The Half-God of Rainfall. Inua Ellams

      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

      when__BOOM!___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