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
