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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?
Pass the ball before I whip you even harder!
But the King’s voice hushed as 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
parting___for 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.
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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
