The Half-God of Rainfall

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