The Spider King's Daughter

by Onuzo, Chibundu

  ‘Or else?’

  I snatched her pen and flung it to the ground.

  ‘Is that all?’

  She unzipped her pencil case and brought out another.

  ‘I’m not playing with you,’ I said, grabbing the hand with the pen.

  ‘Leave me.’

  ‘I don’t like the way you’ve been behaving. I don’t like you hanging out with that Alabi girl. I don’t like the way you talk to me.’

  What was I doing?

  I let go and the pen clattered to the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  A round spot of ink was pressed into her palm.

  ‘You’re a bully.’

  She picked up her pen and continued writing.

  I went back to the room, lay on the thin mattress that was our bed and closed my eyes.

  When I woke the next morning Jọkẹ’s hand was holding mine.

  Chapter 24

  ‘Mon Dieu, you want me to make what?’

  ‘A pink satin dress that starts at my neck, stops at my knees and has no back. If you can’t do it I’ll take my money somewhere else.’

  ‘Ma chérie, that design is horrible and with such material? You will look like a birthday cake, a flat-chested birthday cake!’

  The women in the waiting room tittered behind their magazines.

  ‘Tayo, watch it.’

  ‘My apologies. It’s just that you’re Abikẹ Johnson. The Mr Johnson’s daughter. How can you ask le chemisier to do this?’

  ‘Have it ready by next Tuesday. ‘

  ‘You won’t change your mind.’

  The statement fell on my turned back.

  ‘Well then, le chemisier will have your frock ready. Ça fait rien.’

  ‘OK, Tayo.’

  ‘Who’s next?’

  A woman who bulged in many areas approached him, clutching a ripped page and pointing at a svelte actress.

  ‘I want to look like this when you make her dress for me.’

  ‘Bien sûr. C’est possible.’

  It was amazing how after only spending a year in Paris, French phrases stuck to his speech.

  When I got out, I saw Hassan sitting on his haunches amidst drivers that belonged to the women inside. I was proud to see his uniform was the smartest.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Yes, ma.’

  A man that was younger than the rest winked at me and asked loudly, ‘Na this small girl be your madam?’

  The group laughed, nudging each other and jeering at my driver.

  ‘Yes, I be him madam. Wetin concern you?’

  ‘Your pidgin is not bad for an ajẹ-butter.’

  ‘Your English is OK for a driver.’

  The man sprang up, his pert face suddenly stony. ‘Let me tell you, I spent one year studying engineering. If not for lack of school fees I would have graduated and been driving your type of car so don’t insult me.’

  ‘And you think because of this big car I am an ajẹ-butter? I can take you round Tejuosho Market. You too don’t insult me.’

  I stepped forward, crossing my arms, mimicking the fighting stance of the market women I had seen in the past months. We stared at each other, waiting to see who would blink. Then one of the men called out, ‘This one is not an ajẹ-butter o. She is a real child of Lagos.’

  The others laughed, allowing us to join without shame.

  ‘Madam, my sincerest apologies,’ he said, dipping his head.

  ‘Oga,’ I replied with a mock curtsey, ‘no vex.’

  I entered the jeep and drove off into the afternoon traffic.

  Once I got home, I crept up the stairs, hoping I would reach my room without running into my mother. The scent of my party has brought her crawling out of her hole. In the past few days she has been sitting in the upper rooms, slugging through the latest magazines.

  ‘Abikẹ, I was just coming from your room.’

  ‘Really? Good afternoon.’

  She rested her hand on the banister and began to glide down, eyes trained on the hidden cameras filming her descent.

  ‘How is the planning going? You know I can always help if it’s affecting your studies at Green Lake.’

  ‘I have a party planner and my school is called Forest House. Sorry I can’t talk. I need the bathroom.’ I pushed past her outstretched hand.

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’ll come down later.’

  ‘Be quick. I’m starting Matters of the Heart at four.’

  When I got to my room, my phone rang. For a second I thought it would be my hawker then I remembered he didn’t have a phone.

  ‘Hello, Oritse.’

  Where is he?

  ‘That’s great you’ve written a new song.’

  He was supposed to come today. It took me three hours to realise I had been stood up. On the way to Maison du Tay I was furious. There was a birthday lunch I’d missed waiting for him. Then I remembered the many things that could have gone wrong in the week we hadn’t seen each other. He may have been hit by a car.

  ‘Oritse, we’ll talk about you playing at my party later.’

  He might be ill.

  ‘That sounds good.’

  Or something may have happened to his mother.

  ‘OK. Bye.’

  I’ll stop at his flat tomorrow with an invitation.

  I was supposed to go to her house today.

  ‘Runner G, wetin you want chop?’

  Instead I went to the buka to hang with the boys. I hadn’t seen them in weeks and they had grown scruffier in the time, a little menacing.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’

  A girl bounced past, her two-tone denim jeans straining at her thighs.

  ‘Omo, that babe is sweet.’

  ‘Runner G, you like that one?’ asked a man who sold plastic kittens from China.

  I made a noncommittal noise and looked round the buka. It was a Saturday afternoon. The place was empty, with the bare plastic tables showing oil and grease stains.

  When a glittering Mercedes jeep drove by, we all stopped to watch its curves glide through the air. Once the dust settled the MTN recharge card man was the first to speak.

  ‘One day, I go drive car like that.’

  ‘Yes o.’

  ‘Amen,’ the others murmured. I was silent.

  ‘Runner G, you no want car like that?’

  ‘You don’t know what he did to get that car.’

  He was either in debt like my father or he was a criminal.

  ‘How you know?’

  I shrugged.

  Aunty Precious knew.

  She was more reserved now. Whenever I went to the shop, awkward gaps hung between the pleasantries we managed to exchange. Yesterday she caught me looking at her and mumbled, ‘I shouldn’t have told you.’

  I did not know how to explain that what she saw in my face was not judgement. Aunty Precious was ashamed while the man who had filled brothels in Europe was a respected member of society.

  ‘Runner G, where have you been ensconcing yourself?’ said a man who hawked Oxford English Dictionaries.

  ‘I’ve been around.’

  ‘I hear say one rich girl dey block you. That’s why you no dey come here any more,’ said an apple seller.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh boy talk true, jo,’ said a man who sold calculators from Taiwan.

  ‘She dey pay you?’ the MTN man asked, gesturing and leering at the same time.

  I stood.

  ‘You know what, I should be getting home. It was nice to see you guys.’

  ‘You know we are just playing.’

  ‘Just adding a little ribaldry to the afternoon.’

  ‘Abeg, Runner G, sit down.’

  The MTN man reached for my arm; I took a step back and bumped into the Mama Put who owned the buka.

  ‘You no go eat?’ she asked in the special, soft voice that she used for me.

  ‘I have to go. I’m really sorry.’
r />   ‘Stay and try some of my stew.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oya, wait and take this.’

  As she reached into her bra I began to move back. I was not fast enough. The fried meat was already in her hand.

  ‘No, thanks. I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Just take this small one,’ she said, coming closer.

  ‘Look, I don’t want your meat.’

  I turned and walked away, the boys’ shouts ringing behind me.

  ‘Runner G, why you waste that meat like that?’

  ‘Why you no give me?’

  ‘Aunty, don’t mind the useless boy. Give me instead.’

  What was I doing with these people?

  Chapter 25

  We’ve had a fight: petty, and ridiculous, just like any argument that for no reason escalated into a common brawl. When I arrived at his house with his invitation, the jeep attracted some stares and a handful of children. There was no one like that tout, Fire for Fire, in sight. I climbed up the stairs, knocked on his door; he opened it and said, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s good to see you too.’

  His chest was barely covered by the worn singlet he had thrown on. A bread crumb, perhaps from breakfast, rested on his left cheek. I was tempted to brush it off.

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘My driver drove.’

  ‘Your driver?’

  ‘Yes, my driver.’

  ‘So you came here in that, in that monstrous car of yours.’

  ‘If that’s a question then, yes, I did. Are you even going to ask why I’m here?’

  ‘Are you going to tell me why you are putting my family in danger?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘What am I talking about?’

  This was getting ridiculous. ‘Yes. What are you talking about?’

  ‘Do you not live in this city?’

  ‘Do you?’

  We were having an argument about whether or not I lived in Lagos. I had to be missing something.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what is wrong.’

  ‘Tell me then.’

  ‘It’s you.’

  An apartment door opened. No head appeared, just a voice. ‘Can you be quiet? My baby is sleeping.’ A wail drifted down the corridor and the door banged shut.

  From then on, we conducted everything in a low hissing.

  ‘It’s you,’ he said again, speaking through clenched teeth. ‘Bringing your car and attracting the attention of every tout in this area. Don’t you know you’re marking out my block for armed robbers?

  ‘Don’t you think you are exaggerating?’

  ‘Exaggerating? What do you know of life in this city? What do you know of poverty or being forced to listen to your neighbours getting shit beaten out of them every night for a few hundred naira?’ Flecks of saliva began to dot his lips.

  ‘I know that you are over-reacting. I can tell my driver to move the car.’

  ‘Your driver. The man doesn’t have a name? Why are you here?’

  ‘I come to visit you in this hell of a neighbourhood and it’s just now you’re wondering why I’m here.’ I squeezed his invitation into my fist.

  ‘So that’s your opinion of where I live?’

  ‘lf you love Mile 12 so much why are you always in my house?’

  ‘You think coming to your house is the only thing I can do on a Saturday? How dare you use that to insult me?’

  ‘Useless boy. Who are you? You think you’re so wonderful because you support your family. You think they should make a movie out of you, don’t you? Telling me how you ran for the first time, how much you’ve improved. Well trust me, you’re going to need to do a lot better if you’re ever going to get out of this dump.’

  An ace.

  ‘Leave this place.’

  Match point.

  ‘I’m going. I wouldn’t want to endanger your mother and sister any further. It’s bad enough having you for a provider.’

  Game: Ms Johnson.

  He slammed the door and chips of hardened wood fell to the ground. When I got outside, the children were swarming around my car. There was not an adult in sight. Bastard.

  She called me useless: a word for bent spoons and broken toys. I used to call my father useless when I saw him with his legal friends. He was supposed to make me proud to be his son. Instead he dithered at the edges of conversations, looking for whose glass was empty.

  I have always thought I am the opposite of him. It has encouraged me to think he would never have survived as a hawker. Maybe despite all this, I am still useless. I try to look after my family but it is not enough. Jọkẹ’s trousers ride above her ankles and my mother refuses to eat the coarse food I put on our table.

  Abikẹ has certainly studied me long enough to know what will make me doubt myself. Or it may have been chance that led her to that word. I should have invited her in to hear why she came. How could I with Aunty Precious’s story so fresh in my mind? No. It was good I left her outside. Just a few minutes standing in my corridor and her real thoughts came out. I am just another servant. Maybe I am even ‘my hawker’ like Hassan is ‘my driver’.

  I blame my father. If he had taken the time to service his car then a girl younger than me wouldn’t be able to insult me so thoroughly. On the day of the accident, his tyre burst and he lost control of the car. It skidded down a bank and rammed into a tree. Not long after, it caught fire. The police report said this was because the car had not been serviced properly.

  He never drove fast, always stopped at traffic lights and in the end he forgot to service his car. It was just like him to fall at the last hurdle. Court my mother for five years and agree to end it once my grandfather said no. Slave away in law school to become a paperwork man instead of making a name in court. Useless.

  I have finally seen the Abikẹ that her half-brothers and Cynthia see. I wonder how she has kept her hidden for so long. I should be flattered by the effort.

  Chapter 26

  ‘Taste this.’

  ‘Too much hoisin, dear.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Of course! All these restaurants destroy Chinese delicacies to please the Nigerian palette. It’s disgusting.’

  It was the fifth restaurant and it seemed no Chinese in Lagos would do. In Jade Pavilion, their stir fry did not have enough water chestnut; in Mr Wong, the sesame seeds looked stale; in Madam Chi they had served us duck with plum sauce not hoisin. Plum sauce!

  ‘Nkem, I think this will do.’

  ‘What—’

  ‘Don’t worry, my guests can’t tell chow mein from spaghetti.’

  ‘Abikẹ darling, you are so funny.’

  ‘How much will this menu cost for a hundred and fifty guests?’

  The manager drew out a calculator from his trouser pocket. His face transformed when he saw the figure.

  ‘One million, fifty thousand naira. For you,’ he paused, unable to speak and smile so widely, ‘for you, we will do one million.’

  One million, for greasy noodles that didn’t even have water chestnuts?

  ‘Abikẹ darling, that’s a good price.’

  With that you could buy ten years of hawking.

  ‘I can’t go any lower.’

  ‘As your planner, I advise you to consider this offer.’

  A hundred stalls at Tejuosho.

  ‘Only one million naira,’ he said loudly enough for heads to begin to turn.

  ‘Take it.’

  Of course Nkem was right. A million was only four thousand pounds, a handbag.

  ‘Write the bill to Olumide Johnson and send it here.’ I gave the man my father’s business card.

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  As we left, a few diners abandoned their meals to look at the girl who had just spent one million naira on noodles. I saw no judgement on their faces.

  ‘So there’s the food sorted out. Now we have to start thinking
of a DJ, and the outer decor. Nothing ostentatious but it would be lovely to have some petite fairy lights dangling from the trees.’

  ‘I don’t need fairy lights.’

  ‘How come, darling?’

  ‘I want it in the afternoon.’

  ‘You said—’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  * * *

  All this was so stupid.

  He wasn’t coming and so I didn’t want one hundred and twenty-six people filling my house. There was no question of cancelling: the news had gone too far. But over my dead body would they spend more than three hours dancing.

  ‘So do you now want the party inside or outside?’

  ‘Aren’t you the planner?’

  For a second on my hawker’s doorstep, the argument had seemed like just another round of Frustration. I could not stop myself. By reflex, I was playing.

  ‘Abikẹ, since you want it in the afternoon, maybe we could hire a small live band. I know it’s a bit avant-garde but there’s a certain je ne . . .’

  Listening to Nkem run on, I wondered when exactly her voice had begun to grate.

  Today, for the first time, I fought on the road. I only meant to threaten the man but when he shoved me in the chest, my fingers closed round his collar. After that there was no going back. Only a few blows were struck before a crowd came to separate us.

  ‘Wetin be the matter?’

  I explained to the old lady that the man had cheated me.

  ‘Nah so?’

  The thief shook his head. ‘No be so. His money complete.’

  I could see some touts approaching. Once they reached us, they would extort more than what I was struggling for.

  ‘O boy, use the twenty naira buy toothbrush. Your mouth dey smell.’

  As I walked away, I wondered what Abikẹ would have thought if she had seen me. Usually it is my mother’s opinion I reach for whenever I have done something shameful on the road.

  ‘Sss!’

  The woman calling me was in a red Toyota Camry. Her synthetic hair matched perfectly the colour of her car.