The Spider King's Daughter (14 page)

Of late, I’ve been asking myself why I continue playing. My father can’t disown me like he has done to some of his other children. I am legitimate, my name will be in his will if only to preserve the image he has built over the years. I suppose I know why I started that first round when he ran over the dog. It was to shock him and show him that I could not be pushed around the way I saw him pushing around his staff and his wife and his other children. I’ve proved this. Why am I still in his study every Wednesday stating the obvious?

I think I believed Frustration was an induction into the ‘real world’. Now this seems so foolish. My father’s world has only business partners and enemies. No parents or children or friends. I am sick of this half-life. After the party, I’m stopping the Wednesday sessions. If he wants to see me, he can come to my living room. If not, we will go our separate ways.

Coming to this decision has freed me. I can now play these last few rounds with all the energy I was saving for the coming years. For the first time, it is me directing the conversation.

‘I think we should invite your wife to our Wednesday sessions,’ was my opening gambit last Wednesday.

‘I wonder why you have chosen now to bring up this subject.’

‘This subject is your wife, my mother. Are we not a family, the three of us? Then why must I always see the two of you separately?’

‘You know how things are with your mother.’

‘No. I don’t know how things are with my mother because we’ve never discussed it.’

‘Why are you asking me this?’

‘How are things with my mother?’

‘Things didn’t work out.’

‘Whose failure?’

‘Things just didn’t work out. It wasn’t anybody’s failure.’

‘So what do you call it when two people who are married on paper don’t sleep together, never speak to each other, never even see?’

‘Maybe it was a failure.’

‘So you failed.’

‘Yes, I failed, Abikẹ. What else do you want me to say?’

‘Why did you fail?’

‘Because—’ he paused and looked at the fake trophies in his cabinet. ‘Because your mother did not know me when we got married.’

‘Whose fault?’

‘It was my fault, Abikẹ. I misled her but you understand why I did it, don’t you? Sometimes you want to possess someone so badly, you trick the person into believing you’re something you’re not. You almost trick yourself. You can understand that, can’t you, Abikẹ?’

His eyes left the cabinet and settled on me. ‘In the end you can’t keep up the pretence. You will slip up and once the other person discovers it was a lie, it is over.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘As a warning, Abikẹ. That is all this has ever been. A warning.’

‘The only person that needed a warning was my mother.’

He flinched then. Not like other people would flinch, just a slight twitch in his face that was quickly gone with a cover-up smile. ‘But then you wouldn’t be here, Abikẹ.’

‘No.’

While he was hugging me good night, I noticed the almost empty bottle of wine on the floor beside his table. Maybe this was why he was so yielding. I have to win a few rounds when I am certain he is sober so I know I have learnt all I can from him.

My dress has come. I haven’t looked at it. It’s not appropriate for an afternoon party. I will probably wear a strappy top with a miniskirt. Now he’s not coming, it doesn’t even matter.

When Hassan stopped today I opened the door. I hadn’t changed my mind about ending things. I just wanted to thank him for showing me round Lagos and refusing my offers to pay for lunch and standing up to Fire for Fire and spitting out the eggshell from my burnt cake when he thought I wasn’t looking. Then I would lie. I would say that I was travelling for an operation and going straight to university.

Once I opened the door, I knew I wouldn’t reach the goodbye. So I shut it and told Hassan never to disobey me in that way again. Our new route will reduce our journey by fifteen minutes. It is more scenic, lined with the neat houses of the upwardly mobile in this town, bright colours that hide the blandness of the actual structures.

The maid who brought my supper did not leave after she had put down my tray.

‘Yes, what do you want?’

‘Excuse me. I just wanted to know if you are OK.’

‘Yes, I’m fine. The dry season makes my eyes water. Pass my bag on that table.’

There were no tissues inside. Instead, a bundle of naira notes tumbled out. Idly my fingers began counting. 9,000 naira. I rarely carry less than 15,000. I counted again. The figure remained the same. I must have spent the money without realising.

 ‘So she left you.’

‘Thanks for looking after this, Mr T.’

‘And she toyed with you before she left you.’

‘Long time no see. We’ll talk later.’

‘And from the looks of it she made sure she tipped you.’ He pointed at the notes still squeezed in my hands.

‘We’ll see tomorrow.’

‘She is the one the prophet said would come. I thought you said she was different.’

‘She is.’

I didn’t know if it was true any more. I just said it to make him go away.

_{* * *}

When I walked into the store, Aunty Precious asked, ‘Are you OK? Why are you squeezing your face?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

I turned my back and loaded the leftover ice cream into the freezer.

‘You can tell me.’

‘I just want to get home before it gets dark.’

‘Oh.’

‘Good night, Aunty Precious.’

I walked to the bus stop, squashed into a small space by the conductor, and jumped from the moving
danfo
when it reached Mile 12. As I turned into my road, I saw two men fighting. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought they were brothers embracing. Yet I could see the legs that were spread in fighting stance and the raised sinews that glistened with sweat. I waited to see who would topple to the ground.

‘My guys, why you dey fight?’ a wiry boy said, tapping a combatant on the shoulder. The man that had been tapped elbowed him in the stomach.

‘Why you hit me?’ the boy whined, swinging his fists between their faces. A fight of two became a fight of three, then four, then five, as people joined under the pretext of peacemaking. All I had to do was take a few steps forward. Someone’s fist would catch me and then I could punch and be punched until we had all released our frustrations. I could not take those steps. No matter what Abikẹ thought of me, I had not sunk that low.

When I got to my bedroom, Jọkẹ was asleep. I slid into the space beside her, flinging the crumpled notes on the floor. Had I ever hinted that things were so bad? It had crossed my mind that she might be able to help but never seriously.

‘Shut up,’ Jọkẹ mumbled.

I had been speaking aloud, random thoughts falling out of my mouth.

‘Stop moving.’

I rolled off the mattress and stood up, the soles of my feet cooled by the cement. As neither sleep nor calm were coming, I went to the bags. The certificates were still there, their envelope untouched. Sliding them out, I held my father’s life in my hands.

June 1, 1961
.

It struck me that if I tore this piece of paper, I would be destroying the only evidence that a man of his name had been born.

October 18, 2004
.

It was so flimsy, such a tiny thing standing between him and death.

April 2, 1986
.

I tore a corner off this one. It did not unmake me; Jọkẹ was still breathing. With a twist of my wrists I could turn the both of us into bastards.

I put them away, wondering what my father would have done if Abikẹ had thrown money at him. He would probably have refused it. For someone so timid, he could be proud. Once, a man came to the house offering a bribe. I was coming down the stairs when he said loudly, ‘Don’t insult me with your money.’ Perhaps he heard my footsteps because his voice reduced to its normal level, leaving me sitting on a marble step, straining to hear. It was easy to be principled with a large salary. I wonder what he would have done about Aunty Precious. Probably the same as me. I can’t imagine him standing up to a man like Olumide Johnson.

There was nothing stopping me from going through the bags now. I was awake. Tomorrow was Saturday. Yet even now, when increasingly I was accepting this life as normal, I was still afraid of the past. It was a seductive trap for me. During my three months at the Mile 12 school, I had wallowed in it, longing for it almost to the point of madness.

I began to pull things out of the bag and place them on the floor – albums, books, CDs, until I was surrounded. Maybe I would find a photo of my mother that would make her want to return to her old self. Maybe I would find a cheque worth millions. Then I would go to Abikẹ’s house and fling her six thousand at her.

At random, I chose an album and flicked it open. It was a family picture. He was taller in my memory, Jọkẹ was thinner now and the woman in the middle was my mother. I placed the album on the ground and knelt, bending to see our faces properly. In all the pictures my father’s eyes shied away from the lens.

When I got to the end, I flicked open another album. It was of a trip to America. The first page had a picture of an infant Jọkẹ, the second had a photo of me. On the third, an envelope lay where a photo should have been. I bent closer, and saw my father’s handwriting.

Dọtun

His best friend was called Dọtun. They knew each other from university and had remained friends. I saw his daughter Fadeke so often that at one point, I thought she was my cousin. Yet she too was amongst the people that disappeared with his death. At least she had a good reason. The whole family moved to America not long after the accident. I turned the envelope to the front. It was already open. It must have been my mother who put it in the bag. Jọkẹ would have told me if she’d found something like this.

I drew out the letter and unfolded it carefully. The writing was his. I recognised the large letters with curling tips. Shining the torch on the left corner, I read.

Dọtun

You were always the sharper one. Even now, as I write this, I don’t know how I could have been so naive. On the surface everything was straightforward. A multinational wanted to bid for a government contract. My client was to act as their representative in Nigeria. Should their tender be successful, my client was to be paid 15% of the contract value. All I had to do was help draw up a written agreement for both parties to sign.

I liaised with the lawyers abroad for weeks, going over the details of each clause. The contract we finally came up with was very favourable to my client. When he signed, I thought my dealings with him were over. Three days later, he called, asking that I follow him to Abuja. He was going to place his bid and he wanted a lawyer with him. I was surprised by how quickly he had gained access to the Minister. We took his jet to Abuja. The meeting was at 7 p.m. Dọtun, if you were the one, you would have guessed immediately what was coming next. I had no idea.

There was no meeting. My client had come to offer the Minister a bribe of 100 million dollars in exchange for his multinational getting the contract. They started talking about accounts and instalments. As a corporate lawyer, you soon learn that the less you know about such agreements, the clearer your conscience. I made my mind drift off and the next thing I heard was, ‘My lawyer will bring you 20 million dollars in cash next week.’ I looked around. There were only three of us in the room: the Minister, myself and my client. The lawyer they wanted to carry the bribe was me.

I nodded dumbly while they discussed how I would ferry the money. I said nothing all the way to Lagos. The next morning I went to see the chief partner in my firm, Tade Olukoya. I told him that what I was about to say might come as a shock to him. Even now, I did not fully believe that one of our largest clients was trying to draw me into criminal activities.

Dọtun, he laughed. Then asked if I thought my salary was paid from the proceeds of divorce cases and property disputes. He told me that my client was very impressed with my work on the contract. That was why he had taken me to Abuja. Many more opportunities would come if I did as instructed. I said I was sorry. I was willing to assist my client in a legal capacity. I would not carry the bribe.

I thought it was over. My client would find someone else and life would go on. Dọtun, I was so foolish. I really thought they would let me go. It started with anonymous phone calls. A voice would say, you are playing with fire, Emmanuel, then the line would cut. This happened for a few days. Then I started receiving brown envelopes. Sometimes they had brief notes inside. Other times they had small toys. One had a plastic gun, another a bomb. I told my boss. He told me to do as my client asked and we could all move forward.

Dọtun, you know I am not a brave man but I cannot carry that bribe. I think of everything I have taught my son and I cannot do it. The deadline my client gave me has passed. The calls are getting more frequent. I am tired of being prodded in the chest. There are still a few law-enforcement officers in this country bold enough to take on my client and the Minister. If they will not give me peace, I will not give them peace. Secretly, I have been going through the company files and I have found enough about my client to put him in prison for many years.