The Spider King's Daughter (3 page)

‘Is it possible to make a car break down on purpose?’ I asked Hassan as I handed him the hawker’s ice cream.

‘Eh?’

Milky saliva flew through a gap in his teeth and landed on the dashboard.

‘Don’t say eh
? Say
pardon me?’

‘Pah doon mi?’ he repeated, his inflections twisting the words into the vernacular.

‘No, not like that. Say after me: Paaaar-duuuuuhn-meee?’

‘Paaaaaah-dooooooooooo-miiiii?’

It was hopeless.

‘Is it possible to break down a car on purpose?’

‘Pahdoomi? I get am correct?’

‘You only say “pardon me” when you did not hear what the other person said.’

‘Mo pah dọ.’

‘Pardon?’

‘If “pahdoomi” means I no hear you, then “mo pah dọ” means I have heard.’

‘Just answer my question. Is it or is it not possible?’

‘Aunty, if you press your foot down and push the—’

‘So you know how to do it.’

He nodded.

‘Tomorrow I want you to break down the car at the place where we see the hawker.’

‘Aunty, no. I cannot do such a thing.’

‘No?’

‘I’m sorry. Your daddy no go like it.’

‘My father has nothing to do with this, Hassan. You are my driver and you will make this car break down tomorrow or you will not have a job by the end of tomorrow.’

‘Yes, ma.’

_{* * *}

 ‘Start. We’re getting close.’

Hassan looked at me through the rear-view mirror. ‘I no believe I dey do this to your father’s car because of a hawker.’

He wasn’t just a hawker. He was a hawker I was considering adding to my collection of friends. I was tired of people who went to Forest House, or schools just like it.

Hassan slammed his foot down and the car made a whirring noise.

‘Hurry before we pass the place.’

If after spending an hour with him, I discovered that beneath the good English he had the grasping manners and mindset of a street hawker, I would drive off and never take this route again.

This time, the sound Hassan made was doubled.

‘Quick.’

A third time and the car slowed down. Smoke began to stream out of the bonnet.

‘Hassan, can’t you see the smoke?’

‘Aunty, stop making noise. No be you who want car break down?’

Smoke continued to pour out but I was silent until the car came to a halt. When I flung the door open, the unexpected noise made him cower to the steering.

‘Remember, wait an hour before you come back with a mechanic.’

‘Why I must bring mechanic?’

‘So it will look like the car actually broke down.’

I climbed out and made a visor with my hand. Cars drove past without bothering to stop. Passers-by did the same. I could see my hawker walking towards us with his sack of ice cream.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know.’

I turned to Hassan. ‘What happened?’

‘You know—’

I gave him a look that sent him sprinting to the car front. When he opened the top, a cloud enveloped his head. By the time the fumes had subsided, my hawker was beside me.

‘Maybe you should go and get a mechanic, Hassan.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll stay here with the car.’

‘Your daddy no go like it.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I’m not sure o, Aunty.’

‘Hassan,’ I said softly, because my hawker was there.

‘Yes, ma.’

He locked the car and left.

Some of the girls on my road can be very forward. Like everyone who sells here, the road has made them brasher and louder. They spit with the boys, they argue with the boys, sometimes they even fight with the boys, scratching and biting until someone comes to drag them away. Yet, they never let us forget that they are girls. Their tops plunge low; buttons remain undone, cheap perfume clings to them. Not all are like this, but the ones I wish to speak to will not speak to me. They look down when I say hello, hiding their smiles behind their fingers until I am gone. When they do speak, I am sad to hear the broken words they call English.

Still, whether brash or shy, all the girls on my road have a grace to their movements that I have seen nowhere else. In my old school, many of the girls walked with their eyes sweeping the floor. They were always being judged either for their bra size or their fashion sense and they learnt to look down. On the road, none of the girls care who is watching, or if they care, it is because they want to give the watcher a good show. Not only do they glide gracefully with burdens on their heads, they bend to pick money that has been flung at them; dash across roads with cars zooming by and the most daredevil do all this with a child strapped to their back.

It was while I was watching a woman pass change to a conductor that the rich girl’s jeep drove past with smoke streaming from its bonnet. I watched it come to a halt and wondered if I should go and see what was wrong. The traffic rush would not start for at least another twenty minutes. By the time I reached her, the driver was peering into the car, his white shirt in danger from engine oil, his watch glinting in the sun. I looked down, painfully aware of the gap between us. When I looked up, the driver was gone.

Sometimes I’d wondered what would happen if the rich girl climbed from her car to speak to me instead of sticking her head out of the window, then retreating into the safety of her AC. Now she was beside me and I could feel her waiting for me to speak.

‘I didn’t think cars like this could break down.’

I looked at the car, trying to see it through the hawker’s eyes. It is shiny and big and black, almost monstrous when compared with some of the things on the road.

‘I suppose there’s a first time for everything.’

The sack balanced on his shoulder dripped water down his face. I followed a droplet as it slid down his temple. It was held up by an anomalous spot before rolling under his chin and disappearing into his shirt.

‘How was school?’

‘Eh?’

‘How was school?’

‘It was fine. How was hawking today?’

‘Fine.’

The next silence seemed less awkward.

‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen,’ I said.

‘I guessed so.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. You just look like a seventeen-year-old.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘I guessed so too.’

He smiled and his white teeth suddenly contrasted with his skin.

‘Do you enjoy hawking?’

He made a ‘Mm’ sound.

‘Have you been hawking for long?’

He nodded but said nothing.

‘How did you become a hawker?’

He opened his mouth then he shut it.

‘You don’t have to say if you don’t want to.’

‘No it’s not that. I . . .’

His words trailed off. Maybe this was not going to work. Hassan could not have gone far. If I called him, he would be back in five minutes. One last try then I was leaving.

‘We can sit on the car and talk.’

‘What about this?’ He pointed at the bag of ice cream propped against his thigh.

I hoisted it up. It was heavier and colder than I expected but I continued. ‘This can come with us.’

I set it on the bonnet, which had cooled, and climbed on in what I hoped was a delicate but unconsciously seductive manner. I waited to see if he would follow. Finally he said, ‘If a customer drives by I’ll have to go.’

‘OK,’ I said, leaning backwards on to the windscreen. ‘So back to how you became a hawker.’

_{* * *}

Intermittently he would jump down to chase after a car, returning with a fraction of what I had in my wallet. He spoke pidgin to some of his customers but the English he used with me was confident and without traces of the grammar you expect from drivers, hawkers, etcetera. His manners too were those of a host. He offered me an ice cream and when I tried to pay, he waved my money away. I was even glad he had been reluctant to speak to me at first. It was the natural reaction to someone he had only known for two and a half weeks.

‘Where was I,’ he said for what seemed like the fiftieth time that afternoon.

‘You were just going to tell me about your aunty.’

‘Yes. Aunty Precious. She is my— I think your driver is back.’

Behind Hassan trailed a man in oil-stained overalls.

‘Aunty, this is the mechanic.’

‘Good afternoon.’

We slid off the car front to let him look inside. Leaning in, he shook his head and made a clicking sound.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘The carburettor.’

I played along.

‘Can you fix it?’

‘I will try my best. It might take me some time.’

For ten minutes, I watched the quack bang a spanner in the hood of my car. Finally he slammed the bonnet shut and said, ‘Test it.’

As expected, the car hummed beautifully.

‘How much?’

‘Fifteen hundred.’

We both knew that there was nothing wrong with my jeep. Yet arguing over money with this ragged man would not look good. I brought out my wallet and counted out the sum.

As Hassan started the car I remembered something.

‘What’s your name?’

After he told me, I waited for him to ask for mine. When he didn’t, I wound up my window and nodded to Hassan. It probably wouldn’t have been worth it. After all he is a hawker.

‘What’s yours?’

I slid the window down again.

‘Abikẹ. Abikẹ Johnson.’

The first proper sentence I say to her and the only thing I could think of was ‘I didn’t think cars like this could break down.’

She was taller than I’d expected. In the back seat she looked small and young; I would have placed her age at no more than fifteen. Outside, she stood without awkwardness and the small breasts under her shirt were carried with ease.

That first time I saw her, she had been a vision after the sweat and grime of the road. The more she stopped and rolled down her window, the more unsure I became of her looks. As I studied her now I was almost certain she was not pretty. Still there was a quality to her face, an edge that would make her stand out in a line of much better-looking girls.

_{* * *}

‘How was hawking today?’

‘How old are you?’

‘Do you enjoy hawking?’

I wondered what she saw when she looked at me: a boy in cracked shoes, an ice-cream seller, a strange creature to be prodded with her questions.

‘Have you been hawking for long?’

‘How did you become a hawker?’

Her insistence was beginning to grate.

‘You don’t have to say if you don’t want to.’

It would be better for both of us if I found an excuse to leave. I reached for my sack but her fingers were there before mine. Brushing my hand away she picked it up, placed it on the hood and climbed on. Until this moment, she had been a lonely girl in a large car. If I thought it odd that she only bought ice cream from me, though up to six of us might flock to her window, I didn’t let it bother me. If I thought she smiled too much when we spoke and looked in my eyes too little, I put it down to shyness. As I watched her climb on to the car it struck me. All this time she had been flirting. Despite my shabby clothes and sweaty body, for some
reason
this increasingly attractive girl was flirting with me!

‘If a customer drives by, I’ll have to go,’ I said in a feeble attempt to regain control.

‘OK. So, back to how you became a hawker.’

At this point I should have said, No, tell me a bit about yourself, but I was flattered. For the next hour, when I wasn’t selling ice cream, I spoke about myself.

‘I’ve been hawking for about two years now.’

‘That means you were sixteen when you started.’

‘Yes. I started really late. Most of the guys had been hawking for years by the time I joined.’

‘What were you doing before?’

‘Other things.’

A battered Peugeot pulled up beside us. ‘Bros, are you a big man or a hawker?’

‘Wetin you want?’

‘Abeg give me one ice cream.’

‘Hundred naira.’

‘Give me for eighty.’

‘Hundred last price.’

Before we could exchange, traffic moved.

‘Excuse me.’

I jumped down with my sack.

When I came back, she was leaning against the windscreen, her legs stretching the length of the bonnet, her feet dangling over its edges.

‘Sorry about that. Where were we?’

‘We were talking about what you did before hawking.’

I placed the sack between us and returned to my former position.

‘Before I started hawking I thought it was a simple thing. You find some sweets, find a road and start selling.’

‘What else is there?’

‘A lot. You need to consider the type of traffic on the road, the type of cars, the kind of people—’

‘Ssss!’

A woman in a red Toyota was beckoning.

‘Excuse me.’

When I returned, the leg closest to me had slid up, making a triangle of her calf, her thigh and the shiny black metal of the hood.

‘Sorry about that.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘Would you like an ice cream?’

She nodded and brought out her wallet.

‘Don’t worry.’

The one I chose for her was from the bottom. Just holding the wrapper numbed my fingers. For myself, I chose a runny ice cream at the top: an acquired taste.

‘So was hawking difficult when you first started?’

‘Very, very difficult.’

‘How come?’

‘It was different from anything I’d done before.’

Biting into the plastic, I squeezed the bottom and spurted cold, sweet, milk on to my tongue. Beside me, she nibbled a small opening in the corner and squeezed a few drops into her mouth.

‘I wasn’t used to shouting Buy This and Buy That in the middle of a road. You should have seen what I was like a few years ago. If you’d known me, you wouldn’t have thought I’d be able to do this job.’

‘I wonder what you were like.’

A little girl in the backseat of a Benz caught my eye.

‘I’m really sorry. Excuse me.’

It went on like this for the whole hour. A snippet of conversation about myself, a customer calling, my running and returning breathless, another snippet, a customer, running, breathless, until the driver came back and she left and the only things I knew about her were her name, her age and her laugh. Her tongue snakes out, her head rolls back, her mouth is sliced to reveal small, immaculate teeth. Surprisingly, the sound released is mellow.