by Inua Ellams
for an age, and the victor can take a mortal
from the loser’s world./Done!Sàngó hissed, his bolt swift
in his grip. Hera rolled her eyes at how mortal
Gods could be, how like men to reduce disputes down
to sporting feats, but it was done: the stakes, awful,
the route to run, Zeus in his great and golden crown,
in a monstrous gold chariot, Sàngó displeased
on his black bolt, face frowned, awaiting the countdown.
BOOM!They launched off the Plain of Thessaly in Greece,
off the Meteora monasteries. Zeus galloped
into speed, Sàngó’s bolt behind, beneath, a crease
in the night skies shedding stormclouds, leaving Europe,
crossing the Mediterranean. Zeus dipped, swerved
into Sàngó’s path who to avoid the clash up,
turned sharply and smashed into the Acacus herd
of stout mountains in western Libya. Zeus flashed
forward but Sàngó’s anger powered him ahead
over Niger, where Zeus blinded him with a blast
of light and in the chaos cheated, strapped Hermes
– winged Greek messenger God, to his chariot’s shaft!
And this was normal. The tax-dodging mortal Greeks
cheated so often they prayed for victory; pleas
so sincere their gods absorbed their dark energies.
Gods exist beyond time and space and all of this
happened lightning-quick, in a mortal’s blink. Focus
on Modupe, young, playing in Nigeria … bliss
one second, mayhem the next, engulfed in monstrous
brutal lightning … for Zeus chose her as his mortal.
Zeus won that race. Osún feared for Modupe, thus
from a young age trained her to wrestle, would bundle
her chest flat, deepen her voice and send her to bouts
where she battled, bested each man … until this duel.
It was different. Modupe tried to knock out
Zeus, but he was a God. Much like a match struck in
full sunlight is how mortals look before the clout
of Gods, such is their splendour, and Zeus, transforming
into each beast he’d taken mortals with (a swan
for Leda, a white bull for Europa, even
the Eagle for the child Ganymede) broke the brawn
of Modupe’s true grip and bested her. He took
her on the shores of her own river. An aeon
passed in that blink of an eye, for Modupe shook
at each violation, suffered each push, each like
a drill sunk into her womb, shredding, she gushed brooks
of blood, parts of her dissolved, eyes whitened, each spike
of him cut at her spirit. She sobbed for her flesh,
that all she was she could not protect. When she’d strike
at him, Zeus would tighten his nooselike grip afresh.
From the heavens above, Osún saw what Zeus was,
the monster of him turning Modupe to mesh.
She took arms to strike Zeus but Sàngó barred her doors
and spoke the stakes of their race, his face slashed with pain,
anxious, unsure of what attacking Zeus might cause.
Osún railed at him. This was your fault! You’re to blame!
As they quarrelled, Zeus … finished. The skies flashed white flames.
He cast Modupe aside, took his chariot’s reins
and left the waters still, Modupe deathlike, drained.
Gods exist beyond time and space, and so the child
was born instantly. Demi. That’s what he was named.
Half Nigerian mortal. Half Grecian God. Half-child
of Zeus. Half-lord of river waters. He would grow
to possess odd gifts. He had, instinctive and wild
a great sense of height and he could cry river-bowls
of tears. The bastard son of Zeus born by swamp trees:
OluDemi Modupe, Half-God of Rainfall.
Their first months were tough. OluDemi cried small seas
that gushed from his cot and nothing first-time mother,
lone parent, abused girl Modupe did appeased.
Her cries for her body and ill-got child, bothered
nearby rivers to burst their banks and flow inland,
surrounding their home, locking them both in water.
In these churning orbs, it became unclear whose hand
called which waters, to whom which tears belonged; they flowed
into each other … and began to understand
slowly, that moods rise like tides, that needs change bloodflow.
Like this they bonded. Despite the difficulty
of whence he came, she marvelled to watch Demi grow.
Two things Modupe would never forget. His glee:
when Demi became the Rainman was the second.
The first, the much darker: how Demi was conceived.
When Bolu, King of the Court saw the skill dormant
in the Half-God, he took Demi under his wing
to teach the fine points of basketball. He would rant.
Part in praise of Demi, part critique, part ambling
through battle philosophy, part practical points:
You must be Point Guard. With your small size, your shooting,
you can’t really be nothing else so I appoint
you Starting Point Guard. This eagle-eye gift of yours
to see the court from above? You’re the starting point!
What do point guards do?/We’ll get to that in due course.
First, warfare is based on deception, so attack
when you seem unable to, and when using force
move like you are not. When you are near, you must act
like you’re far, and when afar, as if you’re near.
To fight and conquer in all your battles shows lack
of supreme excellence. Excellence is to tear
your foe’s resistance down without fighting, Demi!
Understand?/No!Bolu owned one book, a dog-eared
copy of The Art of War, used it to teach key
aspects of basketball. Unorthodox were his
methods but so potent were the results – army
tactics to treat each teammate as a squad, to seize
and command them thus – that both Gods of War, Ògún
and Ares, would eavesdrop. Demi, our Half-God, breezed
through the lessons. Turned half general, half typhoon,
he would still ‘Make it rain’ on the court but became
a master tactician. That first year, the platoon
Demi led won most games, the next year were proclaimed
champions. Year after, Demi steered the senior team
to local semi-finals where the Rainman name
drenched every ball court and the spectators would scream
when he touched the ball. After two years, Demi led
the nation’s team and his town was a shrine to him:
Rainman banners across each street, small cloud-headed
figurines sold on beaded necklaces, prayers
and libations poured in his name. That name, whispered
in deepest hope by the townsfolk – such areas
of silent meditation are grounds on which Gods
are born. And far above the earth, Sàngó, who stirs
the skies to howl, whose footsteps dictate the roughshod
beat of storms, who regretted his hotheadedness
which had led to Demi’s birth, saw further discord.
He gathered the Gods together in the greatness
of heaven’s hall and spoke. The half-boy grows stronger.
This should stop because smaller gods feel a weakness.
Some prayers due them now feed him and the longer
this persists, we too will grow weak bu
t Elégba,
trickster God and Guardian of Crossroads, spoke softer.
His father is not of this land, we can’t … hamper
him without consent. Then Hermes announced himself.
I am the emissary of Zeus, his father.
As Zeus’ godblood pumps through the boy, Zeus himself
weakens. His godpowers draw from Zeus. Zeus demands
action. The boy lives here, the task falls to yourselves.
Zeus says: remember the Agreement? The boy stands
in direct opposition to …/What Agreement?
Sàngó asked. From all mortal sports, Half-Gods are banned.
Òrúnmilà, your sage is versed in its contents.
I must leave you now. Hermes strapped fast his sandals.
Their legendary wings flapped and he was gone, absent,
so missed Òrúnmilà recounting the scandal
around the Agreement, hush falling, and his gaze
coming to rest on Sàngó. It’s yours to handle.
Sàngó, can you cripple the boy? A lightning graze?
Blaze through a leg …at which point Osún had enough.
Seriously? His mother Modupe, born here, raised
here, my priestess, is of this land. Demi is of
this land and deserves our protection! Or women
don’t matter? Sàngó cleared his throat. I can blaze off …
YOU HAVE DONE ENOUGH! Osún roared. Useless henchman!
Doing Zeus’ dirty work when you are stronger?
Òrúnmilà spoke: I see why you hate this plan.
But something must be done. If Sàngó can’t alter
the boy’s body then you, Osún, must make him stop.
I cannot, Osún said, I swore to the far stars
and beyond, to the Galaxy, yet failed to stop
that defilement. Demi was conceived on my watch.
All that brings them joy is this mortal game, his shot,
that gift, his curse, and you stand here, you Gods who watch
humanity, you Infinites who know how short
each human life is, each sickness-ridden thin notch
on the trunk of eternity, asking I halt
their lone source of joy?/Compassionate as you are,
great Osún, Òrúnmilà said, Goddess, whose forts
are streams and healing pools, this must be done, for stars
witnessed the Agreement, all God-Kings gave their word.
Some made personal sacrifices. We risk war.
This is the consequence. Battle. Shield. Spear and sword.
Conflict amongst the Gods. This must be avoided.
Osún sighed so deeply Earth’s rivers shrunk inwards.
Well … give me time. Demi still sleeps in his childbed
by his mother. Yet to reach manhood, the prayers
that feed him are streams compared to our ocean spreads.
/As you wish, Osún, but he feeds off our prayers,
is of this land, the task is ours, Sàngó owes Zeus.
Fail, and Sàngó’s thunderbolts will be your nightmares.
He’ll tear chunks from the boy and death might be induced.
GET IT DONE. This meeting is over. The Gods went,
save Sàngó, who knelt by Osún, seeking a truce.
My husband, if you’d listened to me, these events,
none would have come to pass!/I know, Osún, I know.
The fault is mine. What can I do to make amends?
Sàngó’s voice shook as he spoke, worries grooved his brow.
If you’re sincere, whatever your actions, before
any move, report to me?And Sàngó bowed low.
Though what Zeus did to Modupe desecrated
the sacred swampland on which her compound was made,
and though her son’s successes had generated
other houses, Modupe could not sleep or fade
towards slumber anywhere else. She’d always come
back to that first house, the shrine where she’d feel the shade
and shallow shaping of Osún’s cool, pull and hum
her to dewy soundless slumber. Metres away
the river would shush itself. The near world would numb
to deepen her sleeping. In this hushed hallowed way
Osún appeared to Modupe in a dream.
They conversed at length, in whispering and wise ways,
Goddess to high-priestess. God-mother to esteemed
God-daughter. Mother to mother. Spirit to child.
Modupe spoke of little happenings that beamed
her back to the attack: a flash of light, a wild
bird above would trigger it and she’d be a scream
beneath Zeus again. His fists. Her throat. She asked why
it happens? Keeps happening? What exact regime
teaches males to take what isn’t given? What riles
them? Osún saw Modupe’s anger. How it gleamed.
She let it dim, then spoke of the threat to the child –
would Demi stop playing? I can’t ask that of him.
That ballgame is all he loves! Modupe replied.
I thought as much, Osún said, but Sàngó has him
in his sights. Gods have spoken. One who comes against
us does not live long. Osún hummed a quiet hymn,
a water’s warmth that calmed Modupe, then grew dense,
tempestuous as monsoon tides, so violent
Modupe cried out. Osún spoke then, her voice tense.
Hush, child. This is what you do. Make him radiant.
Take Demi somewhere else, far from these shores to where
prayers that feed him won’t reduce our nourishment.
The task will fall from Sàngó if Demi leaves here.
Go to the Americas where his sport is prime.
If he is skilled enough, his powers will grow there.
He might draw less strength from Zeus, but we haven’t time.
There are sports scouts visiting from that foreign land
seeking new talent, I’ll bring one by. He must shine.
Demi must ‘Make it rain’, the scout will watch him pound
that game. Accept any offer that’s made and go!
/It will be done Osún, your seed finds willing ground.
The year is two thousand and nine, the location:
Oracle Arena, four years after he signed
the National Basketball Association’s
contract. Game six. Finals. Demi shouts to remind
his team to focus. Fist clenched, arm out, holding court,
his sign to stay in formation as the ball climbs
back up to his open palm. Demi stops just short
of the half court line, shuts his eyes. His consciousness
rises up to the thousands of bulbs buzzing bursts
of light, small suns scorching the players. He watches
the opposing team ready against his, smiles – blink
and it’s gone – then he makes his move. Demi rushes
forward, fakes a drive, pivots left so his guard thinks
the ball will come his right as Demioutletsto
the power forward, steadfast in his lane, the brink
of the rim a [+] target he knows to ignore, to
swing to the centre, who, though minotaur-like can’t
shake his man, and the small forward is waiting to
step up, catch the ball from the chest-pass, throw a scant
fake as he makes for the top of the key,glideit
to the shooting guard to dribble down the line, plant
himself there and taunt the defence till two commit
and Demi, waiting top of the key, like he knew
they would is defence-free, the play-cycle complete,
to receive the ball and pause. Demi looks up, views
the shot clock, the | 00:04 | seconds left locked in its grip
as the worldslowsand Oracle Arena g
lues
itself to the Half-God, gasps as his fingertip
strokes the blur down, crossover, up, down, crossover,
up and back for the | 00:03 | his elbow pulled back, whip/
/lash wrist-flick the | 00:02 | air trembling the sonarrrrrrr
silence of Demi’s gift. | 00:01 | Swish. Nothing but net.
| 00:00 | A buzzer-beating last shot. Game over.
Demi’s team the Golden State Warriors win. Sweat
clings to his cream skin as a thousand cameras
flash, the Arena rises to its feet, to wet
its twenty thousand lips with Demi’s moniker
cascading to him like praise song: Rainman! Rainman!
chants rising like incense smoke from sacred altars
or animal sacrifice, burning for Gods and
riding them all: Demi, who had gone from the wee
kid who cried to the boy who came off Nigerian
courts to be reborn, Half-God in ‘God’s own country’.
God Daymn! Demi whispered,If anything was meant
to be, it’s me. It’s this. Indeed, millions agreed.
Newscasters, journalists, sports companies hellbent
on monetising the myth of him would call him
the sport’s prophet, its second coming, heaven-sent.
Reports covered blogs, headlines crossed broadsheets calling
for Demi’s induction into the hall of fame
for he broke every three-point record set, scoring
impossible shots. In press conferences, school games,
board meetings, lecture halls, synagogues, in saunas,
cafes, churches, in post offices, Demi’s name
ran the full gamut of their lips. Many corners
in many cities echoed their faith in his gift
and accordingly, Demi’s powers grew stronger.
His mildest mood swings would cause storm patterns to shift
overhead and darken his world beneath. Mains pipes
would burst, subways flood, all this unconscious, too swift
for him to stop. Three different pairs of eyes had gripes
with this. The first, Modupe, chastised her son:
No excuses, Demi, tune out from all this hype!
Calm down when you’re moody! Ah?! Don’t blot out the sun!
The second pair of eyes were Hera’s – Greek God Queen
who returned to Mount Olympus spinning Zeus yarns.
She exaggerated stories of what she’d seen,
of Demi’s powers, his influence on men, how
this sapped Zeus’ strength and would completely weaken
him if left to grow unchecked. Zeus nodded and scowled
with Hera, swallowing her stirring viperous