The Spider King's Daughter (16 page)

 ‘How much for half an hour?’

The girl behind the counter looked up from her novel. ‘We charge per hour.’

‘I only need thirty minutes.’

‘I’m sorry. We charge per hour.’

‘A fine girl like you is not meant to be wicked. Please help me.’

‘Oya, bring the money but don’t tell anybody.’

I paid her and scanned the room for the best seat.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon yet the cybercafé was full with young men typing furiously. ‘Dear Sir/Madam,’ I read off one screen. Did people still fall for those? In the corner I saw a computer partly hidden by a jut in the wall. It would do. I typed Olumide Johnson into a search engine. After a minute’s delay, fifteen thousand results sprang up.

I clicked the first.

‘Born in Lagos in 1967 to Mr and Mrs Ayọmide Johnson, Olumide was an only child. In his teens the family moved to America. There he attended NYU where he discovered his passion for photography.’

The next one was wrong and the one after that.

Olumide Johnson Nigerian businessman.

A thousand results.

The first was a list compiled by a national newspaper: ‘Nigeria’s Top 20 Powerful Men’. Olumide Kayode Johnson placed fifteenth.

It had no photos, no names of the companies he owned.

Olumide Kayode Johnson Nigerian businessman.

A hundred and fifty results.

This time there was a picture of him.

I read the text.

‘Yesterday, in an unexpected development, Olumide K. Johnson outbid all the competitors for the chief stake in National Petroleum. He will join the Board of Directors as the controlling shareholder.’

I skimmed the rest, clicked back and continued down the page.

Most of them were about business deals and stock prices. His front was not a façade.

I opened a page that listed all the companies he either owned or was a major shareholder in.

It could not be. I refreshed the page. There it was again, number six out of thirty. It did not mean Mr T had worked there. Yet the possibility of all three of us being connected was appealing. The pattern would look like a divine sanction to Aunty Precious. I cleared my history and logged off. It would not take me long to find out if he was lying.

The intercom rang.

‘Cynthia, please get that.’

It was the maid calling to ask where we wanted to eat. ‘You guys go and eat,’ I said to Cynthia, Oritse, Chike and Toyin. ‘I’ll join you in the dining room in a few minutes.’ They left and I continued reviewing my growing guest list. To the best of my knowledge, Ikemba Okoye was coming but there had been no RSVP.

‘Hello, Abikẹ.’

My hawker was standing at the entrance to my living room, wearing our pink shirt.

‘Long time no see.’ I stood, breathing slowly until the pounding in my chest slowed.

‘Abikẹ, I’m sorry,’ he mumbled at the floor. ‘I’ve been very confused in the past few weeks.’

‘Sorry for what?’

‘For the way I treated you.’

‘And?’

‘And not coming to see you. Abikẹ, I’m sorry.’

There’s no doubt what Abikẹ would have said next. I didn’t want to be Abikẹ any more, at least not with my hawker. I walked to him and took his head in my hands. He shuddered but he didn’t pull away.

‘Don’t call me Abikẹ again,’ I whispered. ‘Abby from now on.’

A name just for him, so that whenever he called me, I would remember that we didn’t play the game.

I couldn’t see his expression. I didn’t want to. We stood there, my lips brushing his ear; his breath growing heavier, his lips gently pressing into my collar bone. Suddenly, his arms snaked out and pulled me to him. I raised my head. I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, he released me abruptly and sat on the sofa.

‘Abby, tell me how you’ve been.’ He was composed now, so composed he didn’t even stumble over my new name. I tried to hold his gaze. It was a draw. Our eyes left each other at the same time and I sat down beside him.

‘I’m having a party in two weeks and it would be nice if you came because—’

I rested my head on his chest. When the others came back from their lunch, I didn’t move.

We decided I had to go back to her house.

First I went to Abẹ Bridge but Mr T was not there. I waited on his cardboard watching the passers-by who looked at the sign
SIT HERE AND CARRY MY CURSE
, then at me, then once more at the sign before shifting their gazes. Finally, I saw him.

‘Mr T.’

‘What are you doing here? Can’t you read?’

‘I want to ask you something.’

‘I don’t want to carry your curse,’ he cackled, pointing at the words he had scrawled.

‘What was the name of the insurance company you worked for?’

‘Keystone Insurance,’ he said, sliding down next to me, his smile gone. ‘Why are you asking?’

‘Keystone Insurance?’

‘Yes, Keystone. Do you know it?’

‘I thought you said Oilet Grand.’

‘That’s it! Oilet Grand. I worked there for eight years and they fired me just like that!’

I stood up. What had I been thinking coming here? Rush-hour traffic was building which meant it was already past five o’clock. I still had to get back to Aunty Precious. ‘You’re wasting my time, Mr T.’

‘Wait!’ he said, grabbing the hem of my trousers. ‘I’m not lying.’

‘So why don’t you remember your employer’s name?’

‘I know I worked in an insurance company. I worked in claims. Work started at eight. There was a revolving door at the entrance. We ate lunch from 12 to 12.30. The man who sat opposite me, his name was Bode. But I can’t remember the name of the company. In my head there’s a signboard. Sometimes it flashes Oilet, sometimes Keystone, sometimes Liberty, sometimes all three.’

‘How do I know your mind didn’t just flash this story five minutes ago?’

‘Ask me something? Anything else and I’ll tell you.’

‘Who was your CEO?’

‘It was a white man. No! Not a white man, an African with a white man’s name. Peters or Smith or something.’ He drew his knees to himself. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘Was it Willoughby?’

‘Yes!’ he screamed, jerking himself upright.

I shook my trousers free from his grip. ‘You’re a liar. His name is Johnson. Olumide Kayode Johnson.’

‘What is your business with my CEO’s name? Olumide Kayode Johnson,’ he muttered. ‘Johnson. I know that name. Johnson. Johnson. Johnson.’ He rubbed his head.

‘Johnson.’ He looked straight in my eyes. ‘That’s your girlfriend’s surname. Somebody has to pay with a daughter. Tell me about her.’

‘She has nothing to do with this. Go away, Mr T. My friend and I will handle this.’ I patted him where his shoulder poked through his clothes. ‘We’re doing it for you as well.’

‘Doing what? What are you going to do to Mr Johnson?’

I turned and began to walk towards
Aunty Precious
BLESSED FOOD STORES
. When I looked back, he was shuffling to his cardboard.

_{* * *}

 ‘I’ve taken what you said about using lawyers on board, Aunty Precious, but after looking into the matter further, I just don’t think we can touch Mr Johnson that way. That’s the mistake my father made. He has too many resources. We have to go through the back door.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I said, how old are you?’

‘Eighteen. If we start—’

‘The first time I met you, the day you came and made your presentation, you said you were twenty.’

‘Aunty Precious, if we can get in touch with the right people—’

‘I know why you lied about your age. You wanted to be taken seriously, but this matter is too serious for a teenager. I was wrong to ask for your help.’

‘Aunty Precious, listen to me. If—’

‘No, you listen to me. What Mr Johnson may or may not have done to your father—’

‘Not may.’

‘It is possible that the explosion was really an accident.’

‘The letter—’

‘The letter was not for you. What he may or may not have done to your father is in the past. My years in Italy, they are also in the past. Now we have to move on.’

‘Aunty Precious—’

‘Your father would not want you to do this with your life. You must forget this.’

‘No. He cannot forget.’

Aunty Precious started at the man who had joined us. I too was surprised but more annoyed with myself for not realising I was being followed. I saw him through her eyes: ragged, likely to grab something from her shelves at any moment. To me, he looked calmer than I had ever seen him: his speech measured, his tone soft and matter of fact.

‘Who are you?’

‘Don’t worry, Aunty Precious. I’ll ask him to—’

‘Good afternoon Madam. My name is Thomas Ọlawọle. Even though my present apparel belies it, there was once a time you would have been glad to welcome me into your shop. It is for this reason I have come to tell you that you cannot talk this boy out of what we must do.’

‘You know this man?’

‘Not only does he know me, we have sworn to see justice done to Mr Johnson.’

I looked at Aunty Precious; she looked at Mr T. He must have stood outside, eavesdropping until he heard a fitting cue.

‘What did Olumide Johnson do to you?’

Mr T raised his stump and she gasped. It was then I decided to let him speak. If she would not be convinced by what had happened to us, then maybe Mr T’s lies would persuade her.

‘It is not just for his own personal reasons that my friend is pursuing Mr Johnson. You see—’

He stepped forward and began to speak. I recognised the outline of the story but many of the details were new to me. His daughter became autistic, his wife an adulteress, he was personally targeted after a refusal to alter paperwork. When they cut off his arm the anaesthetic wore off. When he buried his daughter her face had already rotted. He glossed over the prophet, the most dubious part of his story. They met on the road not in the bush. Instead of a prophecy Mr T had a dream that was interpreted for him. I could see the holes, the inconsistencies, the pauses where his imagination leapt into new territories. Yet, as he spoke, Aunty Precious’s face softened and collapsed into tears.

‘Is this true?’ she asked after Mr T had given his last flourish.

I could not do this without Aunty Precious. Without her support, her money, I was finished. Even if Mr T was mad, my story was real, hers was true, they were justification enough.

‘Yes, it’s true,’ I said, looking into her eyes.

‘You knew and you didn’t tell me?’

‘I didn’t know it would make a difference.’

‘This man has done too much evil to get away with it.’

‘Yes, Aunty Precious. He mustn’t get away.’

It occurred to me while we were going over our checklist that I knew nothing about this woman who knew that I was allergic to prawns, that I preferred sweet to savoury peanuts; that I hated rap.

‘Nkem, tell me about yourself. ’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What’s your story?’

‘Well, I’m the last of four children. Both my father and mother were civil servants but they are late, God rest them. I attended the University of Nsukka, studied mass communications; and I moved to Lagos three years ago. I tried my hand at journalism but the pay was too petit for my taste. I’ve always adored planning parties, one thing led to another and I found myself working for Mrs Da Silva’s agency.’

I had expected her to lie, a fake story that would explain her fake accent. Brought up in England, schooled there, her father was English. Instead the truth, Nsukka, civil servants.

What else could I discover before she clammed up?

‘So, do you have a boyfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘I can never stay with just one. They are all liars.’

‘I used to think that.’

‘I hope the boy that changed your mind is worth it, darling.’

‘I think so.’

I smiled, remembering my new name I had made for him alone.

‘Oh, you don’t have to think. There are ways you can find out for sure. A few months back, a girlfriend of mine whose boyfriend had just moved back from the States, she was suspicious that the guy was cheating on her so I offered to help out. It was so easy. I called him, put the phone on speaker and with a little prompting from me, he was asking me to come and spend the night at his house. I can do the same for you. I mean because I don’t know your boyfriend, one of your friends has to call him but that can be arranged.’

I am not surprised Nkem knows Frustration. She is still a novice though. By now, she should have learnt to match her story to her accent.

‘Thanks for the offer but I think you should stick to planning my parties.’

Aunty Precious is not convinced. After my visit to Olumide’s house she lost her nerve and brought the testimonies to our next meeting.

‘What is this?’

She placed the stack of papers in my arms.

‘We have to consider all options.’

She turned to Mr T. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘Of course, madam. Are there any more biscuits?’

‘See,’ she said as Mr T slotted a whole digestive into his mouth, ‘someone else sees common sense.’

Mr T began to read the first testimony with Aunty Precious standing over his shoulder, brushing off any stray crumbs that landed on the pages. Did she really think this type of ink and paper were enough to convince a Lagos judge?

‘I’m going.’

‘Where to?’

I didn’t reply.

_{* * *}

 ‘Mr Man, how body?’

I shook hands with one gateman and then the other.

‘Who you come see?’

‘Abikẹ.’

One handed me the logbook. Before I could take it, the other had snatched it away. ‘Abeg no disturb Mr Man. This logbook nah for people who come with car. Mr Man, get car?’

‘You be correct person,’ the other gateman said as the entrance slid open. ‘If you get sense, you no go talk to that girl any more. She no good.’

When I walked into their room, all that was left of the brothers were gullies sunken into the vacant sofas. The TV was silent and, above me, the fan blades creaked.

‘Hello,’ I said, looking at the ceiling and wondering why the painter had only done half.

‘Yes,’ a voice said, making me step back. ‘Who is that?’

From behind a sofa a head rose and turned. It was Wale.

‘Ah, it’s Abikẹ’s toy boy returning to pay a visit.’

‘Daddy’s boy, I’m happy to see you too.’

‘Why are you here?’

Refusing to meet my gaze, he stared at the area just below my left eye as if it would give him the answer to his question. Finally our eyes brushed.

‘It’s good to see you.’

He came to sit at a table and moved a wooden chair in my direction.

‘Where is everyone?’

‘My father has banned us from using this room.’

‘Why?’

‘We were getting too comfortable in his house. Why did you come again?’

‘I need a gun.’

‘What?’

So it was possible to shock this boy.

‘I need a gun.’

‘I’m guessing you are not going to tell me what for.’

I withdrew a pen and a piece of paper from my pocket. ‘Please write down the address.’

He slid the sheet of paper to me.

‘I suppose you won’t tell me how a boy like yourself knows where they sell guns.’

‘I may never see you again.’ It was said without malice or regret.

‘I hope you will.’

‘Good luck.’

I left the room calculating the quickest route to Makoko.

_{* * *}

The area was dirty. Men’s trousers were stiff with mud and the edges of the residents’ feet were black.

‘How do I get to Majid Street?’

No one knew. Not the women who sold fish or the men who gathered in front of a crackly television watching an old match. Eventually, it was a small child that showed me. He toddled ahead, unsteady on the stray bits of tar, happy when he was sliding on the mud that paved his streets. When we reached Majid, he refused the ten naira I offered and ran back to find his friends.

‘I’m looking for Seun,’ I said to the man who was squatting in the front yard of 114 and smoking.

‘Seun who?’

‘Just Seun.’

He licked his fingers and pinched the tip of his cigarette before slipping the charred stick into his pocket.

‘Who send you?’

‘Chief.’

He stood, taller than I expected. ‘Nah me be Seun.’

He took me down an alley running beside the house and into a small shed in the back yard. Not even a shed because it had no roof.

‘Which kind you want?’

‘One that can fit into a trouser pocket.’

He withdrew a pistol from a black plastic bag. ‘Like this.’

It was heavy and rust was beginning to eat the muzzle. I slid it into my pocket.

‘How many bullets are inside?’

He opened the magazine. ‘Five.’

‘How will I shoot it?’

He showed me a few times before I got it.

‘No forget. Make sure you off the safety before you shoot.’

‘How much?’

‘Rent or buy?’

‘You fit rent gun?’

His face cracked into a smile. I saw he was not much older than me.

‘Yes o. You fit rent anything for this Lagos. Even air.’

‘I want to rent it then.’

‘One week for ten thousand.’

‘Seven thousand five.’

‘Eight.’

I nodded and he gave me a black plastic bag. ‘Free of charge.’

As we walked back to the front of his house, I heard sirens in the distance.

‘Have police come here before?’

‘Only when I no fit give them their rent.’

‘How you know I no go steal you gun?’

‘Nah Chief send you, nah Chief go pay.’

When we got to the house front he clasped my shoulder. ‘Make you use am well. No use am kill good person.’

There was a real worry in his eyes.

‘Yes.’

He squatted in the same position, relit his cigarette and continued waiting for his next customer.

_{* * *}

When I reached
the store, Aunty Precious and Mr T were exactly where I had left them. The counter was littered with biscuit wrappers, empty bottles and, in front of Mr T, a half-eaten loaf of bread.

‘You’re back.’ Aunty Precious said, waving her fingers at me. ‘Mr T and I have been talking. I’ve shown him the testimonies and he thinks—’

‘We don’t need those any more.’

‘You must listen to the good lady. She is talking sense, you know.’

_{* * *}

When I dropped the pistol on the counter Aunty Precious recoiled. Mr T took a step closer. His hands reached to touch. I snatched it away and returned it to my pocket.

‘Where did you get the money to buy such a thing? Did you steal it?’

‘It’s not bought, Aunty Precious. It’s rented and no, I did not steal the money. A friend gave it to me.’

‘You have to take it back.’

‘We have to start planning,’ Mr T said, shoving the papers into her hands.