The Spider King's Daughter (10 page)

All bad things come to an end is a more comforting maxim than the other one.

The first thing my father said, after he had kissed me and gone through a list of pleasantries, was, ‘Abikẹ, I have warned you about bringing strangers into my house.’

And the next round began.

‘Who?’

‘Your new hawker friend.’

‘He’s not a stranger. You know of him.’

‘“And friend” was the entry in the logbook. I do not want any “and friends” in my house.’

‘So you want to know his name?’

‘I will not have boys you picked off the street in my house.’

‘Where do you think I picked Oritse and Cynthia from?’

The tips of his fingers touched as he studied my face.

‘I see. So you have introduced this boy into the group to antagonise the rest. A friendship with a hawker to make them unsure of their position.’

I said nothing.

‘When am I going to meet this boy?’

‘Whenever. He’s here a lot. ‘

‘Next Wednesday.’

‘He works on weekdays.’

‘And I’m not here on weekends.’

Offer him something.

‘You should see what we do when you’re not around.’

He said nothing.

‘You can meet him if you are so desperate.’

Silence.

‘I’ll throw a party. I’ll make sure he doesn’t leave till he’s seen you. Are you happy?’

‘Write his name next time.’

I was in Cynthia’s car, thankful that she had seen me walking down the driveway and offered me a lift. The day had been spent sparring with Oritse and two replicas of him. I’d been hoping that Abikẹ and I would get a few minutes alone so I could say the I-love-you I’d been practising. The seconds never materialised. Ikenna and Chike were even worse than Oritse when it came to pushing their way into side conversations. In a brief moment I’d had, while the rest were discussing school, I asked if we would be alone the next time I came. She said yes.

‘How come your driver doesn’t come to pick you?’

‘Pardon?’ I’d forgotten Cynthia was in the car.

‘Why doesn’t your driver pick you?’

So Abikẹ had really not told them anything about me. ‘Taking public transport means I’m independent.’ It was close to the truth.

‘Your parents could get you a car.’

‘I want to buy one with my own money.’

‘Oh yes. You said. You work in your father’s business.’

What would she do if she found out I was a hawker? I didn’t care. It made no difference what Cynthia thought of me.

‘So what do you think of Abikẹ?’

‘I really like her. She’s a very nice girl.’

‘What do you think of me?’ I glanced at her. I couldn’t see her face because she was staring into the growing darkness, the absence of street lighting emphasising the murkiness of everything that lay outside.

‘Well, I think you’re a nice girl too.’

‘Ha! More like you think I’m very boring. Abikẹ’s bland sidekick. The beautiful girl that ornaments the room.’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Whatever. You wouldn’t be the first. Do you know why I became friends with her? My father was in trouble at work. He works for her father. I become her friend, get into the elite circle that grovels around her and suddenly Popsy is coming in for a promotion.’

‘Oh.’

‘Do you know why I’m so boring?’

‘No. I mean you’re not – I don’t think—’

‘It’s because Abikẹ likes me this way. She’s not going to have competition. She’ll let me in because I’m pretty but I’d better not use that against her. So I sit there and sigh or else maybe Popsy might be getting a letter from the boss.’

It all seemed a little far-fetched. This powerful businessman handing out promotions at the whim of a teenager.

‘What do you think of Oritse? You don’t want to know? She’s caught you, hasn’t she?’

‘No one has caught me.’

‘You think Oritse likes her, don’t you? Well, he doesn’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because we’re going out.’

I had misread things. Abikẹ and Oritse were friends. There was no one in my way.

Surely there was something I was forgetting.

‘What about the song?’

‘Abikẹ’s father is on the board of one of the leading record labels in this country. You’ve heard Oritse sing. All he needs is someone like Mr Johnson to take an interest in him. Till that happens, he’ll keep writing songs that are supposedly about Abikẹ.’

‘So you’re using Abikẹ for what her father can give you.’

‘Spare your pity. She’s the one that wants to have the talented, the beautiful, the cleverest running around to her orders.’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘We thought you would ask. Out of all of us that are in “the group”, you’re the only one that has nothing to lose by making Abikẹ feel sorry. Or is there something you want from Mr Johnson?’

‘Why would I want to make Abikẹ feel sorry?’

‘It’s early days. You’ll soon find out. Which turning do we take?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get down here.’

The car stopped and I stepped into one of the suburbs that preceded Mile 12.

‘Think about it,’ she said. ‘Watch her. You’ll see.’

 ‘Abikẹ, what does your father do?’

‘Many things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Shipping, construction, insurance, electronics. Olumide Johnson does everything. Why?’

‘I was just wondering what it took to build a house like yours.’

‘Very funny.’

We were in the pool but we weren’t swimming. What he loved was the simulated waves drifting him wherever they pleased. Sometimes our bodies would bump against each other. While we were floating, one of my half-brothers walked in with a towel draped round his neck. Once he saw me, he turned and left.

‘Who was that?’

Before my parents got married, my father was a notorious bachelor. According to him, people said that he only had to glance at a woman for her to feel a kick in her stomach. My half-siblings are the remains of all that excitement. As I live in an opposite wing of the house, I never see them. Sometimes my father tells me snippets of their stories. A few years ago, he threw out all the girls when rumours of half-incest began to cling around the eldest boy.

I considered lying. What did I have to hide? ‘It was my half-brother.’

‘You never told me you had siblings.’

‘Half.’

‘How many half-siblings do you have?’

The truth was I didn’t know.

‘Nine.’ It seemed a plausible number.

‘Where do they all live?’

‘On the other side of the house.’

‘How come I’ve never met them?’

‘They’re all older than me. Busy schedules.’

‘Oh.’

The next time we touched: ‘Why are you friends with Oritse?’ He sounded jealous.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t know. The two of you don’t seem very alike.’

‘We’re not. I just enjoy his company.’

‘Does his voice have anything to do with it?’ He sounded upset.

‘I guess so. We both love music but that’s all we are: friends.’

‘Mm.’

His fingers brushed my thigh but he withdrew.

‘I should go.’

I watched the water run down his chest as he climbed out of the pool. Last weekend he had asked if we would be alone. It had made me certain he would say something today. Let him take his time. It can’t be far. Why else would he be jealous of Oritse?

‘I’ll see myself out since you’re too lazy to move.’

‘Don’t forget I still have one more week of Easter holiday. I won’t see you on the road this week.’

‘See you next weekend then. Here or the road?’

It was easier to have privacy in my house.

‘Here. See you Saturday. Twelve o’clock.’

The water lapped over his handprints and I closed my eyes.

She remained floating in the pool, long after she thought I’d left. Her hair trailed like a wet mop. Her eyes were closed, leaving her face a mask. As I towelled myself dry I wondered about that half -brother. What was to stop me from wandering to the other side of the house and bumping into him or another one of her half-siblings?

Getting to the other side of the house proved difficult. Corridors ran into staircases that led to unused living rooms. Eventually, I began to feel like I was moving through the place. The furniture changed. The tasteful opulence faded into bright orange chairs that didn’t smell new. In Abikẹ’s quarters you only heard the purring of air conditioners. Now I could hear speech, fragments of sentences that came from nowhere. I saw my first human being halfway down a corridor: a maid.

‘Excuse me, are you looking for something?’

I turned to face her: a short woman whose discoloured skin spoke of many years of bleaching.

‘Yes. I’m here to visit one of Oga’s
children.’

‘Which one?’

‘Junior.’ Every family had a Junior.

‘Junior? Are you talking about Wale?’

‘Yes, some people call him that.’

‘Go straight. Take the second door for your right and the third door for your left. You want me to show you?’

‘No. I’ll be fine.’

Second right, third left, knock.

‘Come in.’

It was him. The towel was still draped around his shoulder, the swimming shorts still on.

‘Who are you?’ The voice was low and masculine. It was odd coming from a face that mirrored Abikẹ’s so closely.

‘Are you Wale?’

‘Yes.’

His short answer flustered me into an unplanned lie.

‘Abikẹ asked me to tell you that the pool is free.’

I noticed the angular pistol that lay quietly in his lap.

‘You’re lying,’ he said, tracing the muzzle. ‘Because Abikẹ doesn’t even know my name and even if she did, such a message is not her style.’

In one movement the gun left his lap and was staring into the space between my eyes.

‘So tell me your name and tell me the real reason why you are here.’

It seemed preposterous that this boy would shoot me in the afternoon in a house full of people. I could have turned and walked away but as I watched his index finger flex round the trigger, I felt my spine itch where the bullet would shatter it.

I told him my middle name.

‘Sit down. You’re making me uncomfortable.’

Behind me the door was still open. I could rush out and not slow down until I had passed the maid, passed the cheap orange chairs, passed the third empty corridor and I was in Abikẹ’s side of the house again.

‘Please sit down,’ he said waving the gun as I leant back into the empty doorway.

‘Why won’t he sit down?’ he muttered to himself. He gave a short laugh and threw the gun under the bed.

‘Don’t mind me, jo. The thing isn’t even loaded. I just like to pretend sometimes. Seriously, I’m sorry. I was just joking with the stupid thing. Please sit down.’ His voice was thinner now, creeping into a whine.

‘Thank you,’ he said when I sat. ‘So what do you want to know since we have established that Abikẹ didn’t send you?’

‘She—’

‘Shut up.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I mean please be quiet. I’m trying to find out who you are. You must be friends because you were in the pool together. Or are you more than friends? The princess’s consort, her toy boy?’

‘Watch your mouth.’

‘I’m just throwing out possibilities. You saw me walk in. She didn’t send you to me. You came looking for me. Why? Why have you come to look for me?’

Can you tell me who Abikẹ is?

The question sounded naive in my head. Instead of matching his directness I found myself saying, ‘I was curious to see what Abikẹ’s brother would be like.’

‘Half-brother,’ said the spitting image of Abikẹ. ‘Half.’

‘She’s never mentioned you before. I was curious.’

‘She’s never mentioned me before, you were suspicious. So you want my story. No, don’t be silly. You don’t want my story. You want my story to tell you things about Abikẹ you don’t know. Why? Why would my coming in make you suspicious? It wouldn’t. Some people just don’t like their half-siblings. It wouldn’t unless you were suspicious already. What are you suspicious of?’

‘Tell me.’

‘You’re scared something you heard about her is true.’

‘Not scared.’

‘Angry, upset, scared, whatever.’ The possibilities floated up to the ceiling. ‘Who did you hear it from? No, don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter because I know what they said.’

‘How?’

‘Because she is just like her father, a cruel, conniving son of a bitch.’

The words were too harsh. At worst, Cynthia had called her manipulative.

‘You don’t believe me?’

I could have left then. I might not know Abikẹ but neither did this boy.

‘Follow me.’

I remained in the pool long after my hawker left, floating on my back and staring at the ceiling. I haven’t told him about the party yet. What if my father hates him when they meet or, even worse, what if they click? If my father forbade me from seeing him, I wouldn’t think twice about disobeying, but what if he approves. What if Olumide Kayode Johnson approves of my taste in boys?

If I don’t throw this party, my father will wonder why this hawker is too special to be seen. The last thing I want is him thinking my hawker is special. He couldn’t run him over – my hawker is not a dog to be crushed by the tyres of his Jaguar – but he would find a way to twist everything I know about my hawker into a lie.

He did it with this boy I was seeing before, Michael. He was nineteen at the time, five years older than me. Fuzz grew on his chin where the boys in my class were battling pimples. He had crossed into the exotic world of higher education. Although higher education in Ghana. Of course I couldn’t hide him for long.

‘Abikẹ, who is this boy I’m hearing about?’ my father asked one Wednesday.

‘I know many boys.’

‘You know who I’m talking about. Look at me. Michael Effiong, that’s his name, isn’t it? I hope you know he’s only using you to get to me.’

‘That’s very flattering. Michael does not even know who you are.’

‘Am I the one doing the flattering? What do you think he sees in you? He’s older and from what I hear he’s good-looking too.’

‘And from what I hear, I thought you had better things to do.’

I won that night. The next Wednesday when I walked into his office, Mr Dosunmu was standing next to him instead of outside by the door.

‘Dosunmu, call him.’

The stooge bowed and put the phone on speaker. As it rang my father and I stared at each other, his passive expression mirroring mine.

‘Hello.’

I opened my mouth. My father’s hand silenced me.

‘Hello,’ Michael said again, his voice as usual, manlier and deeper on the phone.

Mr Dosunmu looked at my father who looked at me. I nodded and relaxed into my chair. Whatever the test, Michael would pass.

‘Hello, good evening,’ Mr Dosunmu said in his soft voice. ‘Is this Mr Michael Effiong?’

‘Yes: who is this?’

‘Charles Dosunmu calling from Johnson Petroleum about your application.’

On the other end, Michael inhaled deeply. When he spoke, his voice had climbed a few notes. ‘Good evening, sir. I’m so glad to receive this call. I thought I had been rejected since so many weeks had passed.’

‘My boss and I were impressed by your CV. Not many university students start looking so early so we would like to offer you a job in our engineering department during this year’s long vacation.’

Michael inhaled again. ‘Thank you very much, sir. I am so grateful.’

‘We will send you further details via email. Is there any message you want me to pass across to my boss?’

‘You mean Mr Johnson himself?’

‘Yes, Mr Effiong.’

‘Please tell him,’ he paused to gather himself. ‘Please tell him that I am so thankful and I will do my best to prove myself worthy of this opportunity.’

‘That’s very good, Mr Effiong. My boss has a message for you as well. He wants you to know that your connection to his daughter had nothing to do with the offer.’

It was his cue for shock. To think Abikẹ Johnson was the same Johnson as Olumide. To think he had been seeing me when he sent his CV to my father’s company. All Michael said was, ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

It proved nothing. After all Michael had never told me to put in a good word but how long would he have waited before asking? Two months after his CV had gone unanswered? Three?

My hawker is not a Michael. If he were ever to use me, it would not be because my father is Olumide Johnson but because my father is a rich man. This I can forgive. He would not be a human being if my black jeep had not made me more attractive; if my large house had not added to my cachet. Were my father to trick him into revealing this, it would not change anything. I know there is more to us than my jeep or my house.

 ‘Where are we going?’

He was leading me down another corridor. I was finding it hard to keep up with his long strides.

‘Why are we walking so fast?’

He didn’t answer. I followed him down a flight of stairs. Then a corridor. Then up another flight of stairs. Breathless and annoyed, I grabbed one of his arms as it swung behind him.

‘Can you just tell me where we’re going?’

‘You’re the one who wants to find out something, so shut up and follow me.’

He continued striding down the corridor.

‘Don’t speak to me like that.’

‘Shh.’

‘Don’t shush me.’

He ran back and pushed my shoulder roughly. ‘Be quiet. He doesn’t like noise in his part of the house.’ I had made a crack in that calm exterior. Was that fear I saw in his eyes?

A door opened and a shape stepped out, blocking the light coming from the other end of the corridor.

‘How many times have I told you to be quiet when you’re walking through my house?’

At worst the voice was mildly irate.

‘I’m sorry,’ Wale called out, clutching the hem of his shirt.

‘Who is that?’

The shape flicked a switch and flooded the corridor with light. It was a man. A dark man in a black suit.

‘Come here.’

We walked towards the shape.

‘So, Wale, it’s you.’

From behind me Wale answered, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. It was my fault. I was the one making noise.’

He peered down at me, a birthmark on his temple and a small frown the only things that marred his handsome features.

‘And who are you?’

‘I’m Ab—’

‘He’s my friend.’

‘Well, tell your friend not to speak when I have the intention of speaking.’

‘He’s sorry.’

‘You can’t even take responsibility for your own actions. Looking at you, I may have to ask Dosunmu to arrange another test. The results of the last one were inconclusive.’

What was he talking about and why had Wale shrunk when he said test?

He turned and walked away. We watched his diminishing figure, the close-fitting suit, the knock, knock, knocking of footsteps meeting hard wooden floor. Long after the sound had died we remained in the corridor, lost in our heads.

So her father was a bully. I hadn’t expected more from a man who could build such a house but I had hoped he would be different. I’d dreamt that when we met and Abikẹ told him I was a hawker, he would understand that people could climb up. Instead, here was my parents’ story all over again. If one day Abikẹ had to choose, would I be enough?

Beside me, Wale was leaning against the wall, covering his eyes with his hands.

‘He’s probably just busy,’ I said.

‘You don’t understand.’

‘I’ll understand if you want me to leave.’

‘No. Follow me,’ he said for the second time, but now his gait was tired. As we shuffled towards the end of the corridor, it occurred to me that Abikẹ’s part of the house was not that different from this section. No, it wasn’t that different at all.