlesSàngó saidYou’ve turned yellow.

  Are you well?/Of course!Zeus snappedLet us settle this

  as Gods. A race! My kingdom to yours. Your might thrown

  against mine. The loser answers the victor’s whims

 

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