The Half-God of Rainfall
Page 1
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