The Spider King's Daughter

This first fruit I dedicate to my Father in heaven

Let me tell you a story about a game called Frustration. A dog used to follow me around when I was ten. One day, my father had his driver run this dog over in plain view of the house. I watched from my window. The black car purring on the grit, the driver’s hands shaking as he prepared himself for a second hit and my father, sitting in the back seat, watching.

The car reversed. Again his tyres rolled over my dog and then he sent for me.

I was calm until I reached him, his head bowed in the black funeral suit that he wore throughout my childhood, his arms folded.

‘I’m so sorry. I know how much that dog meant to you. I don’t know how this idiot didn’t see it.’

I knew he was lying. He knew I knew and in that moment, I felt an anger fill me, so strong it would surely have killed one of us if I let it loose. Somehow, it was clear to me that this would be the wrong thing to do. I strolled over to the dog and prodded it with my foot. Blood had streaked its fur and it was whining in pain. My father studied my face, searching for the smallest hairline of a crack. I just stood there, looking at the animal.

Finally I said, ‘Daddy, please can we run over my dog again?’

Both he and the driver were visibly shocked. My father nodded. The driver shook his head, his knuckle bones popping out of his dark skin.

‘Do as she says.’

‘Aim for the head,’ I said, leaning against the car and taking a perverse pleasure in the driver’s shrinking away. I turned and walked towards the house in that stroll that children have on the first day of their summer holidays. I called over my shoulder almost as an afterthought, ‘Daddy, please make sure he hits the head this time.’

Abikẹ: 1

Mr Johnson: 0

Every morning I wake up and know exactly what I have to do.

It has been my morning routine for about two years. Lately, it has become more difficult to make number 5 happen. She cries when I ask her to eat. I have his voice, Jọkẹ tells me, so my mother’s salty tears drip on to the slice of bread meant for breakfast. This morning when we left, she was still in her nightie with her hair scattered from sleep. There was a time she would have hated anyone to see her looking like this. Now she is like a tree in the dry season. Every day a piece of her old self falls off.

‘Bye, Mummy.’

‘Have a good day at school, both of you.’

I have told her that I don’t go any more but sometimes she forgets. Once I shut the door, Jọkẹ came to life.

‘Did you know Mrs Alabi had a baby? The one that lives there,’ she said, pointing at a peeling door. ‘It was a boy and she is very happy because finally her in-laws will leave her alone.’

‘Jọkẹ, I’ve told you to stop listening to gossip.’

‘It’s not gossip if Funmi told me.’

‘Who is Funmi?’

‘Don’t you remember Mr Alabi’s daughters, Funmi, Fẹmi and Funkẹ? They came to the house when we moved. You didn’t like them. You said they wore too much make-up. It’s only Fẹmi that wears too much. The others are OK.’

We were by the main road preparing to cross. A few feet away, there was a footbridge. We had not taken it since the first day I walked Jọkẹ to school and found my pocket empty on the other side. A red Toyota passed, then a Benz, then a small break. I gripped Jọkẹ’s hand as we dashed across.

‘Don’t talk to those girls,’ I said once our feet touched the pavement.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I said so and I’ve seen one of them smoking.’

‘Which one?’

‘Her name started with F.’

‘All their names start with F.’

‘I know.’

‘Why won’t you tell me? I won’t tell because last time you told me something and told me not to tell—’

As she talked, I watched Wednesday, a regular hawker on this route, chase after a black jeep with his sales rack clutched to his chest, his muscular legs pounding down the road. The driver was teasing him. Slowing down and then speeding up, moving towards the highway with Wednesday’s money. For a moment, it seemed like Wednesday would make it. The moment passed. Slowing down into a jog and then an amble, he continued walking in the direction of the vehicle, unwilling to believe that the owner of such a fancy car would steal. As the jeep sped on to the highway, naira notes, like crisp manna, floated to the ground.

Bastard.

‘Are you listening to me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what’s your answer?’

‘To what?’

_{* * *}

A man in a yellowing starched shirt shoved past, nearly pushing us into the road.

‘Look, Jọkẹ, I have to watch the pavement. This place can be dangerous.’

‘Fine! Don’t listen to me. I’m going to Obinna’s party.’

‘Who is Obinna?’

‘I just told you!’

‘Well, whoever Obinna is, you’re not going to his party.’

When had she become old enough for parties? I had taken her to the market to buy her first bra and sometimes I woke to find red spots on her side of the bed. Still she was only fourteen, barely a teenager.

‘Whatever. I don’t like Obinna anyway. He has too many pimples.’

I took her hand again and was grateful when she did not pull away. Too soon we were at the gates of her school. She drifted forward, looking for her friends.

‘Have fun at work.’

She said this every day though I had never explained to her what I did. Trader was the vague description I had given to my job and she had never probed.

‘Have a good day at school. Make sure you wait for Miss Obong.’ I had arranged for Jọkẹ to walk home with her English teacher who lived near our block.

‘Do I have to? Everyone goes home by themselves. I look like a baby.’

‘You have to.’

‘I’m stopping once I turn fifteen. Deọla!’

She shouted and was gone, running through the gates.

I don’t usually buy things sold on the road. A hawker I met today made me break my rule. Our eyes caught in traffic and that was all it took for this boy selling cheap ice cream to start approaching my car. I turned my head but he continued to advance. A gap opened in traffic. My driver crawled across the space.

‘Drive on.’

‘Don’t you wan buy something?’

‘Drive on.’

My driver sped up. The hawker gave chase. Traffic eased up and we found ourselves skimming along the road. In the side mirror, I could see a figure running after us. Another fifty metres and the figure was still there, although smaller.

‘Slow down.’

‘Eh.’

‘I said slow down.’

This hawker was a fast runner. There were only ten metres between us.

‘Speed up.’

‘Eh.’

‘Speed up!’

The car jerked ahead. Now the idiot was going too fast. I could see the hawker disappearing behind us.

‘Slow down! Slow down!’

My driver pressed his foot on the brake bringing the car to a sharp standstill. I grabbed the armrest but the momentum pitched me to my knees.

‘Aunty, sorry o.’

‘Can’t you follow the simplest instructions?’

As I struggled back into my seat, my elbow pressed a button and the window slid down.

‘But—’

‘But what? Don’t you listen? I didn’t tell you to stop.’

‘I no understand.’

‘Idiot! I said slow down.’

I turned to find the hawker beside my car. He was very good-looking. Dark and
chiselled like something out of a magazine. I glanced at what he was selling. Sugary milk, frozen and wrapped in plastic for distribution to the masses.

‘May I have one, please?’

‘What flavour?’

‘Vanilla.’

‘One hundred naira.’

I stuck a two-hundred-naira note out of the window and waited. You never pay a hawker until you have what you’re buying firmly in your hand. I was given my change first, then my ice cream.

‘Thank you.’

When he left, traffic had descended again, leaving every vehicle pressed against another. Once I was certain he was gone, I flung the plastic thing out of the window.

‘Tomorrow, take this way home.’

There was a time I wanted to be a lawyer, though of a different kind to my father. He was a bad speaker, rarely went to court and had a squint from reading the small print of contracts. It was his colleagues who inspired. Sometimes they visited our house still in their black gowns, coming straight from a case I had read about in that morning’s newspaper.

Law was not to be. Instead, I am a hawker now, a mobile shop, an auto convenience store. I have grown used to the work. There are days when the rain is so heavy that the water rises to my knees. Other times, peoples’ tyres squash my toes and often people call me and then refuse to buy. I have learnt to appreciate the few customers who treat me like a human being.

There was a girl I sold ice cream to today. She was sitting in the owner’s corner of a jeep although she was too young to have bought the car. Her small body leant against the door leaving most of the back seat empty. While I was observing her, she looked up. Briefly our gazes held and before she could look down and dismiss me, I strode towards her with my sack of ice cream. When I was a few feet away, traffic mysteriously disappeared. The jeep zoomed ahead.

I gave chase. Half-heartedly at first but when I saw the car slow down, I picked up speed. Ten metres from the jeep, it sped up again. I kept running. The car was beginning to diminish and so was my anger. Then the car slowed down. Something cracked inside me and all I wanted was to spit in the face of the girl in that back seat. Stringy, phlegmy, spit that would run down her shocked face. Once I was a few feet away, I knew saliva would be the last thing coming out of my mouth.

I heard shouting. It was coming from the jeep. I moved closer. From the back seat, the girl clearly said, ‘I told you to slow down!’ Suddenly everything was all right.

‘May I have one, please?’

‘What flavour?’

‘Vanilla.’

‘One hundred naira.’

I looked at her face while she was bringing out her wallet. Her skin was so smooth I wanted to slide my finger along it. She passed me a two-hundred-naira note with a smile that showed her perfect, white teeth. It would have been so easy to sprint off with her money. I gave her the change before placing the ice cream in her palm. Someone else would have to show her that the world was not filled with honest hawkers and unicorns.

‘Thank you,’ she said. Words I don’t hear often. I nodded and walked back to the side of the road.