The Spider King's Daughter

by Onuzo, Chibundu

  ‘Six weeks to reach Rome. We got there in the night and for the first few months, I rarely saw the city in daylight. Some of the girls would go out in the afternoon but I was too ashamed. I felt that everyone who saw me would know how I earned money.’

  It was odd that she should be ashamed of working in a sweat shop. There were worse ways for a woman to survive in a foreign country. I wanted to reassure her of this but she had reached a point in her story where she could not bear interruption.

  ‘The women in the house Mr Alade dropped us in said we had no choice. We had signed and sworn that we would not stop working for them, until we paid off our debt. These women that ran the house were very harsh. They enjoyed putting us down and insulting us but one was kind to me. She said I looked like her junior sister so she gave me advice that saved my life. She was the one that told me I should make sure my customers always wore a condom no matter how much they offered for sex without. A lot of the other girls took the money and died of AIDS.’

  Aunty Precious hadn’t gone to Italy to sew on buttons in an airless room with sixty other girls. She had gone there to become a prostitute. Like those women I saw when I left work late. They stood on the side of the road in their tight cycling shorts, sometimes bending over so their breasts could spill out of their crop tops even further. Every thought must have shown on my face because she said, ‘Maybe you are too young for this story. I’m sorry I started.’

  ‘No, Aunty Precious. Please continue.’

  She was not like those girls. She had been tricked.

  ‘It’s funny. Now, when I look back on those years, what makes me the angriest is the shoes I had to wear. None of the men that beat me left scars. It’s so hot in this country, I can no longer imagine what it felt like to wear a miniskirt in winter but the shoes – they have left permanent marks. Look at my feet.’

  She slid off her slippers and raised one leg. ‘See how swollen they are. Look, I don’t have ankles and it’s because of walking around Rome in high heels. My feet used to ache so badly that I would go around the streets barefoot. Until one day, a customer beat me for leaving black footprints on his white bed sheet.’

  ‘Aunty Precious—’

  ‘No. Stop looking like you are about to cry. I was one of the lucky ones. I met Richard. He was old with grey hairs all over his body but he was kind. Whenever I told him I didn’t feel like, he would always reply, funny enough I don’t feel like either. He was a colonial officer in Kenya when he was a young man. That was why he picked me up. He said I reminded him of a Luo woman he loved. One day he offered to pay off my debt in exchange for my living with him until he died. He too drew up a contract for me to sign.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Of course. It was about survival. But this time I read before I signed.’

  I looked at her green boubou and the rubber slippers she wore on her cracked feet. When we used to travel, I’d noticed there was a type of glamorous woman you saw with white men. ‘I can’t imagine you with a white man, Aunty Precious.’

  ‘Neither could his children. They were always asking if Richard had changed his will and other questions like that. We were together for two years before he passed on. One morning I woke and found he was not breathing. Coronary heart failure is what the doctor said and while his body was still warm the children swooped down to drive me away.’

  ‘How did you survive after he died?’

  ‘His will said, “to my precious Precious, ten per cent of all my savings”. Even that little portion, his children wanted to take.’

  She stopped and looked outside the store. ‘You should be going. It’s getting late.’

  ‘You haven’t finished.’

  ‘What else is there? I moved to Nigeria. I set up a store with my inheritance, the same one we are in now.’

  ‘What about Emeka? Tell me what happened when you came back.’

  ‘You have to go soon.’

  She blew her nose again.

  ‘I looked for my parents but another family was living in our house. They had died poor, the new tenants told me. Their daughter had gone abroad and not sent them money. Shame would not allow me to go to the village and see where they were buried in the family compound. My relatives would have cursed me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Aunty Precious.’

  ‘It was many years ago. I started going to church to fill time on Sundays. I joined the choir because I liked their uniform. Then one day, the preacher announced, “There is a woman sitting here. You are precious, despite what has been done to you. God has called you by that name, Precious.” Many years passed, the shop thrived and I thought I had left Italy behind.

  ‘Then Emeka walked into this store asking if I sold shaving sticks. The shock almost killed both of us. We screamed and hugged and all the time we held each other, I kept thinking, he must be married now. He must have at least two children. I pulled away from his embrace and came to sit behind the till. “So how is the wife?” I asked, preparing myself for the news. “There is no wife,” he said. “I have tried to get married but no girl has been like my Precious.”’

  She smiled and dabbed her eyes. ‘Look at me, acting like a teenager over a man I just sent away.’

  ‘Why don’t you say yes?’

  ‘His family hates me. I left their son to go to obodoyinbo. I used juju to stop him from marrying and now I have come back to ruin him. To add to that, he told them that I used to be a prostitute. He thinks everyone is easily forgiving like him. Now over his sisters’ dead bodies, his mother’s dead body and his father’s dead body, will Emeka marry me. The only way they will attend the ceremony is if we marry in a cemetery.

  ‘It’s them that almost closed down my shop. They told everyone in the area about Italy. Now the tenants upstairs would rather walk twenty minutes to another store than buy anything from me. If not for your hawking and the customers from the new office, this shop would not be open.

  ‘When you walked in he was proposing for the fifth time. Yet, he will come back and I must say no. I will not separate him from his family and I will not ruin his reputation. He is respected in his work.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He is a pastor and even though the Bible mentions prostitutes who did well for themselves, no Lagos congregation would listen to that.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell them.’

  ‘He would feel he had to. If he didn’t, his family would.’

  If he had worked as anything else, he could have married her and kept his job.

  ‘Before I left Italy I visited the kind matron to say goodbye but also to find out about her employers. I took her for lunch and gave her some expensive perfume. At first she refused to say anything. She thought it was foolish to try and find such dangerous people. She grew more cooperative with alcohol. Even then, when she spoke, she would only tell me the man’s name was Olumide Johnson and that she had been surprised to hear he had a daughter. When I asked where I could find him she refused to say.’

  ‘Olumide Johnson?’

  ‘Yes. Remember that day we went to the market, you mentioned your friend with the same surname. For a moment I thought it was his daughter, but where would you have met someone like Olumide Johnson’s daughter?’

  Of course.

  ‘After I returned to Nigeria, I became obsessed with finding him but the name Olumide Johnson appeared so many times in the phonebook.’

  I was glad I had said nothing.

  ‘There was a man I was certain was him. He owned a large car business that could serve as a front. He had the political connections necessary for blinding the eyes of border police. When I went to his house and asked the gateman if I could see Oga’s daughter, he said I had the wrong address. Oga only had sons.

  ‘Eventually I found him. He was hidden behind many respectable businesses and he had even more political connections than the first Olumide Johnson. He was tall and dark with a mark blacker than the rest of his skin on the side of his face. He had a daughter
. She was his only child with his wife.’

  How many powerful businessmen with birthmarks could there be?

  ‘I found a young lawyer just out of university and full of the justice he had crammed for his exams. He helped me find the others who returned to crawl into the holes in Lagos. We built a strong case that we really believed could win. Then the first of us died, then another was bought off, and another disappeared and then one day, he killed the young lawyer as well. It was made to look like an accident but we knew.’

  I remembered the man in the corridor; the harshness with which he had spoken to his own son and I could believe he had killed people to cover up his crimes. Did Abikẹ suspect? Surely his favourite daughter would know what her father was capable of.

  ‘After our lawyer died, we returned to our holes and tried to forget about the case. But at times like this, when Emeka reminds me of the woman I could have been, I want my justice.’

  Chapter 23

  Nkem and I were browsing through the shoe section at De Moda with an attendant trailing so close, I could feel her breath.

  ‘Ma, you should try this one.’

  ‘My dear, please, have some taste.’ Nkem snatched the shoe and clonked it back in its place. ‘Is that fashion?’

  The girl shrank. ‘I’m sorry, ma.’

  Nkem did not hear because she had stomped ahead.

  ‘Wait. Let me have a look at those shoes.’

  The girl curtsied and handed me the right foot. Two plastic jewels adorned the front; glitter covered the heels, silver chains hung from the buckle. I waited until Nkem was beside me. ‘Not bad. They have a certain sparkle. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Well I—’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Well, of course, looking at them properly, I see that they are quite special.’

  ‘More than special. Unfortunately it’s not the colour of my dress,’ I said, placing the shoe with its partner.

  When I turned, Nkem had left again, distancing herself from the scene of her disgrace.

  ‘What about this?’

  ‘Hmm, black shoes with a pink dress. Not very tasteful, Nkem.’

  ‘Why do you say so?’ she asked, pointing the heel at me.

  ‘It makes me think of lingerie.’

  Behind us, the attendant coughed twice.

  ‘How about this?’

  Interesting. ‘Do you have anything in this colour, in a size five but with heels higher and thinner than this?’

  ‘Yes, ma.’ She bobbed, taking the shoe and scuttling away.

  ‘Stilettos, Abikẹ? Are you sure? You’re going to be doing a lot of walking.’

  The attendant returned with two pairs.

  ‘Definitely the peep toe, darling.’

  Some boys don’t like toes. My hawker might be one of them.

  ‘Let me try that one.’

  I slipped on the closed pair.

  ‘Maroon was a good choice,’ Nkem said.

  I walked around the store, testing their fit.

  ‘Aunty, pick that one, it’s very fine on you,’ the attendant offered shyly.

  ‘I’ll take them.’

  I have not felt this impotent since the day my father’s jeep exploded. By the time the news reached us, melting iron had burned his face beyond recognition. With Aunty Precious it was not too late. I almost shouted, I know him, when she described Mr Johnson. I managed to restrain myself in time. Knowing I knew him would not change the fact that she was no closer to justice. Instead, the knowledge might trigger the process that led nowhere the first time and would lead nowhere again.

  I couldn’t go back to her house. Not after this. What if I ran into her father, what then? Take matters into my own hands and strangle him? I remembered the tour she gave me on my first visit; how she had lingered in the more opulent rooms and made sure I saw the indoor swimming pool. What if she knew it was all paid for with dirty money?

  ‘You should go. It’s getting late.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stay a little longer?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Take some bread for your mother.’

  As I sat on the bus home, I thought of Abikẹ. For a few weeks, it seemed possible that we would end up a couple. The danfo swerved and jolted a woman’s elbow into my ribcage.

  ‘Sorry o,’ she said. ‘Don’t mind this useless driver.’

  ‘Nah who dey call me useless?’

  When no one answered, the driver swerved again before letting the bus move in a straight line.

  It wouldn’t have worked between us. Even without everything I’d heard, the real world would have intruded. When she went to university and returned with a fancy degree would she still want a hawker for a boyfriend? When she got her first high-flying job and I was just a trader in Tejuosho would she want to be seen with me?

  This is where you live, I saw as I passed the men who played snooker all day with balls cracked from overuse.

  This is where you must stay, I thought, as I reached the stairwell and saw Ayo and his friends, smoking.

  This is your home, I knew, as I stood in front of the scabbed door of my flat.

  When I walked in, Jọkẹ was hunched at the table, a lone candle flickering over her homework.

  ‘How far?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Has Mummy eaten?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean you don’t know?’

  ‘I gave her beans,’ she said pointing at a bowl on the table. ‘I don’t know if she ate it.’

  I picked up the bowl and looked inside. It was full.

  ‘Jọkẹ, how many times have I told you? When you give Mummy food, make sure she starts eating.’

  She shrugged and continued writing.

  ‘Jọkẹ.’

  I took the candle and went to my mother’s room, leaving her in darkness.

  ‘Bring my candle back o.’

  I knocked softly and pushed my mother’s door open.

  ‘Mummy, you haven’t eaten.’

  She was lying on the bed staring at the wall.

  ‘You and your sister should stop fighting.’

  ‘Are you going to finish your beans?’

  ‘I’ve had some already. You have the rest. Good night.’

  I took the candle and bowl back to Jọkẹ.

  ‘Next time make sure she starts eating even if you have to give her the first spoon. Now she’s going to bed without food.’

  ‘What’s my business?’

  ‘You know she took his death harder than—’

  ‘I’m working.’

  She angled her chair so her back was to me.

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that.’

  ‘Move. You’re blocking my light.’

  I walked into our room and flung off my shoes. I almost tore my shirt as I pulled it over my head. Finally, I sat on the mattress in my underwear, breathing heavily. I was a child again, waiting for one of the maids to put on my pyjamas for me. Waiting because I knew she would give in and pick up the pyjamas that were next to me and put them over my head. Then she would uncross my arms and push them through the sleeves. No maid would be coming tonight. I stood and started rummaging through my side of the wardrobe.

  The only clothes of my father’s I kept were his pyjamas. I sold everything else. My mother wanted me to save one suit but we needed the money more than I needed to look smart. The only reason I kept his pyjamas was because they had his initials stencilled on their breast pockets. For some reason, I did not like the idea of a stranger wearing his initials.

  Whenever I button myself into his nightshirts, I feel his quietness slipping over me as I slide each button into place. Tonight, it was not enough. My breath was still uneven and I was afraid that if I went out to speak to Jọkẹ in this mood, I would lose my temper.

  There were three large bags in the corner of the room. His certificates were in a Manila envelope in the third bag from the left. I drew them out and began to leaf through. First wa
s his birth certificate, twenty-seven years before mine, then his baptism, then a silence of fifteen years before you got to his Senior School Certificate, all As, then University, second-class upper thanks to your mother. Here I stopped. This was him before me. The next certificate would turn him into my father. I knew what it was but still I took my time, maybe there would be something extra. As usual, next came Marriage, then a Masters, then Death.

  These certificates should make me angry. I only have two to his seven. There is little chance of any more, except the one for death and perhaps marriage. Still, holding the milestones of his life never fails to soothe me. My father was somebody. While he was alive I may have despised him for being weak but he was still a university graduate, a Masters holder, a successful lawyer. Maybe one day Jọkẹ will have as many or more.

  I wondered if today should be the day I finally looked through the bags. I had only a vague idea of what I would find: probably our old family albums, his CDs, perhaps a few musty books. Each time I’d come close to emptying the bags, a pressing matter would excuse me from having to confront the fragments hastily packed when we left Maryland. Today was no different. I returned his certificates and went to speak to my sister.

  ‘Jọkẹ, I don’t like how you’ve been behaving recently.’

  She dropped her pen. ‘Are you going to give me a parent talk?’

  ‘I’m being serious. On my way home yesterday, I’m very sure I saw you by the stairs with the Alabi girl talking to a guy that looked at least twenty. Also, I don’t like the way you speak to me.’

  The pen started moving again. ‘The Alabi girl’s name is Funmi and she and those boys are the only people close to my age in this whole building. Not all of us can have rich friends.’

  It had never occurred to me that Jọkẹ might want to come with us. Her fourteen seemed so far from my eighteen. Now it was too late.

  ‘You’re blocking my light. Can you stand somewhere else or get out from here.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that.’