Tayo is the story of a Southern boy driven to kill and the African boy sent to stop him. It is 1999 and all is rotten in the small Alabama town of Huntsville. Tayo lands in this festering landscape ostensibly to play basketball for a small Southern college but all is not what it seems. Cultures collide and dreams die hard by the time this story gets told. It was a tough book to write but I think you will enjoy it.
Tayo is the story of a Southern boy driven to kill and the African boy sent to stop him. It is 1999 and all is rotten in the small Alabama town of Huntsville. Tayo lands in this festering landscape ostensibly to play basketball for a small Southern college but all is not what it seems. Cultures collide and dreams die hard by the time this story gets told. It was a tough book to write but I think you will enjoy it.
1
SABARA
Tayo Nwgara was an African prince but not in the Mister Eddie Murphy sense. His cousin Dada had taken Tay to the cinema in Lagos to see the movie when he was just a boy. No, Tayo was a Prince of the Light. His old agba, grandma to his momma, was a shaman, a medicine woman with connections to the gods of earth, sky and sea. Baba had told him of his exalted position years before he went to the Lagos movie house to see what an American Prince acted like. He needed to know this because every time his grandma threw the shells to catch a glimpse of his future, she saw the same big metal bird high in the sky, Tay perched in the window like a slot machine head, winging its way across the ocean to a place called Alabama in the land of the American South.
Oh, how used to laugh at her foolishness even as he begged the gods to be telling her the truth. Not me in dat plane, Baba, he used to say.
Guarantee, she would reply, nodding sagely, her toothâ less mouth puckered like a cowrie. You have big doings there, she persisted. Then her mouth would turn down at the
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corners and her eyes would grow dark as she plunged into some cloud of sadness that never failed to scare the baloolies out of him.
Why you sad, Baba? he asked her once.
I see you on the plane child, the wizened old prune insisted. This does not mean that I want you to go.
A splash and a laugh from behind the shamanâs hut reminded Tayo how small his world was. Their village of Sabara sat on the banks of the Cara Creek, a shallow, withâ ered #nger of the gas and oil polluted Niger. Three hundred soles subsisted on the crops they grew and the livestock they raised. Fish were still available in the chocolate water and goats were tethered in most every yard. Tayo hardly ever went hungry. There was no crime outside of what the Foreign CNN called domestic violence and the village elders were quick to punish the wife and child abusers who perpeâ trated most of these offenses. It was a sweet, homespun life but by the time Tayo had graduated from the Franciscan missionary school in nearby Euaka, he could not wait to leave it behind.
Tayo had an abiding love. The American game of basketball. Was he good? The local coaches told him so. This new love spawned a new shiny dream. The tall sixteen year old man/boy dreamed of playing ball in America. His Babaâs vision of an airplane $ying him across the ocean grew wings until this was all the young man could think about.
I want to go so bad that my teeth hurt every morning from the grinding, he admitted to his father who was too drunk to respond.
He was about to get his wish ful#lled. An American man named Elvin Barr, a basketball scout for the Southern Nation College in Alabama, had shown up at his last game.
TAYO AND THE PORPOISE CHILD 3
Mister Barr had come to the game just to see Tayo perform and Tayo had not let him down, raining threes from all over the court.
I did my best, Tayo said after the game to anyone who would listen. Mister Barr had given him a big smile and a thumbs up but hadnât said a word about America. Tayo watched him now from the doorway of the mission schoolâs menâs bath and locker room. The scout was at his car, smoking an American Marlboro. Tay was afraid to shower and change. What if Mister Barr slipped away? What if he never came back?
Barr
Time to call it in. Barr stepped on his cigarette, rummaged in the trunk of his Fiat and pulled out a SAT phone that had seen better days. The cell towers in the capital of Lagos thrummed with juice but the village where Tayo played the game was thirty clicks outside the city proper. His Nokia cellphone barely pulled a bar out here so he went with the SAT. Boss hated bad connections.
Rac Loc answered on the second ring. Boss was an impatient man.
Barr, my man. Whatâs the scoop? Is he a baller?
He is !ve star material, Boss, yes he is. Shoots like a dream. Distance is no problem. Handles the ball like an African Kidd.
Ihearabut....
Well, most everyone is on board. The father canât stop thinking about an NBA contract.
Burke Nwgara. The man was always searching for ways to raise his own stock with the menfolk who ran the tribal council. He had tried his hand at farming but yams were a dif!cult crop to raise and he was not a patient man. This
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idea to send his son to America was a beautiful thing on several levels. A good father was supposed to leave a legacy for his son, a business or some land to inherit. Nwgaraâs legacy was the outstanding debt on his broken tractor and the poorly constructed agreement with the Yam collective in Lagos Town. This opportunity for his son to school in America and play at the game that he loved - it killed a bush full of birds with one stone.
Daddy is on board? Rac demanded.
Totally, Boss.
And the mother?
Barr laughed. The momma canât stop talking about that
!rst class education you all are promising their boy.
Indeed, whenever Momma Claire joined her group of older Sabara ladies, whether they were having morning tea or gathered in the sewing hut making out"ts for some new childâs baby, his spies had told him that her voice rose high above the rest. Her staccato braggadocio was the talk of the village. She took every chance to brag about her boy, the one (soon) studying at a major school in the American heartland.
Some enjoyed her prideful words. Others left the room. The one time Barr heard her go on about Tayo, he was forced to swallow his laughter. One would think she was Ms. Einstein sending little Alfred off to MIT.
Theyâll sign? Rac said. Already have.
Whatâs hanging us up? The grandmother.
A soft curse slithered down the line. What is her trip?
Barr rubbed his bewhiskered chin. She is a shaman, Boss, a tiny, hard cola nut of a woman who comes from a long line of healers and medicine makers.
TAYO AND THE PORPOISE CHILD 5
And this is relevant why?
If she is really set against him going, he wonât come.
A snort from Boss Rac. I thought you said we were in, Barr. We are.
What are you not telling me?
The kid wants to come to the States to play basketball more
than he wants to eat or fuck the girl next door. His Baba wonât say no to all that need. He is her favorite. She canât.
You better hope not, Rac groused and cut the call.
Barr squeezed off the SAT phone. Ten thousand miles from the Justice Nation and the manâs voice still made his shorthairs stand on end. But he had done his job. Heâd been paid. His work in Sabara was over no matter how it turned out.
Iâm leaving, boy, he said, enjoying the quick crumple of the kidâs face as his dreams slipped away. But, he added, watching faint hope smooth out the skin once again, I spoke to the college president and you, Tayo Nwgara, are coming to America to play ball for the Saints on a full scholarship.
Tayo waited a moment, letting the words trickle down through his ping pong mind, before letting out a howl of joy that set the ibis in the banyan trees behind the ball court to screeching and "apping
Baba! I am on my way to the USA!! he howled.
Barr smiled. Let the old biddy try and stand in the way of all that want.
three days later
A man by the name of A. Rye, a Catholic priest among other things, was coming to the village this afternoon and Tayo was worried. Preacher Rye was bringing with him an airline ticket and a passport allowing him to travel across
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the sea to the land of America. The newest basketball star in Alabama (me, Tay preened secretly), would receive the ticket and the paperwork once the !nal contract was signed, sealed and delivered. There was a small travel allowance that went with the signature. Mr. Barr had told him that he could give half to his mother and father if he so chose. Knowing his father as he did, he was sure that his half was already spent.
Why was he worried in his moment of glory when he should be jumping over the silver moon? His grandmother was still holding up the deal and Tayo didnât know why. Would his beloved Baba really shoot these plans out of the sky? He hoped against hope that this wasnât so. He waited all day outside the door to her thatch roofed hut for a word with her but she remained inside. He couldnât understand why she would deny him this gift? She had seen inside his heart. She knew his dreams better than he did himself at times.
He bent and listened at the wooden door. He heard her praying to the gods, listened to the familiar splash of the cowrie shellâs rolling across the hard palm mat as she attempted to divine the future. Finally, the divination hut went quiet.
Dusk had fallen over the village. Bats swept up and down the shallow inlet behind Sadara. A baby boar squealed from the high grass across the river. Father Rye was due any minute. The village was caught up in the drama and families sat in the doorway of their house on stoops and stairs and some on the ground, sipping tea and palm wine, waiting for the jungle to announce the coming of his automobile with bird cries and monkey screeching.
At six feet and three inches, Tay was tall enough to stand next to the hut and take a peek down through the
TAYO AND THE PORPOISE CHILD 7
palm fronds spread across the roof. He knew he shouldnât but he was overcome with his need to know what she had decided. He took his hand and pushed aside a layer of palm leaves and peered down inside the magical enclosure. His Baba had gone to sleep! She lay on her back on her unmade pallet. A cup of wine lolled in her hand. There were still twelve cowries left unprotected and alone on the mat at her feet. This was unprecedented. Was she sick? Was she worse than sick? He wasnât sure what he should do. If he went to his parents , they would know that he had been spying. But what if she had fallen ill in there? He had no choice but to alert his family.
As he turned to go, those strong stubby !ngers reached straight through the mud wall and grabbed him by his lather belt.
Get in here, Baba whispered.
Tay ducked through the doorway. You scared me, Baba, he sniffed, hoping she wasnât too angry with his spy work.
His grandma was gathering her cowrieâs up, dropping them quietly into their silken bag. Why do you want to go there so badly, child?
I love basketball. And America, Baba? He held out his long arms. It is the only place to play, no?
Baba scratched her armpit. Your father wanted you to take over the farm work.
He has given up on me, Tay said, with a happy smile. Now he wants me to be like Kobe.
And your mama see a black Donald Trump.
I love playing the basketball game, he said again, and I am a terrible yam farmer.
She chuckled. My foolish egg, she said softly. She looked him up and down. She saw him every day but she wanted to memorize him, so tall and strong. She had an urge to
8 CHRIS CEE MORRIS
call this whole big deal off. She looked away to hide the tears.
Will you come to the meeting hall tonight when Preacher Rye arrives, Baba? he said. He already knew the answer, just wanted to see her face go lemon sour.
Foâ what? See dem liars lying about their God?
Mother says that they carry strong juju in their Bibles.
Baba scoffed. Your mother never had a right thought in her
empty head, boy. I cannot believe that I birthed her. Sheâs a jinn with privileges, is what she is.
Baba, he scolded.
Bah! she snorted. Strange days are ahead of us, boy. It is a sin, is what it is.
Tay was truly puzzled. What is so sinful about this life I want?
The day will come when you are obliged to work alongside some snaky people, Tayo. You will swallow your pride for the greater good. I just hope I am gone before that come to pass.
Tay came and sat next to her on her sleeping pallet. He took her hand and massaged her short, tough !ngers. Please, Agba, give your stamp of approval on this journey.
His agba wiped a tear from her cheek. It left a line in the dust covering her face. I am not sure if you are ready for such a demanding trip, child.
Tayo groaned. What was so demanding about a trip to America? It was the thrill of his young lifetime.
She reached up and cupped his chin, felt with unease the new, stiff bristleâs on his sixteen year old face. All I ask is that you follow the path, child. The gods will be watching you.
Tay rocked backwards, surprised and delighted. Does this mean that I have your blessing, Baba?
I am afraid it does, yes, she said, whispering a prayer to her orisha gods.
TAYO AND THE PORPOISE CHILD 9
The old shaman hated to lose him but she had lost her argument with the gods. The shells had spoken. Her foolish egg, the person she loved above all else, was needed across the sea. His coming to America was critical. Without him, a storm that was brewing would cut a swath through unproâ tected land. Sacrifices had to be made or lives would be lost.
Do not trust this Preacher man, she said darkly. He is a hustler.
Tayo danced about in a happy circle. Everyone hustles, Baba. It is the name of the game.
Child! she barked.
He froze, one leg held high, the other braced and shaking.
You believe such nonsense, you will not be leaving my sight! Yes, Baba.
She looked so frail. Tay hadnât noticed but her arms
were mere twigs and her cheekbones pushed up her skin like tent poles. He ran a hand down one wizened cheek. Am I the reason why you are sleeping badly, Baba?
Who saidâ?
And the reason you have stopped eating? Look at yourself, he said, his big brown puppy eyes breaking her heart. You are wasting away.
Baba shrugged off her troubles. I have been arguing with my gods, she explained. I ask for answers and they give me platitudes. They say that you are needed. For what!? I ask them.
What do they say? Tayo said, beginning to understand the depths of his grandmotherâs frustration. What do they tell you?
They tell me nothing! she cried out, her voice fractured like a breaking bone.
Tay winced. How bad were these portents? He saw his
10 CHRIS CEE MORRIS
dream turning sour. Some things were more important than basketball, though he couldnât think of anything.
Baba took a breath, composed herself. She was asking too much from the child. Give me a hug.
He took her in his arms. She weighed almost nothing. Should he stay home after all?
Enough, she said, wriggling free. Straighten up, she demanded. Now go and do your practicing and leave me to handle the worry.
Yes âum, he said, dodging out the wooden door and heading for his favorite place in all the world (up to now, he reminded himself), the hard packed court with the old wooden basket nailed to the dead trunk of a fan palm that he and his mates had carved out of clay and sand on the "ats above the Cara Creek so many seasons ago.
Thanks to Reedsy/Discovery for an ARC of this book. If I could give it more than five stars, I would. Morris has earned a new fan in me. This book is gritty and poetic. Descriptions are so vivid, at times youâll want to turn away. Other times, youâll re-read lines simply to enjoy the words again. There are some typos and a few bigger mistakes, but this is an ARC and all should be fixed by the time itâs published. Even if I took off points for that, which I wonât, it wouldnât affect my rating because this book has already passed the allotted five.
The story is told in third person with an omniscient narrator. The way the author holds all of the threads together and smoothly transitions from one character to another, weaving a story of intrigue that is, clearly, building up to something serious, is tense and compelling. Normally, I might have trouble keeping up with so many characters, but since each is unique and memorable, this wasnât an issue. Morris is adept with metaphors and writes skillfully. Itâs deeply gratifying to read something so well-written and engaging. I wish I could share more, but Iâll share a few of the more impressive metaphors that stood out to me. I wonât bother going over the plot; you can read the blurb for that.
âA shifty businessman, he talked like he had wild honey in his mouth, words coming out sideways and lazy.â
Describing someone's laugh as: â...a whump of noise that could have been him ramming his knee into a bucket of fish guts but was more than likely an amused snort.â
â...guffawing at his own wit like a full-grown man playing spin the bottle with a naked school girl.â
â...the gutters were chock full of (with) dead leaves and rotting bark. Mixed in like a bad Cobb salad, were flattened cans of beer and shards of broken, brown and green glass from their bottled mates and a potpourri of fast food wrappers and cigarette butts."
I laughed out loud at this one: " Gina Rigatoni (Ricearoni? Spegatini?)â
âTayo stayed quiet. Too much water sloshing both ways in a big, mad ocean for him to dive in and sort the currents out right now.â
Olive was at her brother's door â...peering through a crack between the jamb and the wall at her brother laying long ways across his striped bedspread like a fret on a guitar.â
When Hank Hannigan decides to join his family for dinner, as he does almost every night, the narrator describes one particular occasion as if he's watching a play and explaining what comes next. First, Jimmy senses something is wrong when Hank enters the house. Jimmy is quiet because âhe has no lines until the second act.â There's an ongoing joke about the meatballs Carol made for dinner, with everyone having assigned lines that they parrot each time she prepares this meal. When Hank doesn't make his usual joke, everyone is on edge. âWhat was Hank doing? Breaking character?â And then, â...the opening lines of the age old play moved the dinner along as it always did, everyone's standing on their marks.â After Hank is put in his place, Jimmy is â...happy as a razor clam at a rained out clam bake."
One of Hank's associates is dying of "...liver disease folding him up like an overcooked taco shell.â
Describing teenaged boys: âThey began to squabble like skunks over a marshmallow.â
When Tayo begins to attend the white high school, he's not readily accepted. He's challenged to a basketball game and the bullies show up with someone unexpected; his name, Plum. âHe was simply huge⌠Even his teeth were hugeâlarge, yellow, horse barn chompers and his ears drooped halfway to his shoulder, long, strange looking things that resembled some Thanksgiving gourds sprinkled with human hair."
The guys are rough on Tayo, planning to lay him out and draw blood. âPlum caught him halfway up, planted a bedpost shoulder up under his chin and sent him flying backwards. A flailing, falling star, limbs windmilling, searching for dry land, he landed on the cement like a spitwad from a high bridge and was unsure for a moment where he was or even who he was." Plum is further described, â...digging a filthy fingernail inside a hairy ear.â
Tayoâs Grandma, Baba is portrayed as wise and ancient. This is helped by descriptions when Tayo calls home via Skype. â...her old face hung like ripe fruit in the darkness." Her face wrinkled like sun dried fruit."
There were so many clever phrases that jumped out at me, taunting and courting, playing to my weakness, my inherent love of the English language. I fell hard; I could not put this book down. It doesnât paint a flowery, positive picture of Tayoâs life. He already knows life isnât fair, but heâs become adept at adapting. And when he reaches the United States from his village in Nigeria, adapting is the only way to survive. I could say I fell in love with Tayo, and it could well be true, but the real truth is that I fell in love with the words, the writing, the pictures painted by a consummate writer in full control of the language, and as a result, my full intellect and heart. I will look for more from this author and I highly recommend this book.