The Spider King's Daughter (19 page)

She is walking towards me and the closer she comes the more awful the dress: shiny pink that sickens in the light, an odd length that turns her normally shapely legs into stumps.

Red silk runs from his neck and ends in a sharp point on the waistband of his trousers. It is a beautiful tie, perhaps worth three weeks of hawking.

I watch Cynthia go and Abby come. The contrast is almost unbearable. Abikẹ refuses to hold my gaze until we—

Hug.

There is a rough sweaty scent to him that all the layers of clothing cannot hide. I inhale.

Her smell is like the colour of her dress.

I see my mother walking towards us and I turn my hawker towards the food. I don’t want him to recognise her. I don’t need any unfavourable comparisons tonight.

There’s an older woman lurching in our direction whom I assume is Abikẹ’s mother. Her face is familiar but I don’t know if this is because she was a famous actress or because women with her type of beauty often look alike: hollow cheeks, large eyes, plump lips. Maybe Abby is ashamed of me because she steers us towards the exhaling tureens of food very quickly.

He’s not hungry.

I refuse to eat in his house.

All this Chinese food and he says he’s not hungry. We separate and I continue to mingle with my guests.

‘Leah. I love that shade of red on you.’

I scan the crowd. There is no sign of Wale, or the Chief or any of Abikẹ’s half-siblings. It is to be expected. Oddly, I am disappointed.

‘Ikemba, I’m glad you brought your new girlfriend. She wasn’t on the guest list but it’s always
nice to see a new face.’

Three years ago, I knew nothing but a diluted version of this sheltered extravagance. Food that three-quarters of the
population
would never taste, clothes from places the average Nigerian had never even heard of.

‘Tomi, did you buy those shoes in Milan?’

A girl called Leah introduces herself.

‘So what school do you go to?’

‘I dropped out three years ago.’

She leaves soon after that.

I’m glad to see my hawker mingling. Unfortunately, from the side you can see Leah’s dress is too tight for her prominent midriff. Poor girl.

I begin to make my way back to Abby. I have had enough of these children who think make-up and hair extensions equate to worldly knowledge. I bump into Abikẹ’s mother.

‘Olu,’ she says in a voice teary from alcohol, ‘Let’s dance like we used to, Olu.’

‘I am not Olu.’

I take her hand off my suit and she continues moving towards the dance floor, grabbing another young man.

I just saw my mother speaking to my hawker. I hope she didn’t say anything ridiculous. I watch as she moves unsteadily to the music, one of the better-looking boys opposite her.

‘No thank you, Oritse. I don’t feel like dancing.’

My father just walked into the tent.

The music is too loud.

‘So where is your hawker friend?’ my father asks, speaking loudly into my ear.

‘You mean you can’t spot him? Surely you should be able to tell who doesn’t belong.’

He folds his arms. ‘Where is he?’

I walk back into the crowd without answering.

‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ Abby says once I reach her side.

‘Who?’

‘Just follow me.’

When I see to whom the parting crowd leads, I almost discard the plan. He is a lunge away but I can feel Abikẹ’s hand on my arm. I calm myself for this second meeting.

 
‘This is the friend I was telling you about.’

It is a very different Olumide from the one I saw in the corridor. Now he is just another middle-aged father making sure his only daughter is enjoying her party. Of course, he doesn’t recognise me.

They shake hands and I am glad to see an equal pressure on both sides.

I return his grip but at the last moment I reduce mine.

‘I hear you’re a hawker.’

They speak of me.

‘I am,’ I say.

Most people your age don’t have the drive. I’m impressed by your tenacity. That is your ability to work so hard towards achieving your goal.’

The man patronises me.

‘I do not entertain strangers in my house lightly but my daughter has vouched for you. Let it remain that way.’ They hold eye contact, sizing each other up in that open way only men and wild animals will do.

I drop my gaze first, willing my mind to wander from its proximity to Olumide.

‘How much did this tent cost, Abikẹ?’ he asks.

When she answers I look at the crowd and blink rapidly.

‘And that DJ?’

On and on, until I could write an inventory for this meaningless party.

He is a fool if he thinks this will change things with my hawker. There is indifference on his face when I turn away from my father and though my hawker does not know it, this is our first triumph.

Abbyhawker: 1

Mr Johnson: 0

Soon after, he walks out of the tent, waving to Abikẹ before he disappears into the night. It is time for goodbye.

I make sure my father is gone before I ask, ‘Would you like to dance?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Would you like to dance?’ I asked again, taking his hand and turning to the dance floor.

‘I have to go,’ I said, slipping my hand from her grip. ‘I promised Jọkẹ I’d be back early.’

When I knock on his door, I will say, Mr Johnson, it’s Abikẹ’s friend that hawks. She said I should speak to you privately about work experience.

I take his other hand. ‘This is too early. The party just started.’

I have never danced with Abikẹ before. The exposed skin of her back glows. I want to slide my hands along it. There is still time.

He is not leaving for at least another two hours.

She turns her back to me when we reach the dance floor and for a moment I am confused. Has she changed her mind?

I do not want him to see my face.

Then I see the other couples on the dance floor and I understand. My arms fold around her waist, her head leans on my chest, I press my face into the soft place in her neck and our feet move.

Just five minutes.

Ten years I could stay like this.

The song ends. ‘I should go.’

‘No. Let’s go somewhere.’

I shake my head but still I ask, ‘Where?’

She winks at me. Another first for us.

‘The pool.’

We slip into a night that is pockmarked with fairy lights. There is still time.

 ‘We can go somewhere else. The fountain is just here.’

‘
I want some privacy.’

She speaks into my ear, her breath going straight to my head.

He doesn’t argue after that but follows with his fingers wrapped around mine.

Sweat holds our hands together.

He doesn’t pull away and the moistness begins to grow comfortable.

We are walking through the village garden that Olumide has created on the most expensive real estate in Africa. All over Europe, women have been forced on their backs to pay for these green acres.

I am glad I chose this route because I know how much he loves this place. ‘Yeeeeee!’

I whip my hand free. ‘What is it?’

I point at the panther, which has moved from the tree to the ground, crouched over a face-down child.

Abby, we’ve had this.

I take his hand again. ‘Let’s hurry up.’

She presses herself against me before pulling ahead, dragging me behind her, and before I know it we’ve reached the house.

Then the front hall.

Then the staircase.

Then the corridor.

Then we are here and I do not know what to expect.

As we enter the glass room with the pool, I reach for the zip on her dress. The outside lights shimmer on the water, the air hums from the faraway music and my fingers find themselves on the iron tracks that run down her back. She pulls away and her zip scratches my index finger.

‘Do you think we are strange?’

‘What?’ I reach for her arm but grasp air.

Five steps get me to the pool ledge, the points of my shoes poking over safety.

‘I said, do you think we are strange?’

‘What do you mean?’

She turns sideways and lets one shoe skim water.

‘You are a hawker, I am a Johnson. Did you never find that strange?’

‘Explain.’

‘Just answer me.’

The impatience in her tone is irritating. ‘Yes, of course I found it strange.’

Me too.

‘And since we are asking questions, let me ask mine. Why me?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just answer.’

His voice is harsh and the words abrupt, barely spoken before he cuts them off.

She ignores me, slipping off her right shoe and then her left, pulling her dress down until it stops at her knees. I check my watch. There is no time.

‘Tell me why you chose me.’

I say the words before I realise they are stained with gratitude.

‘Because you ran.’

‘Pardon?’ I ask, unable to catch her mumbling.

‘I said I chose you because you ran, and because you were handsome and you didn’t speak like a hawker.’

She shouts, taking off her bracelet and flinging it on the blue tiles.

‘You mean—’

‘No, I did not want your ice cream.’

‘And—’

‘
Yes, it was a test.’

‘Your car breaking down.’

‘Was not real.’

She’d planned everything. Oritse’s singing, Cynthia, the money on the road, visits to her house. ‘What kind of person are you?’ She turns her head.

When I see his expression, I face the pool again. ‘I don’t know.’

I stretch out to touch her but her arms are folded and her shoulders raised. She doesn’t look like she wants to be touched.

‘Abikẹ, I have to go.’

She shrugs.

‘OK, Mister Mysterious.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, as I move closer to hug her.

‘Why don’t you just come out and tell me that you were rich before your father died?’

I stop. ‘What do you know about my father’s death?’ She shrugs again.

‘Nothing more than you’ve told me.’

‘Who told you I was rich?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You told me yourself.’

I’d never mentioned that we were rich. I’d told her about the car accident but I had never mentioned money. What else did she know? ‘Abikẹ, what do you know about my father’s death?’

‘He died early, his death made you poor, it was sudden.’

‘What did you say?’

His tone grates.

I watch as she deliberately takes off her second shoe, then her left earring, the right, and the clips that fasten her hair.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

I ignore him.

She bends her elbows to reach her zip but her fingers come short.

‘Help me.’

‘What do you know about my father?’ Is that why she came to the road? Had she been sent?

My fingers finally brush the tip of the zip and I feel him watching.

She slides her dress open to reveal skin I had wanted to touch.

I am standing in my underwear now, still he has not taken another step towards me.

She crouches on the ledge, about to fall into the pool when—

He takes my arm.

‘Abikẹ, tell me what you know about my father.’

‘How many times have I told you?’

‘When have I ever—’

‘My name is Abby.’

It is the most natural thing. My hands find their way to her neck and once they are there, they stay there.

‘How dare you t—’

My grip tightens. Her hands pummel my face, catching the corner of my eye, forcing tears from my cornea.

The disadvantage is mine. He is standing and I am crouched.

Her nails claw me and blood begins to dribble from my left cheek.

Why?

She spits, a weak spurt that runs down her chin and on to my hands.

This is what happens when you trust a hawker.

Mr T was right.

I should have listened to my father.

To kill the plant you kill the seed.

I should have been more like him.

Tears are falling on to my hands now and they sting where she has scratched me.

I should have known.

Mucus joins the tears, a lubricant between my palms and her neck.

He will pay.

She is almost gone. I can feel the pulsing in her neck growing weaker. Suddenly, the thought of holding her dead in my hands repulses me. Let the water finish it if it can. I am going to kill Olumide.

I do not realise I am released until I splash into the pool.

Turning I hear the click of a switch.

The room floods with light.