The Spider King's Daughter (20 page)

 ‘What is going on here?’

I watch as Abikẹ pulls herself out of the pool. Her elbows are weak, she falters but when I offer her a hand, she spits.

‘Abikẹ, what is this?’

She is standing next to me now, her cotton underwear sagging from the dripping water.

‘What are you doing with this boy from the gutter? In my house—’ He stops, squinting as he takes a step towards us. ‘Are those marks on your neck?’

I do not want her to see but there is no time to lead him off to his parlour and put the bullet in his head. He might scream for help on the way. He might attack me. ‘Olumide,’ I say, placing my trembling hand on my pocket, feeling the reassuring weight, ‘does the name Sodipo mean anything to you?’

That is all? That is all he came to say? His surname registers nothing. My father does not even glance at him. ‘This boy put those marks on you.’

I cannot see the marks but I can feel where my hawker’s fingers were pressed into my neck only a few moments ago.

‘Olumide,’ I say again, my eyes avoiding the imprints my fingers have made. There is no time for guilt.

‘Abikẹ, how could you be so foolish? One of my rivals has tried to get to me through you!’

‘Olumide!’ I shout, my fingers patting my pocket again. ‘Stop your lies and answer me.’

There is something inside there. My father has seen it too, though his eyes have neither left the hawker’s face nor strayed to mine.

‘After everything I’ve taught you,’ he continues in a tone that becomes increasingly agitated. ‘You couldn’t see it? You were blinded by a handsome face. Abikẹ!’

‘He’s lying,’ I say, trying to catch her eye but she does not look at me.

For the first time my father and I are playing together, trying to distract this boy into revealing what he has in his pocket.

‘You’re right. I should have known.’

Despite myself, I feel betrayed when she agrees with Olumide.

‘Of course you should have known,’ my father says, looking at me and taking a step towards the hawker. ‘Think about it, Abikẹ.’

I don’t know if what he is saying is true but I must play now and think later.

‘Yes,’ I say, raising my hand to my mouth.

I cannot let myself be distracted. Once she has watched me shoot her father, she can never remember me fondly.

‘What other reason could there be?’ my father asks, staring at the hawker and drawing his attention from me.

Somehow, the distance between myself and Olumide has lessened and if I don’t act now, it will be too late. I lower my hand.

Before his fingers can close on anything, I slide my hand into his pocket, grasp the thing and pull it out. It is so easy that I laugh when I see the gun dangling from my grip.

I lunge at her,

When I toss the gun into the water, it makes a splashing noise before sinking to the bottom.

‘Abikẹ!’

They both say my name and I can tell from my father’s voice that he did not wish to prolong the issue.

I look at the gun, its shape undistorted by the clear water and for a moment, panic threatens to overwhelm me. Then I remember Mr T’s Plan C for if I did not kill Olumide and he did not kill me.

‘You must not go home,’ he had said. ‘It is the first place they will look for you since the girl knows your house. You must find another Abẹ Bridge and disappear into Lagos for a few weeks, maybe even months.’ My mother and Jọkẹ may think but the worst but it would not be forever.

How had Abikẹ, the grandmaster of Frustration, missed that the boy I called my hawker did not exist? My pride is the thing most bruised.

The distance between myself and the open door will take less than a second to cover. They do not call me Runner G for nothing.

‘Why did you do it?’

Her voice, toneless and painful, stops me.

‘There’s no need to ask such a question,’ my father says, taking another step towards the hawker. ‘I’ve told you. One of my rivals sent him.’

Even now that I know I will never see her again, a part of me still cares for her opinion. There is still time.

‘Abikẹ, your father murdered mine.’

I give him the benefit of the doubt and this is all he can come up with?

‘Who was your father?’

I know my father. He is capable of murder but not for everyone.

She does not believe me but still, she is asking questions. ‘Look, I have proof that he murdered my father and proof for other things as well. Do you remember the woman I worked with, Aunty Precious. She was sold into prostitution by your father. He’s a murderer and a pimp. I have proof. Signed letters, witnesses, documents.’ But she is not listening, or rather she is listening but she is not hearing.

‘You tried to kill me because my father killed your father.’

‘You don’t understand. You asked me to come here, you led me on, you confused me.’

That first day on the road returned to me. I had been sitting in the back seat, we had caught eyes and without my beckoning, he had walked towards me already aware of who I was. I remembered his suggestions. Have the party outside, make sure your parents are there, keep the noise and the people who might stumble on us sealed in a canopy.

‘Who sent you?’

Had she heard anything I’d been saying? One last time, I would explain. ‘It wasn’t about you. My father—’

‘It wasn’t about me?’ I shriek, despite my effort to keep my voice calm.

‘No it wasn’t.’ Not when I came to your house this evening. Why did you have to mention my father? Why couldn’t you just have said goodbye?

‘You tried to reach my father by killing me and it wasn’t about me?’

I will always be the quickest route to Olumide Johnson for the Michaels and hawkers of this world. Looking for something to hold, I see my stiletto lying by the pool. With the full upward thrust of my hand, I smash its heel into the side of his face.

I react without thinking.

My father moves fast.

Before I can wrest the shoe from her grip—

The hawker’s arms are pinned behind his back.

I struggle but he is stronger. I kick but he forces me down till my knees are touching the ground.

‘Abikẹ, it seems you want to play with your food.’ He twists his head until he can see his watch. ‘Hurry up. I have things to do.’

She grips the arch of the shoe and looks straight into my eyes. There is no Abikẹ in that gaze. Only her second self, Abby.

You slithered into my confidence.

‘Your father killed mine,’ I say. ‘He is a pimp, he has killed others, he—’ The heel lands in my mouth and drags along my gums.

You deceived me.

The stiletto slits down the front of my shirt, scattering buttons and exposing my chest.

I threw a party for you.

Systematically, she lands wherever my skin is torn from our first struggle. I cannot plead with my eyes, they are swelling.

I changed my name for you.

Once, she winces after a blow to the temple that makes me scream but the shoe and her left hand never stop moving.

You deserve whatever happens next.

Through a narrowing slit, I see the blood on my shirt.

Abruptly my father shoves the hawker forward and his face thuds into the ground. ‘Enough. You have learnt your lesson.’

I wipe sweat from my cheeks.

‘What should I do with him?’

I try to rise but Olumide presses his foot on my neck.

Looking at the blood dripping on to the white tiles, then the mouth that it is coming from, I do not know what I want my father to do to the hawker.

As the pressure from Olumide’s foot pushes me into unconsciousness, I remember Jọkẹ and my mother and how I left them in the flat. They will wait one day, then two, then a year, then a decade, never knowing what happened to me.

‘Release him.’

My eyes flutter painfully open. ‘What?’

My hands push against the floor but his shoe moves to my neck, grinding me into the tiles.

‘I said release him.’

Hope begins to rise through me. Perhaps I will see them tonight.

‘Abikẹ, don’t be silly.’

I lie still.

‘It’s bad enough that you let him deceive you. To reward him and the people that sent him by letting him go?’

Still she does not answer.

‘Abikẹ?’

A second, lighter foot joins his.

‘The people that sent him think killing him is the worst you can do.’

He laughs, a deep, uncontrolled laughter of a man who is very amused.

‘What do you intend?’

I strain to hear what Abby will say.

While I am thinking, my father kneels, the full weight of his body pressing down on the hawker’s back. Slowly, he bends until his mouth is hovering over his ear like an insect over a flower.

‘Emmanuel Toyosi Sodipo,’ Olumide whispers. ‘You look just like him.’

Whatever my father says, the effect is immediate. The hawker’s back arches, his legs struggle but he is pinned down.

‘What did you say?’

‘I just told him something he needed to hear.’

‘What?’

My resolve falters.

‘What did he say to you?’ I say prodding the hawker with my foot.

I lift my head, struggling to speak but Olumide kicks me down and my teeth bang against the slick, metallic tiles.

‘Abikẹ, I don’t—’

‘One of you answer me!’