‘Dosunmu, have you spoken to the Vice Chancellor of UNILAG about my plans for an Olumide Johnson Recreation Centre?’
‘Yes, ma.’
‘Also, Dosunmu, next month I want you to stay in the Delta and see what’s happening on my rigs.’
‘Yes, ma.’
I picked up the phone and dialled the reception.
‘Send in the Minister.’
the hawker
I leave the flat and turn on to the road. Tonight my street has light and everyone is taking advantage of the electricity. I am invited to play snooker. I decline. I am invited to dinner. I decline. I see two men facing each other in the street. I move closer. They are about to fight. I am not in the mood. There is nothing to do in my area. I return home and go to sleep.
The next afternoon I wake not knowing what to do. It is Sunday. I do not hawk on Sundays. The money I make is too little to hand over 90 per cent.
‘So you are finally awake.’
‘Yes.’
She tells me about her mock exams. She did well. She is on track for engineering. All my savings are for her university. I have heard enough for now. She keeps talking.
‘My teacher thinks that five of us will—’
‘Jọkẹ, please not now.’
It is always like this when I am home. They clamour for my attention because they do not know how worthless I am.
‘Where are you going?’
I turn on to the road walking restlessly. She is everywhere: polished into the black jeep that glides by, reflected in the pupils of a young hawker, ground into the dust of the road. It is Sunday. No one is fighting. I want to run until she is driven from my head.
There was nothing I could do. Had I spoken, it would have been my word against hers. She helped her father’s killer escape; she killed an innocent man in the killer’s place. What could I have done against such forces? You could have spoken. You could have shown yourself your father’s son instead of a bastard coward that even now, is relieved to be alive.
When I get back to our block, the boys have come out for their evening smoke.
‘Boyo, how far?’
‘Rambo I dey. How body?’
‘It cool. You wan smoke?’
‘Not tonight.’
I walk into the apartment and see Jọkẹ and my mother talking by the sink.
‘Hello. Are you hungry? Mummy and I made Mile 12 pottage.’
We came back to Mile 12 for the trial. We had spent three weeks in Ogun State when my mother brought me a newspaper with the headline: DRIVER ARRESTED FOR JOHNSON MURDER.
‘I borrowed it from our neighbour when I saw the headline. Is this you?’
‘I didn’t do anything, Mummy. Stop whispering.’
‘It happened the night you came back with your face bruised, didn’t it? You looked like someone returning from a serious battle. Did he put up—’
‘Mummy, I didn’t do anything.’
‘I know you didn’t and if anybody asks that is what I will say, but this man,’ she said, pointing at the picture of Hassam, ‘did he do it too? If two adults plan something and only one escapes, it is nobody’s fault.’
‘I don’t know what—’
‘I’ve heard. You don’t know anything but you did well. You’ve given your mother peace of mind and brought justice for many people.’
I had to go back. Since I was to take part in the trial, I could not leave my mother and Jọkẹ in a strange city, in a flat that was rented for three months. When we got to Mile 12, the landlord had tenants ready to move in. We had paid five years’ rent and lived there only three. After shouting and waving of contracts, he gave us back the keys to our flat. It was then the doubts came.
What if nobody believed me? I would have thrown away everything for nothing. I would come under suspicion. What use would I be to Hassan then? I stayed silent, following the trial, promising I would step in at the next development, and the next, until the man was dead and I was as guilty as she and her half-brother. I am a disgrace to my father.
‘Diogu m,’ my mother says to me. ‘Diogu m, we made yam pottage for you. Please come and eat.’
This has become her name for me since she read those headlines.
‘Mummy, please don’t call me that. I am not a warrior.’
‘Diogu m, you are my warrior.’
I wish I could tell her what really happened that night. I fear the news her diogu is a spineless coward would force her into a relapse. She is better now. She teaches at the nursery school, she talks to her daughter, and I will not rob her of this.
‘Mummy, thank you. Let me just wash my hands and I’ll come and join you.’
Acknowledgements
It takes a whole village to write a book so I’d like to acknowledge some of the villagers who helped along the way. Many thanks go to:
My father, Dr Okey Onuzo for all his support, teaching and prayer.
My mother, Dr Mariam Onuzo for always sharing in my triumphs and failures.
My sisters Dilichi Lawal for investing in my writing and Dinachi Onuzo for her encouragement.
My brothers Chinaza Onuzo and Kassim Lawal who read the early drafts.
My extended siblings Chidinma Chigbo, Ngozi Okerulu, Ifeanyi Okoye, Funlola Ekundayo and Olusegun Ekundayo who stayed up one night and plotted the first draft with me.
My cousins Ebube Onuzo, Opeyemi Atawo and Chidinma Onuzo for their insightful criticisms.
Aunty Sola Adegbọmire for helping me with legal research.
My friends Melanie Cheng, Claudia Li, Moyo Kupoluyi, Sharon Lo and Olivia Digby who commented honestly.
My teachers Ms Jackie Askew, Mrs Nicola Young and Ms Janet Thomas, who taught me to write carefully and concisely.
Reverend Terry Hemming.
My earlier English teachers, Mrs Dafeta, Mrs Andieke, Mrs Onafowakan.
Pastor Bajo Akisanya for his prayers and advice.
Aunty Angela, Aunty Vero and Aunty Hope who changed my diapers.
Many thanks to Rosie Apponyi for rescuing me from the slush pile, Georgina Capel my lovely agent and of course Sarah Savitt, my editor, for the countless hours given to making this book better.
About the Author
Chibundu Onuzo was born in Nigeria in 1991 and is the youngest of four children. She is currently studying History at King’s College, London. When not writing, Chibundu can be found playing the piano or singing.
First published in 2012
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2012
All rights reserved
© Chibundu Onuzo, 2012
The right of Chibundu Onuzo to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–26890–0
The Spider King's Daughter Page 20