The Spider King's Daughter (13 page)

We’ve had a fight: petty, and ridiculous, just like any argument that for no reason escalated into a common brawl. When I arrived at his house with his invitation, the jeep attracted some stares and a handful of children. There was no one like that tout, Fire for Fire, in sight. I climbed up the stairs, knocked on his door; he opened it and said, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘It’s good to see you too.’

His chest was barely covered by the worn singlet he had thrown on. A bread crumb, perhaps from breakfast, rested on his left cheek. I was tempted to brush it off.

‘How did you get here?’

‘My driver drove.’

‘Your driver?’

‘Yes, my driver.’

‘So you came here in that, in that monstrous car of yours.’

‘If that’s a question then, yes, I did. Are you even going to ask why I’m here?’

‘Are you going to tell me why you are putting my family in danger?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘What am I talking about?’

This was getting ridiculous. ‘Yes. What are you talking about?’

‘Do you not live in this city?’

‘Do you?’

We were having an argument about whether or not I lived in Lagos. I had to be missing something.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what is wrong.’

‘Tell me then.’

‘It’s you.’

An apartment door opened. No head appeared, just a voice. ‘Can you be quiet? My baby is sleeping.’ A wail drifted down the corridor and the door banged shut.

From then on, we conducted everything in a low hissing.

‘It’s you,’ he said again, speaking through clenched teeth. ‘Bringing your car and
attracting the attention of every tout in this area. Don’t you know you’re marking out my block for armed robbers?

‘Don’t you think you are exaggerating?’

‘Exaggerating? What do you know of life in this city? What do you know of poverty or being forced to listen to your neighbours getting shit beaten out of them every night for a few hundred naira?’ Flecks of saliva began to dot his lips.

‘I know that you are over-reacting. I can tell my driver to move the car.’

‘Your driver. The man doesn’t have a name? Why are you here?’

‘I come to visit you in this hell of a neighbourhood and it’s just now you’re wondering why I’m here.’ I squeezed his invitation into my fist.

‘So that’s your opinion of where I live?’

‘lf you love Mile 12 so much why are you always in my house?’

‘You think coming to your house is the only thing I can do on a Saturday? How dare you use that to insult me?’

‘Useless boy. Who are you? You think you’re so wonderful because you support your family. You think they should make a movie out of you, don’t you? Telling me how you ran for the first time, how much you’ve improved. Well trust me, you’re going to need to do a lot better if you’re ever going to get out of this dump.’

An ace.

‘Leave this place.’

Match point.

‘I’m going. I wouldn’t want to endanger your mother and sister any further. It’s bad enough having you for a provider.’

Game: Ms Johnson.

He slammed the door and chips of hardened wood fell to the ground. When I got outside, the children were swarming around my car. There was not an adult in sight. Bastard.

She called me useless: a word for bent spoons and broken toys. I used to call my father useless when I saw him with his legal friends. He was supposed to make me proud to be his son. Instead he dithered at the edges of conversations, looking for whose glass was empty.

I have always thought I am the opposite of him. It has encouraged me to think he would never have survived as a hawker. Maybe despite all this, I am still useless. I try to look after my family but it is not enough. Jọkẹ’s trousers ride above her ankles and my mother refuses to eat the coarse food I put on our table.

Abikẹ has certainly studied me long enough to know what will make me doubt myself. Or it may have been chance that led her to that word. I should have invited her in to hear why she came. How could I with Aunty Precious’s story so fresh in my mind? No. It was good I left her outside. Just a few minutes standing in my corridor and her real thoughts came out. I am just another servant. Maybe I am even ‘my hawker’ like Hassan is ‘my driver’.

I blame my father. If he had taken the time to service his car then a girl younger than me wouldn’t be able to insult me so thoroughly. On the day of the accident, his tyre burst and he lost control of the car. It skidded down a bank and rammed into a tree. Not long after, it caught fire. The police report said this was because the car had not been serviced properly.

He never drove fast, always stopped at traffic lights and in the end he forgot to service his car. It was just like him to fall at the last hurdle. Court my mother for five years and agree to end it once my grandfather said no. Slave away in law school to become a paperwork man instead of making a name in court. Useless.

I have finally seen the Abikẹ that her half-brothers and Cynthia see. I wonder how she has kept her hidden for so long. I should be flattered by the effort.

 ‘Taste this.’

‘Too much hoisin, dear.’

‘You think?’

‘Of course! All these restaurants destroy Chinese delicacies to please the Nigerian palette. It’s disgusting.’

It was the fifth restaurant and it seemed no Chinese in Lagos would do. In Jade Pavilion, their stir fry did not have enough water chestnut; in Mr Wong, the sesame seeds looked stale; in Madam Chi they had served us duck with plum sauce not hoisin. Plum sauce!

‘Nkem, I think this will do.’

‘What—’

‘Don’t worry, my guests can’t tell chow mein from spaghetti.’

‘Abikẹ darling, you are so funny.’

‘How much will this menu cost for a hundred and fifty guests?’

The manager drew out a calculator from his trouser pocket. His face transformed when he saw the figure.

‘One million, fifty thousand naira. For you,’ he paused, unable to speak and smile so widely, ‘for you, we will do one million.’

One million, for greasy noodles that didn’t even have water chestnuts?

‘Abikẹ darling, that’s a good price.’

With that you could buy ten years of hawking.

‘I can’t go any lower.’

‘As your planner, I advise you to consider this offer.’

A hundred stalls at Tejuosho.

‘Only one million naira,’ he said loudly enough for heads to begin to turn.

‘Take it.’

Of course Nkem was right. A million was only four thousand pounds, a handbag.

‘Write the bill to Olumide Johnson and send it here.’ I gave the man my father’s business card.

‘Yes, madam.’

As we left, a few diners abandoned their meals to look at the girl who had just spent one million naira on noodles. I saw no judgement on their faces.

‘So there’s the food sorted out. Now we have to start thinking of a DJ, and the outer decor. Nothing ostentatious but it would be lovely to have some petite fairy lights dangling from the trees.’

‘I don’t need fairy lights.’

‘How come, darling?’

‘I want it in the afternoon.’

‘You said—’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

_{* * *}

All this was so stupid.

He wasn’t coming and so I didn’t want one hundred and twenty-six people filling my house. There was no question of cancelling: the news had gone too far. But over my dead body would they spend more than three hours dancing.

‘So do you now want the party inside or outside?’

‘Aren’t you the planner?’

For a second on my hawker’s doorstep, the argument had seemed like just another round of Frustration. I could not stop myself. By reflex, I was playing.

‘Abikẹ, since you want it in the afternoon, maybe we could hire a small live band. I know it’s a bit avant-garde but there’s a certain
je ne
. . .’

Listening to Nkem run on, I wondered when exactly her voice had begun to grate.

Today, for the first time, I fought on the road. I only meant to threaten the man but when he shoved me in the chest, my fingers closed round his collar. After that there was no going back. Only a few blows were struck before a crowd came to separate us.

‘Wetin be the matter?’

I explained to the old lady that the man had cheated me.

‘Nah so?’

The thief shook his head. ‘No be so. His money complete.’

I could see some touts approaching. Once they reached us, they would extort more than what I was struggling for.

‘O boy, use the twenty naira buy toothbrush. Your mouth dey smell.’

As I walked away, I wondered what Abikẹ would have thought if she had seen me. Usually it is my mother’s opinion I reach for whenever I have done something shameful on the road.

‘Sss!’

The woman calling me was in a red Toyota Camry. Her synthetic hair matched perfectly the colour of her car.

‘Sss!’ she hissed again, beckoning. I waited till her lane was about to move before shouting, ‘Didn’t your mother teach you to say excuse me.’

Two weeks ago, when Aunty Precious’s story was fresh, I went to bed with my mind filled with anger, and injustice and hatred for wrongs. Last night it was Abikẹ I thought of before I slid into sleep. I wish I had not asked why Aunty Precious was crying that night. I cannot help her. Only she can decide to ignore what people will say and marry Emeka. She has gained nothing from telling me. I have lost.

We were driving down my hawker’s road and I found myself searching for him. He wasn’t under the bridge. He wasn’t on the side of the road.

‘Hassan.’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t take this way any more.’

‘Are you sure, Aunty?’

It was strange to see such concern on my driver’s face.

‘Yes. I’m sure.’

I always imagined we would remain friends. With Cynthia, I suppose she will go off and start her own set. I can only hope Oritse will grow tired of pestering me. The rest will find someone else to follow. But with the hawker I was certain things would be different.

My eyes wandered to the side mirror. There was a tall boy, holding a rack or was it a sack, running towards my car. It looked like my hawker. It was my hawker.

‘Hassan! Slow down.’

‘You want buy something?’

‘Please slow down.’

He brought the car almost to a standstill. The cars behind honked wildly but we kept our pace. He was growing bigger. He was coming. After treating me like trash. He refuses to speak to me or visit me or find a call centre then one day he deigns to chase after my car.

‘Speed up.’

‘Pahdoomi?’

‘Now.’

We picked up speed. He was growing smaller again. Good. He was still running though. He was gone. Where did he go? I looked at the other side mirror. He was standing on the side of the road. He had given up so easily. No. He was back again. His sack was gone. He’d left it on the side of the road for me. Somebody could steal it. All his investments gone like that.

‘Hassan! Slow down!’

Wait. Maybe the fight had saved us from starting something that we could not finish.

‘Hassan, drive a little faster.’

What would happen when I went to university? Would I look at him one day, like I look
at Aunty Grace, someone who I once loved but have outgrown?

‘Hassan, why have we stopped?’

‘Oya, leave this car.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I said leave this car.’

How dare this man?

_{* * *}

She was playing with me. I deserved it. The ice-cream sack was gone. It’d probably be stolen. I didn’t care. All I had to do was get to that car. I almost didn’t recognise it because the windows had been tinted. Luckily, I remembered the numbers on the plate.

She was speeding up again. The car was almost on the highway. I kept going. Running stopped me from having to think. Once the routine was over I couldn’t hide from what I knew: it was my fault. I had driven her away when she came to see me.

The car had stopped.

‘Abikẹ.’

The door opened and something fell to the ground. I’d been running full speed for almost a minute. My legs pumped faster.
She would have to come out if only to pick it up.

The door shut.

‘Abikẹ.’

The car flooded into life.

‘Abikẹ!’

It drove off.

I slowed to a jog, still waiting for her car to reappear. I reached the express before I could make myself turn back. Why toy with me before leaving? A small bundle caught my eye as I passed the place her jeep had stopped. It stood out, shinier than the rest of the asphalt. I looked right, darted into the road, grabbed the bundle and ran back to safety.

_{* * *}

It was money. Six thousand in fresh two-hundred-naira notes. I once told her this was how much my ice-cream sack was worth. I almost flung the money into the road. Almost. There was no need to throw away my performance prize. I crumpled the fresh notes into a ball, clutching them tightly as I walked back to where I’d left my ice-cream sack.

It had probably been stolen but I had to make sure. No, it was still there. Not because Lagos had suddenly become an honest place but because Mr T was standing over it, watching.