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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: 2020-03-05
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 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, Modúpé felt
that earth wane. Modúpé, 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. Modúpé 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 Modúpé 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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