The Spider King's Daughter

by Onuzo, Chibundu

  ‘Join your friends.’

  When he knelt down, I put the gun back in my pocket and picked up their bench. The wood was flimsy. I slammed it against the ground. It broke easily in two.

  ‘Don’t let me see any of you in front of this building again.’

  Three fled. Ade remained kneeling.

  ‘Why are you still here?’

  ‘I live here.’

  Of course.

  ‘Get up,’ I said, slapping him gently on the side of his head. ‘If you know what’s good for you, leave those boys and go back to school. Or else, one day, somebody will shoot you.’

  I patted my pocket and went upstairs.

  Chapter 38

  One day left and everything is ready. The marquee is up, the fairy lights have been strung without genocide and Nkem tells me that some of her workers exchanged numbers with my gardeners. Miracles still happen. I added fifty thousand naira to her fee.

  ‘This is for you. Don’t tell Mrs Da Silva about it.’

  ‘No really, Abikẹ, it’s not necessary,’ she said, clutching the envelope.

  ‘You deserve it. You’ve done a good job.’

  She hugged me, her shoulder pressing into my cheek.

  ‘I know, with your social calendar, we’ll have many opportunities to see each other.’

  Maybe, I thought as I hugged her back.

  Speaking of money, I have spent too much on this party. My father signed the cheque without flinching, barely glancing at the zeros that had to be written as vertical dashes to fit into the space. His pen came down and the matter was closed. Yet, this signing of a lifetime wage just so some people could dance made me uncomfortable.

  Next time, I’ll use a living room and ask the kitchen to do the cooking. And next time my mother will be left in the Den. She’s been in my room for the past hour. Asking what I’m wearing. Then why? Then wanting to see my shoes. Then my accessories. Sitting down, waiting for me to ask about her outfit and shoes and make-up. I am tired of that woman.

  Since I started working with Aunty Precious, I have saved eighty thousand naira. This afternoon, I gave the full amount to my mother in cash.

  ‘Why are you giving me this?’

  ‘I want you to start managing our money.’

  ‘No. You’ve been doing it all this time. Whatever you are planning, I want you to stop.’

  ‘I’m not planning anything. I find it stressful working and managing the family budget.’

  ‘If you don’t stop it, I’m going to kill myself.’

  ‘Don’t you ever say such a thing again. What if Jọkẹ should hear you? Is it not enough that she cooks for you and cleans for you and does your laundry? Must you traumatise her as well?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to lose my son.’

  ‘Then you better stop talking rubbish.’

  That was the closest I have ever come to hitting my mother.

  The money is to tide them over till she starts her job as an assistant nursery teacher. The work is demeaning for a graduate. The pay will be useful. If she puts away a little every month, they will be able to afford the rent when it is due in two years. Of course, these plans are for if I don’t return and I am hopeful about my chances of success. On his side are money and power. On mine are a steel gun and an element of surprise. I shut the door and went to pick up Mr T. He was the most alert I’d seen him in a while. We came from the BLESSED FOOD STORES side. When we entered the shop, we saw Aunty Precious kneeling with the ox man, crying.

  I cleared my throat.

  They looked up but neither had the shame to spring apart. ‘Aunty Precious, we have a lot to discuss.’

  ‘Emeka, please can you leave us for a few minutes.’

  She stood, two patches of dust chalked into her clothes.

  Emeka remained kneeling and he too ignored our presence.

  ‘Since we are now engaged, Precious, whatever he has to say I can hear. Same with whatever anyone has to say to me you can hear.’

  His fiancée!

  ‘Aunty Precious, we really need to talk.’

  ‘Emeka, please just wait outside for me. Please.’

  It was the third time I would watch him leaving the shop. The difference was clear. His shoulders were square and his arms swayed powerfully at his side.

  ‘I just came to remind you that tomorrow at five, we’re meeting here for the last time. Is there any part of the plan you want to discuss before then?’

  ‘As you grow older, you will learn that regret follows everything, even the best decisions.’

  ‘What do you mean, Aunty Precious? You are just going to forget.’

  ‘I have not forgotten. I have just chosen to live my life in a way that honours the people I loved. Do you think your father would want to see you like this? With a cheap gun you rented from a good-for-nothing criminal.’

  ‘You know nothing about my father.’

  ‘And you don’t know anything about Michael or what I went through in Italy, years ago, when you were still a child. So don’t think you know something about me because I have been your boss for a little over a year.’

  ‘Madam, please, a bottle of Fanta for a poor beggar.’

  All this while, Mr T had been listening. That he had chosen to speak, I took as a sign to change tactic.

  ‘How will Emeka’s friends react when they find out?’

  ‘His true friends already know.’

  ‘What of his congregation? What will they say?’

  ‘I never thought you would use the things I told you that night against me. You have really changed.’

  ‘It’s not me that has changed.’

  ‘Since you must know, Emeka has resigned.’

  ‘Precious, is everything OK?’ her fiancé called from outside.

  ‘Yes, we’re fine, Emeka. We’re almost done.’

  ‘If I leave now, Aunty Precious, I won’t come back.’

  ‘Then before you go I must tell you a few things. Since you started chasing this revenge—’

  ‘Justice.’

  ‘You want to kill a girl’s father because of a letter that was not even addressed to you and you call that justice.’

  ‘Olumide killed my father.’

  ‘And so you will kill hers? The thing Olumide Johnson did to you that was so terrible, you will do it to your friend and say it is justice? I know you. Look at me. You are better than this.’

  It would be so easy to let her words draw me into the cowardice dressed as common sense.

  ‘Don’t think because I’ve worked with you for just over a year, you know something about me, Aunty Precious. Mr T, let’s go.’

  As we walked past her fiancé, I took one last look at his open face. If only he had waited one more day.

  Chapter 39

  Attractive is not a word that springs to mind when I look at myself in this dress. I should have tried it on but I trusted Tayo and he followed my design. I turned sideways, wondering what else I could wear. No, this was our dress. It was sweet. Women did surgery to make themselves look sweet. I looked over at Cynthia. Not her. If she ever had reconstruction, she’d be aiming for slut.

  ‘We should probably go, Cynthia.’

  She continued studying herself.

  ‘Do you think I put enough shimmer on my thighs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, her hand hovering dangerously over the tube of sawdust. I moved it out of her reach. If she put on any more, she’d be competing with my fairy lights.

  ‘Yes. I’m sure, Cynthia. Let’s go.’

  There were already people in the marquee and more were arriving. I had asked the guards to buzz me each time a guest arrived. In the last five minutes, I had lost track of their buzzing. None of them had been my hawker. I couldn’t wait any longer.

  Cynthia and I walked in silence, or rather I was silent while she worried about her Louboutins getting caked with mud. I had more important things to think about. My hawker and my father were finally
going to meet. If I could help it, it would be a very short meeting. I didn’t want my hawker getting sucked into a game I was no longer interested in playing.

  When we reached the marquee, Cynthia gasped.

  ‘Abikẹ, this is fantastic.’

  Nkem had been worth every naira.

  After Cynthia had disappeared into the crowd, I walked in, not making eye contact until I was halfway through the tent. Finally someone gathered the courage to speak to me.

  ‘Abikẹ, looking good,’ the person said, and the party had officially begun.

  I turned to acknowledge the compliment but my reply evaporated. Standing next to Cynthia with his back towards me was a tall boy dressed in an expensive black suit, broad shoulders, tapered torso. It could almost be my father if you added some bulk. Who was he? He turned to face me. I almost didn’t recognise him. I let a demure smile play over my lips. That was what I was. Demure in pink for my hawker.

  Today I went to Abẹ Bridge and Mr T was gone. He never had much but everything movable had vanished. At this stage both of them were useless. He had helped with the planning, Aunty Precious had brought the money and now the last leg was left for me to run.

  The women were still selling the same goods that would never yield profits large enough for them to escape.

  Buy biscuit!

  Buy buns!

  Buy buttermint!

  The same boys were still playing football under the far corner of the bridge. Their talent would never be seen by the scouts from abroad. All this was happening beneath the people who mattered.

  When I got home, I filled the five-litre tub with cold water and poured it over my body, until my skin was cool and my mind as clear as glass. I put on the suit that Aunty Precious had paid for. We had bought it from a proper shop, one with attendants who trailed after us, watching Mr T’s every move. Even with the clothes I gave him, he still looked out of place.

  It is possible that he was once something more than a beggar. While Aunty Precious steered towards the flashier suits with rhinestones on their lapels, Mr T had insisted that the suit be black and quiet.

  ‘We want him to blend in with the millionaires’ children so the next day people won’t remember him as the boy in the yellow pinstriped suit.’

  As I was slipping on the polished black shoes that had also been bought with Aunty Precious’s money, I released them. To bear a grudge against anyone that was not Olumide was dangerous. Tonight I needed my full concentration. Aunty Precious and Mr T had done all that they could for me. If at the end, they could not give me their support, their advice and money had been more than enough.

  * * *

  When I left the room, Jọkẹ was standing by the kitchen sink talking to the Alabi girl.

  ‘Yes, we’re leaving in two weeks. My brother found a better job.’

  ‘What do your brother do again?’

  ‘He’s a trader.’

  ‘Wow. That’s himpressive,’ the Alabi girl said, adding a gratuitous aitch.

  Today she was wearing jeans that had HOT embroidered on her bottom in red thread.

  I cleared my throat.

  ‘Jọkẹ, I’ll be back late tonight so don’t worry.’

  ‘Who said I would worry?’ She smiled as she ran the sponge over a plate. ‘You look nice.’

  ‘Yah, very ’andsome.’

  ‘Thank you, Jọkẹ. I hope you’ve finished packing.’

  ‘Yah.’

  My father hated it when we spoke in slang. It was the only time he would ever raise his voice at us.

  ‘I’ll see you when I get back. Mummy, I’m going.’

  When she came out, she stood by her door, one hand clutching the handle.

  ‘Is it today?’

  ‘Yes, it’s my friend’s party today.’

  She was doing a lot better. She ate meals with us and spoke more often. Yesterday, I’d given Jọkẹ money to take her to the salon, and, with her hair done, she almost looked like her old self.

  ‘Before you go, come and give your mother a hug.’

  I let her hold me, feeling the struggle to control her breathing.

  ‘Mummy, why are you hugging him? He’s coming back this evening.’

  ‘Come and join us, Jọkẹ,’ my mother said. For once, she obeyed without questioning. The three of us stayed linked until Jọkẹ began to fidget. ‘This is a touching family moment but I can’t stay under your armpit forever.’ I let her go and she went back to the dishes.

  ‘Mummy, I’ll be late.’

  ‘Go well,’ she said, releasing me.

  I left the apartment and caught an okada to Abby’s house. A motorcycle ride was an extravagance but it would be worth a clean entrance. I sat sideways, the dead metal in my pocket resting heavily on my thigh. A hundred metres from her house I stopped the driver, waiting until he had tut-tut-tummed away before walking to her gate. There was no reason for this except natural caution and perhaps a little shame that I would be the only guest arriving by public transport. Better the other guests saw me on foot than on a rusty motorcycle. In the end, I was the only one at the gate when I got there.

  ‘Mr Man, how far?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘You come for party?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He brought out a book

  ‘How many time I go tell you, this logbook nah only for people who enter with car. Don’t disturb Mr Man again.’

  ‘No, I have to sign. Today I’m just like everybody else.’

  Mr T had pointed out that if I were the only guest unaccounted for in the logbook, I would be the chief suspect after tonight.

  I wrote my name in capitals and the time flashing on my new watch.

  ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  As I walked down the driveway, gleaming cars drove past. Some of the guests were hidden by blackened windows, others stared openly at me, the boys challenging, the girls with their caked faces more circumspect. Not one offered a lift. I was glad to walk.

  The trees that lined the driveway were roped with fairy lights, their trunks squeezed by these glittering vines. From both sides came the throaty cooing of Olumide’s imported doves. For a moment I was tempted to turn and look for the woman in the fountain but I was not sure I could find her on my own. While I was walking, the sky turned from a pink blemished with large spots of orange to a dark, even blue. Again, it was Mr T who pointed out that if the party was held in the evening, I would be certain that Olumide was at home.

  From afar, I could feel the air oscillating and by the time I saw the marquee, my whole body was throbbing to the beats blasting from the speakers. It was beautiful, rising into the night like a small hill, its ghostly whiteness offset by the yellow lights strung along its side. An air of expectancy clung to the guests as they walked through the entrance.

  I slipped in, scanning the crowd for Abikẹ. Cynthia walked past, momentarily distracting me.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  It was rare to find a good-looking girl like Cynthia flaunt herself till imagination became unnecessary.

  ‘Hello.’ She too was looking for someone.

  ‘You look nice.’

  ‘So do you. Are you looking for Abikẹ?’

  ‘Yes. Are you looking for Oritse?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, brushing her hair behind her shoulders to reveal a well-sculpted chest.

  ‘I’ve seen him.’

  I followed her finger and saw Abikẹ standing at the centre of a knot of people, wearing the most hideous dress I have ever seen.

  Chapter 40

  She is walking towards me and the closer she comes the more awful the dress: shiny pink that sickens in the light, an odd length that turns her normally shapely legs into stumps.

  Red silk runs from his neck and ends in a sharp point on the waistband of his trousers. It is a beautiful tie, perhaps worth three weeks of hawking.

  I watch Cynthia go and Abby come. The contrast is almost unbearable. Abikẹ refuses to hol
d my gaze until we—

  Hug.

  There is a rough sweaty scent to him that all the layers of clothing cannot hide. I inhale.

  Her smell is like the colour of her dress.

  I see my mother walking towards us and I turn my hawker towards the food. I don’t want him to recognise her. I don’t need any unfavourable comparisons tonight.

  There’s an older woman lurching in our direction whom I assume is Abikẹ’s mother. Her face is familiar but I don’t know if this is because she was a famous actress or because women with her type of beauty often look alike: hollow cheeks, large eyes, plump lips. Maybe Abby is ashamed of me because she steers us towards the exhaling tureens of food very quickly.

  He’s not hungry.

  I refuse to eat in his house.

  All this Chinese food and he says he’s not hungry. We separate and I continue to mingle with my guests.

  ‘Leah. I love that shade of red on you.’

  I scan the crowd. There is no sign of Wale, or the Chief or any of Abikẹ’s half-siblings. It is to be expected. Oddly, I am disappointed.

  ‘Ikemba, I’m glad you brought your new girlfriend. She wasn’t on the guest list but it’s always nice to see a new face.’

  Three years ago, I knew nothing but a diluted version of this sheltered extravagance. Food that three-quarters of the population would never taste, clothes from places the average Nigerian had never even heard of.

  ‘Tomi, did you buy those shoes in Milan?’

  A girl called Leah introduces herself.