![]()
![]()
The year is two thousand and nine, the location:
Oracle Arena, four years after he signed
the National Basketball Association’s
contract. Game six. Finals. Demi shouts to remind
his team to focus. Fist clenched, arm out, holding court,
his sign to stay in formation as the ball climbs
back up to his open palm. Demi stops just short
of the half court line, shuts his eyes. His consciousness
rises up to the thousands of bulbs buzzing bursts
of light, small suns scorching the players. He watches
the opposing team ready against his, smiles – blink
and it’s gone – then he makes his move. Demi rushes
forward, fakes a drive, pivots left so his guard thinks
the ball will come his right as Demi_____outlets___to
the power forward, steadfast in his lane, the brink
of the rim a [+] target he knows to ignore, to
swing to the centre, who, though minotaur-like can’t
shake his man, and the small forward is waiting to
step up, catch the ball from the chest-pass, throw a scant
fake as he makes for the top of the key,__g_l__i__d___e___it
to the shooting guard to dribble down the line, plant
himself there and taunt the defence till two commit
and Demi, waiting top of the key, like he knew
they would is defence-free, the play-cycle complete,
to receive the ball and pause. Demi looks up, views
the shot clock, the | 00:04 | seconds left locked in its grip
as the world__s_l_o_w_s__and Oracle Arena glues
itself to the Half-God, gasps as his fingertip
strokes the blur down, crossover, up, down, crossover,
up and back for the | 00:03 | his elbow pulled back, whip/
/lash wrist-flick the | 00:02 | air trembling the sonarrrrrrr
silence of Demi’s gift. | 00:01 | Swish. Nothing but net.
| 00:00 | A buzzer-beating last shot. Game over.
Demi’s team the Golden State Warriors win. Sweat
clings to his cream skin as a thousand cameras
flash, the Arena rises to its feet, to wet
its twenty thousand lips with Demi’s moniker
cascading to him like praise song: Rainman! Rainman!
chants rising like incense smoke from sacred altars
or animal sacrifice, burning for Gods and
riding them all: Demi, who had gone from the wee
kid who cried to the boy who came off Nigerian
courts to be reborn, Half-God in ‘God’s own country’.
God Daymn! Demi whispered,_If anything was meant
to be, it’s me. It’s this. Indeed, millions agreed.
Newscasters, journalists, sports companies hellbent
on monetising the myth of him would call him
the sport’s prophet, its second coming, heaven-sent.
Reports covered blogs, headlines crossed broadsheets calling
for Demi’s induction into the hall of fame
for he broke every three-point record set, scoring
impossible shots. In press conferences, school games,
board meetings, lecture halls, synagogues, in saunas,
cafes, churches, in post offices, Demi’s name
ran the full gamut of their lips. Many corners
in many cities echoed their faith in his gift
and accordingly, Demi’s powers grew stronger.
His mildest mood swings would cause storm patterns to shift
overhead and darken his world beneath. Mains pipes
would burst, subways flood, all this unconscious, too swift
for him to stop. Three different pairs of eyes had gripes
with this. The first, Modúpé, chastised her son:
No excuses, Demi, tune out from all this hype!
Calm down when you’re moody! Ah?! Don’t blot out the sun!
The second pair of eyes were Hera’s – Greek God Queen
who returned to Mount Olympus spinning Zeus yarns.
She exaggerated stories of what she’d seen,
of Demi’s powers, his influence on men, how
this sapped Zeus’ strength and would completely weaken
him if left to grow unchecked. Zeus nodded and scowled
with Hera, swallowing her stirring viperous
breath. It will end, Zeus said. I know exactly how,
and low thunders rumbled all round Mount Olympus.
Last pair of eyes arrived with a cough, a polite
request for some of Demi’s time. Yes, please! Of course,
our Half-God replied and ushered in the slim, light-
footed gentleman. Sit, Hakeem Olajuwon!
You are a legend! I cannot believe my sights!
Ha! Here! My boys will die when I tell them. You won
back-to-back championships in nineteen ninety four
and five, the first Nigerian to! Ah! You’re a don!
Hakeem ‘The Dream’ Olajuwon?! Please! Demi poured
gin and cracked two kola nuts, as is tradition,
but saw the small-talk, laughter and pleasantries thaw
as Olajuwon crunched the kola nut and shunned
Demi’s offer of more. He asked harshly Parents.
Who are they?__/__My parents? That’s free information.
Mother’s name is Modúpé. Father’s been absent.
See … I never knew him.__/__And are they both mortal?
/__Pardon?__/__Answer me OluDemi, this instant!
/__Hakeem, you have overstayed your welcome. The hall …
/__I’ve watched you play. You’re one of us. Our sage, Demi,
Òrúnmilà? My grandfather. There’s a roll call
of Half-Gods. Alonso Mourning comes from Kali,
the Hindu Goddess, destroyer of ignorance.
Iverson, greatest ball handler? Vishnu. Reggie?
Miller? Satet’s son ...
