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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 tooth‐ 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 shaman’s hut reminded Tayo how small his world was. Their village of Sabara sat on the banks of the Cara Creek, a shallow, with‐ 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 perpe‐ 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 Baba’s 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.
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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 hadn’t said a word about America. Tayo watched him now from the doorway of the mission school’s men’s 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. What’s 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 can’t 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. Nwgara’s 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 can’t 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 child’s 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.
They’ll sign? Rac said. Already have.
What’s 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.
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And this is relevant why?
If she is really set against him going, he won’t 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 won’t say no to all that need. He is her favorite. She can’t.
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 man’s voice still made his shorthairs stand on end. But he had done his job. He’d been paid. His work in Sabara was over no matter how it turned out.
I’m leaving, boy, he said, enjoying the quick crumple of the kid’s 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 didn’t know why. Would his beloved Baba really shoot these plans out of the sky? He hoped against hope that this wasn’t so. He waited all day outside the door to her thatch roofed hut for a word with her but she remained inside. He couldn’t 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 shell’s 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
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palm fronds spread across the roof. He knew he shouldn’t 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 wasn’t 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 wasn’t too angry with his spy work.
His grandma was gathering her cowrie’s 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
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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.
Fo’ 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. She’s 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 bristle’s 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.
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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 unpro‐ 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 hadn’t 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 said—?
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 grandmother’s 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
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dream turning sour. Some things were more important than basketball, though he couldn’t 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 ‘um, 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.
