The Spider King's Daughter

by Onuzo, Chibundu

  ‘Tell me about the prophet.’

  I shouldn’t have encouraged him. Once you go back further than two years with Mr T, he loses his lucidity, perhaps even a portion of his sanity. But I wanted to know what was hidden behind this character that he could not stop mentioning.

  ‘The prophet was a man that helped me through a bad time. Though not for free.’ He chuckled. ‘Nothing is free in Lagos.’

  ‘Surely a good prophet would not collect money for his prophecies.’

  ‘Shut up!’ he shouted, striking the cardboard we were sitting on. ‘You don’t know what you are speaking of. Besides, I didn’t need what I gave him.’

  ‘What did you give him?’

  ‘My hand.’

  ‘Your what?’

  Suddenly I did not want to know the rest of this story, did not even want to know if it were true. He mistook my silence for interest.

  ‘I was wandering through the bush one day and I came upon him. He was standing absolutely still with his hands raised to the sky like this.’

  He raised his good arm to the bridge, his gaunt fingers brushing the air.

  ‘I was in the bush because that’s where I buried my daughter. I carried her body four thousand steps outside Lagos. She was beginning to smell or I would have gone the full six thousand: a – a thousand for every year.’

  There were many questions that could kick holes in this new fabrication of his: how did you keep your hand fresh but not your daughter? Why did you carry your fresh hand to your daughter’s funeral?

  ‘In the end I couldn’t even bury her. Try using one hand to dig a hole.’

  I laughed, a short bark of a thing that left me feeling ashamed. This story could have been ripped from a home video: horror that melted into tragedy that swung into farce with the delivery of a line. Still, imagined or not, it was real to him, more real than the bridge he lived under.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I should be laughed at. Mr T the hero, marching off with my daughter slung over my shoulder. I should just have placed her in the ocean. It would have been better than the hole I couldn’t even cover properly.’

  He was mumbling now, speaking to himself.

  ‘If I had put her in the ocean I would never have met the prophet and the prophet would never have given me the prophecy and I wouldn’t be alive now, because the only thing keeping me alive—’

  ‘So what was the prophet’s name?’

  ‘The man who cut it off told me to keep it and sell it. But the prophet’s prophecy was more valuable than mere naira.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said I would know when she came.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘An exchange.’

  ‘What?’

  He hissed. ‘You should not ask what you do not want to know.’

  He was right.

  ‘I’m going to buy some chin-chin. Do you want?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  I walked to one of the women who made it their business to provide finger food to the scum of Lagos. They sold under the lurid film posters that were plastered all over Abẹ Bridge. Why did they choose here, when their wooden tables could barely fit into the small space for pedestrians, when local street children buzzed around, looking for an opportunity to snatch and run, when most of their customers were men like me and Mr T?

  ‘Thank you, Aunty,’ I said, when she poured an extra cup of chin-chin into my bag.

  ‘No problem, my son.’

  She was fat, like most of the women traders, their rolling flesh the best advert for their goods.

  ‘Buy biscuit!’ a particularly large one called out and before you knew it a round of Buy cake! and Buy buns! was heard under the bridge.

  ‘So how are things with your friend? Abikẹ something,’

  ‘Johnson,’ I said, pouring some chin-chin into Mr T’s lap. ‘She asked me to come to her house this Saturday.’

  ‘Finally, a breakthrough.’

  It was a strange choice of words. One I would have commented on if I hadn’t caught sight of my cracked shoes.

  ‘I don’t have anything to wear.’

  ‘What’s wrong with what you’re wearing now? It’s better than what I have on.’

  ‘I can’t wear this. Imagine me in her house wearing this.’

  ‘I think you look fine.’

  When I got home I searched my cupboards for something presentable. Everything was too small.

  ‘Jọkẹ, what do you think?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Mummy, what do you think?’

  ‘You know everything looks good on you.’

  Aunty Precious proved more helpful. When I told her about Saturday, she offered to help me choose an outfit. At first I was uncomfortable. The only woman I’d ever been shopping with was my mother. I soon settled into the routine of sifting through the mounds of clothing and occasionally asking her opinion.

  We had come to Yaba market, the home of cheap wooden stalls bowed under the weight of the average Nigerian’s need to look Western for as Eastern a price as possible. The stalls were jammed together, clothes flung together, people squashed together, sifting, lifting, arranging without thought to compatibility. If only I had grown up not knowing better then I wouldn’t feel degraded coming here.

  ‘So, who is this girl?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said who is this girl that is worth all this trouble?’

  ‘How do you know it’s a girl?’

  ‘How about this?’

  I looked at the green shirt with POLO RALPH LOREN stencilled across the front. Maybe Aunty Precious hadn’t noticed but Abikẹ certainly would.

  ‘Too bright.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Abikẹ.’

  ‘Abikẹ who?’

  ‘Johnson.’

  ‘What did you say her father’s name was?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Johnson I guess? Are you all right?’ She was clutching the shirt to her chest and breathing heavily.

  ‘Aunty Precious—’

  Before I could ask who she thought Abikẹ’s father was, the stall owner interrupted.

  ‘Madam, no rumple my cloth.’

  ‘Sorry, don’t mind me. See I don fold am for you.’

  She folded the shirt and then others that people had placed carelessly.

  ‘Stop looking so concerned. I’m OK. You can’t know this girl very well if you don’t even know her father’s name. Where are you going?’

  ‘Her house.’

  ‘She must be bold to ask you out.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a date.’

  ‘Of course it’s a date. You have to match her boldness.’

  She held a shirt against me. There was a small tremor in her hand but it was not marked enough for me to comment.

  ‘It’s pink,’ I said, looking at the shirt for the first time.

  ‘She’ll love it.’

  Chapter 11

  I nearly drove past him. I’ve only ever seen him in greys and once whites. It didn’t occur to me that the boy in the hot pink shirt could be my hawker until he waved. I would have laughed at anyone else but the shirt looked new or at least seldom worn.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, when he climbed into the car and he didn’t say much until we reached the gates. There, the guards tried to embarrass me. Despite the bright sunshine, they flashed their torches into my driver’s face. Then the beam was directed at us.

  ‘Who is there?’

  The buffoon. Couldn’t he see me in the back of the car? Wasn’t that enough to guarantee anyone else?

  ‘Please open these gates. I don’t have time for this.’

  ‘We need to know every person that enters this house.’

  ‘Whose house is it?’ That silenced him. ‘Put Abikẹ and friend on your list. Open these gates.’

  ‘Your daddy said—’

  ‘Now, please.’

  * * *

  How dare they speak
me like that in front of a guest? I turned to see my guest frowning.

  ‘Those gatemen.’ I said.

  ‘They were just doing their jobs.’

  Clearly, he thought I was the employer’s daughter abusing my position.

  ‘You know, you may be right.’

  There were some things I could not expect him to sympathise with.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, but the look was gone.

  I showed him parts of the house and, to his credit, he appeared only mildly impressed. The gym, the tennis courts, even the indoor swimming pool, none could get a reaction more overstated than ‘You have a really nice house, Abikẹ.’ We ended up alone in my living room. As the minutes passed and he didn’t speak, I grew uncomfortable. Was he bored? Should I switch on the TV or chat? What would we talk about? How does a hawker speak so well? Too direct. Are you enjoying yourself? Too patronising.

  ‘So who else is coming, Abikẹ?’

  ‘Are you afraid it’s just going to be the two of us?’

  He didn’t respond.

  ‘Don’t worry, there are other people coming.’

  ‘That’s cool.’

  Why was it cool?

  ‘Not that I would mind if it were just the two of us.’

  ‘Well, it’s not.’

  I hadn’t meant to snap. ‘Their names are Cynthia and Oritse,’ I said in a more even tone. ‘They’re old friends.’

  ‘Do they know I’m a hawker?’

  They might not act naturally if they knew.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Do you think it matters, Abikẹ?’

  Before I could answer they arrived and the moment was lost. Or paused.

  ‘Cynthia. Oritse. You guys are late. This is my friend—’

  He stood and introduced himself. When he shook Cynthia’s hand, she held on for longer than was necessary. Oritse on the other hand tried to out-shake him and withdrew flexing his fingers. With his crisp shirt and starched trousers, Oritse looked silly when put beside my hawker. Having only been invited to my house, there was no need for the designer sunglasses balanced on his head. And of course he kept looking for my approval. To everything he said would be added the question: ‘Abikẹ, what do you think?’ or ‘Don’t you agree?’ Abikẹ, Abikẹ, Abikẹ after every single sentence.

  My hawker didn’t need validation.

  ‘No, Abikẹ. How can you say that Tobe’s second album was better than his first? Don’t you remember “Nasco Love”?’

  ‘That song about cornflakes was so stupid. There’s no one good in Nigerian music at the moment. Don’t you agree, Abikẹ?’

  ‘Nasco cornflakes love,’ my hawker sang completely out of tune.

  ‘Just add milk and sugar and we’re ready to go,’ I sang back.

  ‘Nasco cornflakes love.’

  ‘She doesn’t stress me. She’s no aristo.’

  We laughed, just the two of us.

  ‘So you agree the first album was better.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But, Abikẹ, don’t you think—’

  Oritse and I, well from my point of view there was never an Oritse and I. I keep him around because his voice is special. Cynthia has been a member of my set for the longest, I think. She has no real gifts but she is very beautiful in that plump way. More importantly, she is obedient.

  After the meal had been cleared away and Oritse had sung, my hawker was the first to say he had to leave. The other two remained sprawled on my sofa, refusing to take his lead.

  ‘Cynthia, Oritse, are you coming?’

  Their drivers were waiting outside but there was no driver for my hawker.

  ‘Thanks, Abikẹ. We’ll see later,’ was all he said by way of goodbye. I watched him walk down the drive. Even with his long strides, it would take him at least ten minutes to reach the gates. I watched until all I could see was a pink blob. When I turned to go inside, I realised the colour had grown on me.

  I’m not sure what I thought of the day.

  At first it was as awkward as I’d expected. Once I stepped into the jeep I began to feel uncomfortable. Her strong perfume filled the air and her legs strayed over the divider whenever the car went over a bump. When I placed my hand on the slippery leather seat to relax myself, my fingers crushed the yellow cotton of her dress. I felt her staring at my tough, chipped nails.

  ‘How was school yesterday?’

  ‘It was fine. How was work?’

  ‘It was fine.’

  The hum of the air conditioning filled the silence until we reached the gates of her house. There, my discomfort intensified. Many houses have gates in Lagos but even the highest gates I’ve seen look like entrances. They have knockers, they have slits for gatemen to peer through and ask, ‘Who is that?’ This gate was a slab of metal, without contours, or knobs or anything you could hold on to. It looked like a dead end; a sign that whoever was in the car should turn back. There was barbed wire everywhere, jagged protrusions that would slice the skin of any man who tried to scale the Johnson entrance. And if, somehow, your thickness still stopped you from understanding you were not wanted, there were two armed guards to drive home the point.

  One of the guards approached. He was an oldish man who held his gun uncomfortably, almost timidly. He flashed a torch into the car half-heartedly.

  ‘Who is there?’

  ‘Open these gates now. I don’t have time for this nonsense.’

  ‘Please, we need to know everybody who enters the house.’

  ‘Whose house is it? Put Abikẹ and friend on your list and open these gates.’

  ‘But your dad—’

  ‘Now.’

  The gates slid open and we were let in. When we drove past, I saw the guard give Abikẹ a look that I sympathised with. She must have sensed this because she said, ‘Those gate men.’

  ‘They were just doing their jobs.’

  ‘You know, you’re probably right.’

  I hadn’t expected her to capitulate so easily. Perhaps it was because I was in the car. At least she valued my opinion.

  As we drove up to her house, I wondered what type of wealth it would take to make such an oasis, green grass watered by sprinklers while half of Lagos had no running water. We passed lush gardens that were orderly in some parts; cultivated wilderness in others. Most of the trees were full grown and a few had flowered, leaving the ground bright with petals.

  When we reached Abikẹ’s house, I covered a sharp intake of breath with a cough. I had seen big houses before, great colossal brutes that swallowed guests, but this thing was large in a way that did not make sense. It spread across the open space like water spilled on a smooth floor. Inside, everything was conditioned: the rugs, luxuriously soft, the air, a perfect temperature – cool enough to dry sweat, warm enough to stop my hairs from standing. It was hard not to exclaim when I saw the indoor swimming pool. It was hard but I managed to keep myself under control with a casual, ‘You have a really nice place, Abikẹ.’

  After the tour, she took me to what she called her ‘small’ living area: a wide space with one long sofa that followed the curve of the wall. There were green plants everywhere, filling the room with a crispness that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

  ‘So, who else is coming?’ When she’d invited me, she’d said her friends would be here. I had been in her house for an hour and still, no sign of them. Was this a date?

  ‘Why are you asking? Are you afraid it’s just going to be the two of us?’

  Not afraid – glad at this second chance to talk to her alone. This time I would let her speak until I understood why she was interested in a boy who sold ice cream on the road. I hadn’t always sold ice cream but she didn’t know this and she had still invited me to her house. Did she think I was a charity case or—

  ‘Don’t worry, there are other people coming,’ she said, bursting into my thoughts.

  ‘That’s cool.’ I sounded relieved. ‘Not that I would mind if it were just the two of us.’
/>   ‘Well, it’s not.’

  Her tone was curt. Did she think I wasn’t good enough to go on a date with her?

  ‘Their names are Cynthia and Oritse. They’re old friends.’

  It dawned on me. She’d brought me here to amuse her friends.

  ‘Do they know I’m a hawker?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Do you think it matters, Abikẹ?’

  If she had said no, I wonder what would have happened. She was looking at me directly, almost encouragingly as if she wouldn’t have minded a hawker kissing her. But she said nothing because her friends walked in.

  Cynthia was a beautiful girl, the type who is mostly eyes and who seems to flirt with everything: the walls, the sofas, me. The boy was more interesting. He was handsome but with a fleshy body that needed a few hours of hawking. Though he was impeccably dressed, his clothes were too primped to embarrass me. Once we exchanged names, he opened fire with questions.

  ‘So what school do you go to?’

  ‘Life Academy.’

  ‘Sounds familiar.’

  Behind me Abikẹ sniggered and I was glad we had shared this spontaneous joke.

  ‘So how do you and Abikẹ know each other?’

  I looked at her but she bent her head and studied the floor.

  ‘We met while I was working.’

  ‘So you work,’ the girl said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it in your father’s company? I did that one summer. My father is an ED in Valour Bank and working with him was dull. The pay was good though. We used to cash around twenty million every . . .’

  I let him run on until we were seated and a maid had brought a tray of drinks. When he stopped the girl had not forgotten.

  ‘You still haven’t told us where you work.’

  Abikẹ sipped her orange juice, concentrating on the contents of her glass.

  ‘I sell things.’