The Half-God of Rainfall. Inua Ellams

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      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?

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