The rainmaker’s drama
By Abraham Nwankwo
Only a strip of knee-length white cloth, round his waist;
His forehead, cheeks and chest, painted in white substance;
Eyebrows and eyelashes, painted in ‘odo’ yellow powder;
A drum-dancer’s rattle on each ankle tied;
A cowrie and shell of snail hung on his neck.
Round his circular, wall-less, thatched-roof hut,
Eight giant clay rain-making pots he assembles;
Filled with water, covered with fresh banana leaves.
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At the centre of the hut, a smoky fire burns on logs.
A hamperful of green rain leaves stands nearby.
Outside the hut is a big granite stone,
Then he throws some rain leaves into the burning fire.
The clouds become dark pregnant with rain;
He runs to the stone and scratches a knife:
Sparks of fire; then thunder and lighting.
Uncovers one of the pots and dips a broom.
Sprinkles across the air with the short wet broom.
A drizzle comes in quick response.
Tilts the pot to pour out all contents,
And, there and then a downpour starts.
