The Spider King's Daughter (12 page)

Nkem and I were browsing through the shoe section at De Moda with an attendant trailing so close, I could feel her breath.

‘Ma, you should try this one.’

‘My dear, please, have some taste.’ Nkem snatched the shoe and clonked it back in its place. ‘Is that fashion?’

The girl shrank. ‘I’m sorry, ma.’

Nkem did not hear because she had stomped ahead.

‘Wait. Let me have a look at those shoes.’

The girl curtsied and handed me the right foot. Two plastic jewels adorned the front; glitter covered the heels, silver chains hung from the buckle. I waited until Nkem was beside me. ‘Not bad. They have a certain sparkle. Don’t you agree?’

‘Well I—’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Well, of course, looking at them properly, I see that they are quite special.’

‘More than special. Unfortunately it’s not the colour of my dress,’ I said, placing the shoe with its partner.

When I turned, Nkem had left again, distancing herself from the scene of her disgrace.

‘What about this?’

‘Hmm, black shoes with a pink dress. Not very tasteful, Nkem.’

‘Why do you say so?’ she asked, pointing the heel at me.

‘It makes me think of lingerie.’

Behind us, the attendant coughed twice.

‘How about this?’

Interesting. ‘Do you have anything in this colour, in a size five but with heels higher and thinner than this?’

‘Yes, ma.’ She bobbed, taking the shoe and scuttling away.

‘Stilettos, Abikẹ? Are you sure? You’re going to be doing a lot of walking.’

The attendant returned with two pairs.

‘Definitely the peep toe, darling.’

Some boys don’t like toes. My hawker might be one of them.

‘Let me try that one.’

I slipped on the closed pair.

‘Maroon was a good choice,’ Nkem said.

I walked around the store, testing their fit.

‘Aunty, pick that one, it’s very fine on you,’ the attendant offered shyly.

‘I’ll take them.’

I have not felt this impotent since the day my father’s jeep exploded. By the time the news reached us, melting iron had burned his face beyond recognition. With Aunty Precious it was not too late.
I almost shouted, I know him, when she described Mr Johnson. I managed to restrain myself in time. Knowing I knew him would not change the fact that she was no closer to justice. Instead, the knowledge might trigger the process that led nowhere the first time and would lead nowhere again.

I couldn’t go back to her house. Not after this. What if I ran into her father, what then? Take matters into my own hands and strangle him? I remembered the tour she gave me on my first visit; how she had lingered in the more opulent rooms and made sure I saw the indoor swimming pool. What if she knew it was all paid for with dirty money?

‘You should go. It’s getting late.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stay a little longer?’

‘No, I’m fine. Take some bread for your mother.’

As I sat on the bus home, I thought of Abikẹ. For a few weeks, it seemed possible that we would end up a couple. The
danfo
swerved and jolted a woman’s elbow into my ribcage.

‘Sorry o,’ she said. ‘Don’t mind this useless driver.’

‘Nah who dey call me useless?’

When no one answered, the driver swerved again before letting the bus move in a straight line.

It wouldn’t have worked between us. Even without everything I’d heard, the real world would have intruded. When she went to university and returned with a fancy degree would she still want a hawker for a boyfriend? When she got her first high-flying job and I was just a trader in Tejuosho would she want to be seen with me?

This is where you live, I saw as I passed the men who played snooker all day with balls cracked from overuse.

This is where you must stay, I thought, as I reached the stairwell and saw Ayo and his friends, smoking.

This is your home, I knew, as I stood in front of the scabbed door of my flat.

When I walked in, Jọkẹ was hunched at the table, a lone candle flickering over her homework.

‘How far?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Has Mummy eaten?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean you don’t know?’

‘I gave her beans,’ she said pointing at a bowl on the table. ‘I don’t know if she ate it.’

I picked up the bowl and looked inside. It was full.

‘Jọkẹ, how many times have I told you? When you give Mummy food, make sure she starts eating.’

She shrugged and continued writing.

‘Jọkẹ.’

I took the candle and went to my mother’s room, leaving her in darkness.

‘Bring my candle back o.’

I knocked softly and pushed my mother’s door open.

‘Mummy, you haven’t eaten.’

She was lying on the bed staring at the wall.

‘You and your sister should stop fighting.’

‘Are you going to finish your beans?’

‘I’ve had some already. You have the rest. Good night.’

I took the candle and bowl back to Jọkẹ.

‘Next time make sure she starts eating even if you have to give her the first spoon. Now she’s going to bed without food.’

‘What’s my business?’

‘You know she took his death harder than—’

‘I’m working.’

She angled her chair so her back was to me.

‘Don’t speak to me like that.’

‘Move. You’re blocking my light.’

I walked into our room and flung off my shoes. I almost tore my shirt as I pulled it over my head. Finally, I sat on the mattress in my underwear, breathing heavily. I was a child again, waiting for one of the maids to put on my pyjamas for me. Waiting because I knew she would give in and pick up the pyjamas that were next to me and put them over my head. Then she would uncross my arms and push them through the sleeves. No maid would be coming tonight. I stood and started rummaging through my side of the wardrobe.

The only clothes of my father’s I kept were his pyjamas. I sold everything else. My mother wanted me to save one suit but we needed the money more than I needed to look smart. The only reason I kept his pyjamas was because they had his initials stencilled on their breast pockets. For some reason, I did not like the idea of a stranger wearing his initials.

Whenever I button myself into his nightshirts, I feel his quietness slipping over me as I slide each button into place. Tonight, it was not enough. My breath was still uneven and I was afraid that if I went out to speak to Jọkẹ in this mood, I would lose my temper.

There were three large bags in the corner of the room. His certificates were in a Manila envelope in the third bag from the left. I drew them out and began to leaf through. First was his birth certificate, twenty-seven years before mine, then his baptism, then a silence of fifteen years before you got to his Senior School Certificate, all As, then University, second-class upper thanks to your mother. Here I stopped. This was him before me. The next certificate would turn him into my father. I knew what it was but still I took my time, maybe there would be something extra. As usual, next came Marriage, then a Masters, then Death.

These certificates should make me angry. I only have two to his seven. There is little chance of any more, except the one for death and perhaps marriage. Still, holding the milestones of his life never fails to soothe me. My father was somebody. While he was alive I may have despised him for being weak but he was still a university graduate, a Masters holder, a successful lawyer. Maybe one day Jọkẹ will have as many or more.

I wondered if today should be the day I finally looked through the bags. I had only a vague idea of what I would find: probably our old family albums, his CDs, perhaps a few musty books. Each time I’d come close to emptying the bags, a pressing matter would excuse me from having to confront the fragments hastily packed when we left Maryland. Today was no different. I returned his certificates and went to speak to my sister.

‘Jọkẹ, I don’t like how you’ve been behaving recently.’

She dropped her pen. ‘Are you going to give me a parent talk?’

‘I’m being serious. On my way home yesterday, I’m very sure I saw you by the stairs with the Alabi girl talking to a guy that looked at least twenty. Also, I don’t like the way you speak to me.’

The pen started moving again. ‘The Alabi girl’s name is Funmi and she and those boys are the only people close to my age in this whole building. Not all of us can have rich friends.’

It had never occurred to me that Jọkẹ might want to come with us. Her fourteen seemed so far from my eighteen. Now it was too late.

‘You’re blocking my light. Can you stand somewhere else or get out from here.’

‘Don’t speak to me like that.’

‘Or else?’

I snatched her pen and flung it to the ground.

‘Is that all?’

She unzipped her pencil case and brought out another.

‘I’m not playing with you,’ I said, grabbing the hand with the pen.

‘Leave me.’

‘I don’t like the way you’ve been behaving. I don’t like you hanging out with that Alabi girl. I don’t like the way you talk to me.’

What was I doing?

I let go and the pen clattered to the floor.

‘I’m sorry.’

A round spot of ink was pressed into her palm.

‘You’re a bully.’

She picked up her pen and continued writing.

I went back to the room, lay on the thin mattress that was our bed and closed my eyes.

When I woke the next morning Jọkẹ’s hand was holding mine.

 ‘
Mon Dieu
, you want me to make what?’

‘A pink satin dress that starts at my neck, stops at my knees and has no back. If you can’t do it I’ll take my money somewhere else.’

‘
Ma chérie
, that design is horrible and with such material? You will look like a birthday cake, a flat-chested birthday cake!’

The women in the waiting room tittered behind their magazines.

‘Tayo, watch it.’

‘My apologies. It’s just that you’re Abikẹ Johnson. The Mr Johnson’s daughter. How can you ask
le chemisier
to do this?’

‘Have it ready by next Tuesday. ‘

‘You won’t change your mind.’

The statement fell on my turned back.

‘Well then,
le chemisier
will have your frock ready.
Ça fait rien.
’

‘OK, Tayo.’

‘Who’s next?’

A woman who bulged in many areas approached him, clutching a ripped page and pointing at a svelte actress.

‘I want to look like this when you make her dress for me.’

‘Bien sûr. C’est possible.’

It was amazing how after only spending a year in Paris, French phrases stuck to his speech.

When I got out, I saw Hassan sitting on his haunches amidst drivers that belonged to the women inside. I was proud to see his uniform was the smartest.

‘Let’s go.’

‘Yes, ma.’

A man that was younger than the rest winked at me and asked loudly, ‘Na this small girl be your madam?’

The group laughed, nudging each other and jeering at my driver.

‘Yes, I be him madam. Wetin concern you?’

‘Your pidgin is not bad for an ajẹ-butter.’

‘Your English is OK for a driver.’

The man sprang up, his pert face suddenly stony. ‘Let me tell you, I spent one year studying engineering. If not for lack of school fees I would have graduated and been driving your type of car so don’t insult me.’

‘And you think because of this big car I am an
ajẹ-butter
? I can take you round Tejuosho Market. You too don’t insult me.’

I stepped forward, crossing my arms, mimicking the fighting stance of the market women I had seen in the past months. We stared at each other, waiting to see who would blink. Then one of the men called out, ‘This one is not an ajẹ-butter o. She is a real child of Lagos.’

The others laughed, allowing us to join without shame.

‘Madam, my sincerest apologies,’ he said, dipping his head.

‘Oga,’ I replied with a mock curtsey, ‘no vex.’

I entered the jeep and drove off into the afternoon traffic.

Once I got home, I crept up the stairs, hoping I would reach my room without running into my mother. The scent of my party has brought her crawling out of her hole. In the past few days she has been sitting in the upper rooms, slugging through the latest magazines.

‘Abikẹ, I was just coming from your room.’

‘Really? Good afternoon.’

She rested her hand on the banister and began to glide down, eyes trained on the hidden cameras filming her descent.

‘How is the planning going? You know I can always help if it’s affecting your studies at Green Lake.’

‘I have a party planner and my school is called Forest House. Sorry I can’t talk. I need the bathroom.’ I pushed past her outstretched hand.

‘But—’

‘I’ll come down later.’

‘Be quick. I’m starting
Matters of the Heart
at four.’

When I got to my room, my phone rang. For a second I thought it would be my hawker then I remembered he didn’t have a phone.

‘Hello, Oritse.’

Where is he?

‘That’s great you’ve written a new song.’

He was supposed to come today. It took me three hours to realise I had been stood up. On the way to Maison du Tay I was furious. There was a birthday lunch I’d missed waiting for him. Then I remembered the many things that could have gone wrong in the week we hadn’t seen each other. He may have been hit by a car.

‘Oritse, we’ll talk about you playing at my party later.’

He might be ill.

‘That sounds good.’

Or something may have happened to his mother.

‘OK. Bye.’

I’ll stop at his flat tomorrow with an invitation.

I was supposed to go to her house today.

‘Runner G, wetin you want chop?’

Instead I went to the
buka
to hang with the boys. I hadn’t seen them in weeks and they had grown scruffier in the time, a little menacing.

‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’

A girl bounced past, her two-tone denim jeans straining at her thighs.

‘Omo, that babe is sweet.’

‘Runner G, you like that one?’ asked a man who sold plastic kittens from China.

I made a noncommittal noise and looked round the buka. It was a Saturday afternoon. The place was empty, with the bare plastic tables showing oil and grease stains.

When a glittering Mercedes jeep drove by, we all stopped to watch its curves glide through the air. Once the dust settled the MTN recharge card man was the first to speak.

‘One day, I go drive car like that.’

‘Yes o.’

‘Amen,’ the others murmured. I was silent.

‘Runner G, you no want car like that?’

‘You don’t know what he did to get that car.’

He was either in debt like my father or he was a criminal.

‘How you know?’

I shrugged.

Aunty Precious knew.

She was more reserved now. Whenever I went to the shop, awkward gaps hung between the pleasantries we managed to exchange. Yesterday she caught me looking at her and mumbled, ‘I shouldn’t have told you.’

I did not know how to explain that what she saw in my face was not judgement. Aunty Precious was ashamed while the man who had filled brothels in Europe was a respected member of society.

‘Runner G, where have you been ensconcing yourself?’ said a man who hawked
Oxford English Dictionaries
.

‘I’ve been around.’

‘I hear say one rich girl dey block you. That’s why you no dey come here any more,’ said an apple seller.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh boy talk true, jo,’ said a man who sold calculators from Taiwan.

‘She dey pay you?’ the MTN man asked, gesturing and leering at the same time.

I stood.

‘You know what, I should be getting home. It was nice to see you guys.’

‘You know we are just playing.’

‘Just adding a little ribaldry to the afternoon.’

‘Abeg, Runner G, sit down.’

The MTN man reached for my arm; I took a step back and bumped into the Mama Put who owned the buka.

‘You no go eat?’ she asked in the special, soft voice that she used for me.

‘I have to go. I’m really sorry.’

‘Stay and try some of my stew.’

‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘Oya, wait and take this.’

As she reached into her bra I began to move back. I was not fast enough. The fried meat was already in her hand.

‘No, thanks. I’m not hungry.’

‘Just take this small one,’ she said, coming closer.

‘Look, I don’t want your meat.’

I turned and walked away, the boys’ shouts ringing behind me.

‘Runner G, why you waste that meat like that?’

‘Why you no give me?’

‘Aunty, don’t mind the useless boy. Give me instead.’

What was I doing with these people?