The Spider King's Daughter

by Onuzo, Chibundu

  What had she told them?

  ‘So your father owns a store and you work for him. Is that it?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions. Abikẹ, is this how your friends behave when they meet people?’

  ‘Pardon them. They have no manners.’

  ‘So, Cynthia, how do you know Abikẹ?’

  The boy answered. ‘We go way back. We’ve been in the same school for the past six years and—’

  Every time I asked a question, the boy would answer. Even when I asked Abikẹ where the toilet was, he jumped in with directions.

  ‘Go through that door and it’s the first door on your left.’

  ‘Begging should be banned in Lagos,’ he said at some point in the afternoon. ‘Every time you stop at a traffic light those children from Niger are there chanting, God bless you, God prosper you.’

  ‘I still give them money, though. Don’t you?’

  ‘Of course not, Cynthia. Those people litter our streets.’

  ‘I thought that was sweet wrappers,’ I said.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Well, Cynthia and Abikẹ know what I mean.’

  Every time his feeble opinions were challenged he retreated to the girls. Often, Cynthia shrugged her shoulders but Abikẹ would always bounce the issue back to me.

  It was only when the maid entered with the food that I got some respite. She came with a tray of scarlet jollof rice. The jollof we eat now is always a pale orange colour because tomatoes are expensive, but there in front of me was food from my childhood. I forgot Cynthia. I forgot Oritse. I even forgot Abikẹ until only a few forkfuls remained then I remembered I was not in my house. I set my fork aside and let those grains testify to the fact that I was fed at home.

  Oritse sang. The timing made me uncomfortable. I was ready to leave when Abikẹ asked that he sing. Conveniently he’d brought his guitar. His voice was good, perhaps excellent, but I could not concentrate on his singing. There was something about the lyrics that made me feel like they were a secret conversation between him and Abikẹ.

  He gave her pointed glances.

  She pretended not to notice.

  And I wondered what was going on.

  All through the day I had been jangled from emotion to emotion. One minute we were sharing a private joke, the next, she was acting like she didn’t know where we’d met. One minute I felt her wanting me to kiss her, the next Oritse was singing of how he wanted to do the same. I left her house feeling tricked and manipulated. I wanted my script.

  Chapter 12

  When I saw my hawker this afternoon, he asked me to come to the road on Saturday.

  ‘I can bring food and we can have a picnic in my jeep. The seats fold down.’

  ‘No. I meant come to the road as a starting point. Your driver can drop you here then we’ll go out. As in, go out into Lagos.’

  ‘Without my driver?’

  ‘You know, people without drivers still manage to get around.’

  ‘And it will be just the two of us.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Twelve p.m. Don’t be late.’

  What does someone like me wear on her first date with a hawker? One of the maids scuttled past. She looked mouldy but in her day, she would probably have been out with some hawkers. Then again, none could possibly have been like mine. There was only one person who could advise me. In her quest to find the ultimate part, she had played love interest to a wide spectrum.

  My mother was a famous actress before she met my father. According to her, when they got married, she gave up her brilliant career to be a better wife. Recognition, stringless promiscuity, they all flew out of the window to make room for her new part of loving confidante. My father did not take to the script.

  Most days, you can find her wallowing in the Den, a portion of the basement that is her equivalent of the ‘study’. In there, she has built a shrine to her dead career. Love Me or Die was on when I walked in.

  ‘I want to ask you something.’

  ‘Shh.’

  She did not speak until her jealous co-star had strangled her to death and the credits were rolling.

  ‘So how can I help you, Abikẹ?’

  ‘What does one wear if one’s going out with someone of a lesser social standing?’

  ‘I presume we are speaking of a boy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is this young man taking you?’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘What time of the day is this boy taking whoever we are speaking of, out?’

  ‘In the afternoon.’

  ‘He’ll like a bit of flesh on display. That kind usually does. Is he handsome?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I suggest a miniskirt: a denim one with frayed edges. Do you own anything of the sort?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You do? I thought we weren’t speaking of you. How cheap. It will suit the occasion. Is that all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like to join me? I’m watching Best Friends Forever next. I haven’t seen a movie with Jennifer and me in ages.’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  Saturday came and I was dressed in a frayed miniskirt, standing on the roadside.

  On Friday evening, while Jọkẹ and I were fetching water from the communal tap, it occurred to me that Abikẹ might hate everything I’d planned.

  ‘Jọkẹ, in five years’ time when you go on your first date, where do you want to go?’

  ‘Let me just inform you, my first date is going to be next year and the boy has to take me to a very expensive restaurant.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s how a guy shows that he really likes a girl. The more expensive the restaurant the more serious the love. Don’t you know?’

  ‘I wonder who is teaching you this nonsense,’ I said, heaving a twenty-litre jerry can on to my shoulder.

  My sister could not be right, I thought, as I poured the water into the large drum that stood by the kitchen sink. If Abikẹ was expecting a fancy restaurant tomorrow, she might as well not leave her house. I couldn’t afford the rice in the places she was used to, let alone a full meal. I had never tried to hide this.

  I picked up half a tuber of yam and began to peel its skin. The mould that had eaten into it, I extracted, careful not to take off any white flesh. When we first moved here, Jọkẹ used to peel yam like we still had money. I warned her many times. Yet when I looked in the bin, I would still find peelings with shavings of white. One day, I took the knife from her and scraped the peels until they no longer had flesh on them. ‘Yam is expensive in the market,’ I said when I was done. Since then the shavings have been consistently brown.

  I added a few stock cubes to a pot of water before setting the yam to boil. According to our roster, I cook Fridays to Sundays and Jọkẹ does the rest. Often I take some of her days during term time. I see it as an investment. It is Jọkẹ’s education that will get us out of Mile 12, not my hawking and certainly not Abikẹ’s money. Though my mind has wandered to some of the things she could do for us. My most extravagant dream is of moving into her house. There must be at least thirty rooms in that building. No one would notice if we took three. We wouldn’t mind where she put us as long as the beds were comfortable and water came out of the taps.

  After my first visit, I was bursting to describe her mansion to someone, but Aunty Precious wasn’t interested and it felt wrong to tell a homeless man what I’d seen. But Mr T kept asking questions. What was her house like? How large was the garden? How many guards, did you say?

  I didn’t tell him we were meeting again because I didn’t know if things were going to progress any further than tomorrow. No point getting excited over something that might not work out, something that perhaps I was imagining, I reminded myself, thinking of the moistness in Oritse’s eyes when he looked at her.

  The yam was ready.

  ‘Jọkẹ, com
e and eat.’

  ‘What did you make?’

  ‘Mile 12 pottage.’

  She lifted the lid and sniffed. ‘Poor man’s pottage is more accurate. There are houses in this area where they put stock fish. I know because I’ve eaten in them.’

  ‘What have I told you about eating in strangers’ houses?’

  ‘They are not strangers. They are our neighbours and their yam pottage tastes nothing like yours. Thank you.’ She took her plateful of food and flounced back to our room.

  No matter what she said, this dish was not the yam pottage of my childhood. It was one born of the necessity of Mile 12 just as my culinary skills were born of my new address. In Maryland, I never even knew how to light a stove. I had to learn after we moved here, like I had to learn to chase after cars with ice cream balanced on my head.

  * * *

  ‘Mummy, food is ready.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Will you eat some now?’

  ‘Later,’ she said, rising and moving towards her room. ‘You and Jọkẹ take your fill.’

  Widowhood is not a disease, I wanted to say as I watched her shuffle to her door. Or maybe her vacancy had nothing to do with the loss of my father. Maybe she was still mourning her jewellery and manicured nails. Stripped of those things, she was nothing. She shut her door and I was left alone with my thoughts about tomorrow.

  Chapter 13

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  Well I hadn’t been so rude about his pink shirt.

  It all started when I arrived at our meeting place and there was no hawker. Granted it would have been easier to sit in the car with the windows wound up. I had a feeling this would not fit with the day my hawker had planned.

  ‘Hassan, disappear.’

  He drove off with 2000 naira and left me glaring at anyone who wanted to grab my bag, which was everyone. I needed to relax. After all, who was going to attack me in broad daylight with at least a hundred people wandering around? My better judgement may have proved right if it were not for the outfit my mother suggested.

  First, it was the drivers. Pot-bellied men leaned out of their cars to whistle at me, one fool even got out of his Peugeot to talk to me. At first I found it amusing, this sparring between myself and the randy drivers of Lagos. So far I was winning with my returns of ‘Your mother’ for ‘Sexy lady’ and ‘Pervert’ when an old man shouted, ‘Nice legs.’

  Then the pedestrians joined in. They were too close, close enough to jostle me and whisper, ‘How much?’ Or perhaps, if their English could not handle such complexities, ‘Ashewo’ would do, which though my vernacular is poor I knew meant prostitute. This too would have been all right if I’d had a chance to reply but they would walk off to be replaced by another and another before I could retort to the first. I was so busy trying to avoid these pedestrians that I didn’t notice the tout until he was standing in front of me and saying, ‘My name is Fire for Fire. Oya, let’s go.’

  Before I could decide how to respond, he grabbed my wrist. I was conscious that minimum fuss would spare me the onlookers that drift towards trouble.

  ‘Release me,’ I hissed.

  ‘Stop pretending. You know you want do am.’ He gripped me tighter and started to drag me away.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I said more loudly now, my head turning to the passers-by.

  ‘Help me,’ I said, my free hand brushing a man balancing a load of wood on his head.

  ‘Please.’

  I saw a corn seller staring at us. She was sitting on a low stool, one rolling arm fanning the flames, her teeth running over the remains of a cob. Surely she would help me.

  ‘Aunty,’ I called out. ‘Aunty, please stop him.’

  ‘Ashewo, don’t look at me.’ She flung her naked cob at my feet.

  Fire for Fire had not felt my nails that were clawing his arms and when I kicked him he asked, ‘You want make this thing painful?’

  He was going to rape me, a voice murmured in my chest. He was going to take me somewhere and rape me. Abikẹ Johnson raped by a tout.

  ‘My guy wetin you dey do with my babe?’

  From behind, I heard my hawker’s voice. The tout turned back and in that brief moment, I slid my hand from his grip.

  ‘Who be you?’ the tout said, reaching for me again.

  ‘Don’t try me,’ my hawker said, stepping in front of me.

  There was a moment I thought they would fight. Even though the tout only came up to his chest, he seemed angry enough to test his arms against my hawker’s height. In the end, he settled for an empty threat. ‘Me and my boys go show you.’

  ‘Get out of here before I finish you.’

  I had to save face. I delved into my little store of pidgin and called out, ‘Fire for Fire don meet water.’

  My indulgence drew an impersonal titter from the crowd. I looked at my hawker expectantly.

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘What does it look like?’

  A driver called out, ‘Sexy lady, how much you dey charge?’

  ‘Mind your business,’ we said, momentarily on the same side.

  ‘How can you be wearing this?’

  ‘Did you give me a dress code?’

  ‘You should have had the common sense to know that this,’ he said, gesturing at my legs, ‘is not appropriate. You can’t even go home and change because your driver has gone.’

  ‘You should have the common sense to know that if you invite someone out, treating them like this is inappropriate. I’m going home.’

  I started dialling my driver.

  ‘No, wait. Don’t do that, Abikẹ. I’m sorry.’

  I kept keying in the digits.

  ‘Please – I want you to stay.’

  The phone was ringing.

  ‘Please, just follow me home. I’ll get you something to change into and we’ll start again from there.’

  Here was an interesting proposition. He was inviting me to his house. Even if it was only for a few minutes, it was still a breakthrough of some sort. He was beginning to trust me.

  Some men were heading towards us with a man who looked like Fire for Fire at their front.

  ‘Let’s go, then.’

  When we had lost the touts, we were too breathless to talk. Somewhere in our run, the tension had evaporated.

  He lived in a wretched block of flats. Outside, the paint was peeling and no one had bothered to cover the cement on the inside. There was refuse everywhere. It was like the whole street was a giant dustbin. He trusted me enough to show me, something I did not take for granted, even as I stepped over a stinking gutter. His flat was not as dismal as the outside had augured. It was very dark and small, depressingly small, but everything was neatly arranged and there was no clutter.

  * * *

  Sitting on a chair in his living room was a woman in a pale pink dressing gown. Her eyes wandered to us and then wandered away, alighting on the all-purpose wooden table, the dwarf stove in the corner, the damp patches on the ceiling that looked like piss on white linen, before coming to rest on my face again.

  ‘Mummy, good afternoon. This is my friend Abikẹ.’

  She sat engrossed in the wall as if there were images running across it. It reminded me of my mother in the Den.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  She looked like she wanted to say more but he pulled me away.

  ‘Let’s go and get the jeans.’

  He led me to a door. When he opened it, his body blocked the entrance.

  ‘What is this?’

  The voice that answered his question was female. What was a girl doing in his room at this time?

  ‘Why are you wearing—?’

  I leant to the side and tried to see into the room.

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘I said stop!’

  Pushing past him, I walked into the room. At once, everything became clear.

  ‘Hi, my name is Abikẹ. What’s yours?’

 
; ‘Jọkẹ.’

  From her face, that was a softer version of my hawker’s, it was obvious she was his sister.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Funmi.’

  Under the thick powder, she might have been pretty.

  ‘Pick the jeans so we can go. Jọkẹ, wipe that stuff off your face. I’ll talk to you when I get back.’

  He put a stack of trousers on the bed and left.

  ‘I don’t care what he says. I’m old enough.’

  ‘He’s your older brother,’ the friend said.

  ‘Funmi, please just continue. I don’t want the eyeliner too thick.’

  They spoke in low voices as if afraid I would run and tattle. I looked around the room. It was as bare as a temporary residence. There were no pictures, two lonely canisters of deodorant stood on the dressing table and a mirror reflected the blank walls. The only things of note were three checked bags shoved against a wall. I wondered what I would find if I opened one.

  ‘You have to obey him,’ the friend said, speaking louder when she saw I was ignoring them.

  ‘Is he my father?’

  ‘You still have to respect him.’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything!’

  Her friend burst into a cackle. ‘You rich people’s children. Always so spoilt.’

  I kept holding up a faded pair of blue jeans but I was listening now.

  ‘Whatever. I’ve told you to stop talking about that.’

  Like brother like sister.

  ‘So how old are you guys?’

  They turned, surprised to hear that I could speak.

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Fourteen,’ his sister said.

  ‘That’s old enough.’

  ‘Exactly!’