by Inua Ellams
in corners, on plinths and grounds below, demigods,
mortals, conceived by women Zeus abused, they cried
I will help too!Zeus just laughed. THIS IS ALL YOU’VE GOT?
Sàngó thrust his darkest fire, his closest friend,
his best bolt towards Modupe. You’ll have my blood.
My every spark. You diminish him. Bring his end.
Quench such arrogance! Zeus wrapped lightning bolts around
each fist like boxing gloves, looked at her and beckoned.
Bow before me and I’ll go easy on you, pound
softer this time. Modupe crouched down, readied her
self, tasted sweet vengeance and leapt. She left the ground.
When Zeus leapt, these were his gathered powers: Storm Herd.
Marshal of Clouds. Supreme Sky God. God of harvest
and crops. King-God-All-Father. Lightning and Thunder:
ten thousand times stronger than Hera at her best.
When Modupe leapt, these were her powers: Osún –
rivers, Sàngó – thunder, Hera – Greek Queen Goddess
of marriage and birth, Zeus’ children – their faiths tuned
to her fists, Yemọja – Òrìṣà deep water
Goddess, the Furies – Greek spirits of vengeance, tuned
their hefty powers too. All would have been slaughtered
by Zeus, save for one thing, Modupe’s heart. You need
an atlas to map how vast the heart is, broader
than horizons, deeper than seas, able to feed
off equal parts love and pain, which now tumble through
her veins. She was a reckoning, a dark hybrid.
Some doubt crossed Zeus’ mind, and when they met, Zeus knew
and remembered such power. It was a titan’s
clash renewed. First punch woke every thunder-god, blew
out their ears. The next one caused floods. Grecian islands
sank and Nigerian cities flooded. Wild cyclones
burst from riverbanks. Stray lightning struck far farmlands.
Olympus itself rocked. Demigods ran as stone
and marble rained. Òrìṣà, Olympians, dumbstruck
by the awesome power on show, together groaned
when Zeus pushed Modupe’s head through a plinth. She ducked
out with a sweeping kick that levelled him and brought
Sàngó’s bolt down on his chest. Zeus kicked back and plucked
two stone spears, hurling them at Modupe, who caught
one and hurled it back, the other exploding by
her right shoulder. Zeus, already on her, was fraught
with sweat, a lance of lightning in his hands. From high
he called down two thunderbolts, which Modupe blocked
with a shield of hard water, casting waves and tides
at Zeus that slapped him down to stone. Modupe sucked
enough oxygen, launched herself into the sky
cradling a mighty marble orb from the stock
of Olympic sculptures. Zeus aimed a long bow high
to shoot her from the skies, but missed, for precision
wasn’t his skill. Modupe struck, and struck him wild
like a comet, cracked the orb across his vision,
again as he fell, harder, each blow: This is for
Demi, this, Helen, this, Leda, Danaë, this one
Europa, Antiope … every mortal who bore
the scar, for the countless, all the women she knew
abused by men, Modupe gathered up their raw
anguish into a primalAARGH!BANG! She cracked through
his skull. With that last hit, the hall of Olympus
split into pieces like a broken vase and new
windblewthrough its ancient and hallowed emptiness
now exposed to the world. Rarely does a God’s life
flash before its eyes. Zeus saw his. The complete mess.
From the fall of his father by his hand, the strife
of titans, this battle, Modupe’s fists, to hell
where Hades, God of the Underworld, his long-life
banished brother, rubbed his palms and whispered Well, well
brother … with a glint in his eyes. And his whisper
was a roar, and all the fires and flames of hell
roared too in perfect harmony. Zeus, so scared for
his soul, he grasped what strength he had left and dashed back
to his flesh. But like a thief who rams a shoulder
at a door to find its wood reinforced, well stacked,
so did Zeus slam back into his body to find
Modupe’s dark foot on his pale neck. He went slack.
His lungs slumped. His eyes flashed then dimmed again, his mind
roared and hushed again. The whole sky gasped but stayed still.
Modupe stared deep into his face, hers refined,
her brown eyes black, her anger bitter, her gaze steel,
her rage justified.Silence swallowed Olympus.
None stirred as Zeus choked beneath her black foot, her heel
grinding his white throat. Then came a legend who thrust
himself at her feet. Modupe, prayed Hercules,
I come to you neither hero nor Half-God, just
as a child, his son, asking you spare his life, please.
You are victorious. Olympus is humbled.
Much has Zeus learnt today, he won’t forget with ease.
I’ll make sure of this. Please let him live. He grovelled
by her feet. Modupe turned to the Goddesses,
all mighty, all silent, not one moved a muscle.
Such was the request. She looked to the pained masses
gathered who had survived Zeus but still wore the scars,
still carried the invisible wounds, and flashes
of rage slashed their mouths. No. Zeus who is old as stars
thinks Earth spins for him, that he is entitled to
our bodies. He will never learn. Vengeance is ours.
You must kill him and kill him now. Modupe took
her gaze to Hera, Queen Goddess, Zeus’ own wife
who seeing their lucid truth, shaped her hands like so.
Modupe did what she’d planned to. She took his life.
She knelt on, crushing his broken neck, she chased what
light glowed in him, to darkness, to the afterlife.
The year is two thousand and thirteen. Zeus’ death
left a ruler’s vacuum other thunder gods rushed
to fill but Sàngó, still wracked with guilt, claimed the breadth
of work fell to him. The skies over Greece could rush
and roar if he so pleased but Sàngó sought to fuse
the Gods, a cross-pantheon regime, built on trust.
Osún challenged all the Òrìṣà who, subdued
by her passion, agreed to repercussions, tough
ones too, for mortals and Gods whoever abused.
The mothers and daughters, fathers and sons shared rough
stories of their attacks. The guilty who were free
woke up to crowds chanting Enough! Enough! Enough!
Modupe returned all powers when the body
of Zeus was burned, but strands of god-mightiness clung
like mist around her, like rebel-song melodies.
She walked from her shrine to the river’s edge where songs
that left her body, turned near waters to healing
pools, and women came to bathe in them, old and young,
from across the world. Modupe’s battle-scars gleamed
in the night. Those who dared to ask how she was maimed
would be told in whispers how once she killed a king.
She joined Bolu in coaching basketball, he’d rain
The Art of War at the girls and boys. When Modupe is asked
how best to win a game, she says Play with love. Play with pain.
About the Author
Born in Nigeria in 1984, Inua Ellams is an internationally touring poet, playwright, performer, graphic artist & designer. He is an ambassador for the Ministry of Stories and has published four books of poetry. His first play, The 14th Tale, was awarded a Fringe First at the Edinburgh International Theatre Festival and his fourth, Barber Shop Chronicles, sold out two runs at England’s National Theatre. He is currently adapting several plays for film and television. He lives and works in London, where he founded the Midnight Run, a nocturnal urban excursion. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature.
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