The Spider King's Daughter (8 page)

‘Who said I couldn’t? Funmi, please continue.’

The girl raised the pencil.

‘Stop.’

‘Don’t listen to him.’

‘I said stop!’

Abikẹ pushed into the room and stopped in the centre.

‘Hi, my name is Abikẹ. What’s yours?’

‘Jọkẹ,’ she whispered.

‘And you?’

‘Funmi,’ the other said, her eyes focused on the floor.

I saw what Jọkẹ and the Alabi girl saw when they looked at Abikẹ, her denim so new, her bag so shiny. I understood why my sister’s voice had gone quiet and the Alabi girl would not look up. I spread a pile of trousers on the bed.

‘Pick a pair so we can go. Jọkẹ wipe that thing off your face. I’ll talk to you when I get back.’

When she came out, Jọkẹ and the Alabi girl were following her like sheep.

‘She’s old enough to wear make-up,’ she said as if to silence any objections I might have.

‘You—’

‘Just see it first.’

Jọkẹ stepped out from behind her. Apart from the shiny lips and the shimmer above her eyes, she looked no different from usual and certainly nothing like the panda next to her. Perhaps Abikẹ was right. What did I know about these things?

‘Jọkẹ, let me see,’ my mother said. I didn’t even know she had been listening.

When she saw Jọkẹ’s face, she started to cry, small tears you could flick away with your fingers, except she didn’t.

‘Abikẹ gave me her lip gloss,’ Jọkẹ said, opening her hand to show my mother the tube. ‘Can I keep it?’

‘Yes,’ my mother said, turning to me.

I nodded and walked to the door. ‘Abikẹ, we should be leaving.’

‘Is that your toilet?’ she asked, pointing.

‘Yes.’

It was only when she’d walked in and shut the door that I realised she wanted to use it. I waited, hoping she would work it out. It was too much to ask. First, I heard the squeaky choke of a flush button being pushed down over and over again and then finally she opened the door and pushed her head out.

‘I think the toilet is broken. It’s not flushing. I’m pushing down the button but no water is coming out.’

Of course nothing was coming out. Did she think water came out of the cisterns in Mile 12?

Jọkẹ answered.

‘Abikẹ, we don’t have running water, that’s why it’s not flushing. There’s a bucket of water under the sink. Pour some into the bowl to flush.’

‘Of course. I should have known. Thanks.’

As I heard the water slopping into the toilet, I knew she had used too much.

‘Welcome to Tejuosho.’

He took me down a path that kept splitting to reveal more women who were unnaturally interested in him.

‘My son, come and buy from here.’

‘No, I go give you beta price.’

‘You know nah me get the best.’

He would nod, bow to a few, greet others. Once he said to a woman selling tomatoes, ‘Mama Iyabo, wey my girlfriend?’

What?

A child crawled out from under the table and let my hawker swing her before hiding behind her mother.

‘You want tomato?’

‘No, I just dey show my friend around.’

I shook hands with Mama Iyabo and without knowing why, dipped my knee. She nodded with approval. I wanted to do more. Opening my bag, I began to search for my wallet.

‘Bye-bye, Mama Iyabo. Make you dey look after my girlfriend.’

_{* * *}

He took me by the elbow and moved us away.

‘Why did we leave? I wanted to help that woman.’

‘How nice of you. Would you buy a car just to help the seller?’

He walked a few paces before realising he was alone.

‘Twice today, you have disres—’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘Don’t cut me off.’

‘I’m sorry for that too.’

I let him take my hand and we entered a large warehouse crammed with even more stalls. It was dim inside. All the fluorescent lights were placed too high and many flickered on and off. I was glad that my hawker didn’t have to work in a place like this.

‘In a few years I want to open a stall here.’

‘Why?’ I asked, backing away from a skinny man who patted my arm and pointed to his
table of fabric.

‘I don’t want to be a hawker forever. When I can afford the rent, I’m going to set up a store here and sell electronics.’

‘You mean people pay rent for these spaces?’

‘Of course. Every square foot is paid for. This is not a shanty market. Tejuosho is a very well-organised place.’

I looked around again. I suppose the stalls had some order. At least we could walk through them.

‘So where are we going next?’

‘Surulere.’

‘Is it close?’

‘You haven’t heard of Surulere before.’

‘Of course I have. I just don’t know how to get there from here.’

‘Are you sure you live in Lagos?’

‘Shut up. How are we getting to Suruleri?’

‘You mean Surulere. We’re going by
danfo
.’

I was pressed against my hawker for most of the journey and when the
danfo
rattled over a pothole and flung my head against his chest, I let it lie there. Even when the conductor, a shirtless man in dirty jeans, leered and said, ‘This no be hotel,’ I ignored him and left my head where it was. Though the whir of the engine drowned out much, I imagined it grew easier to hear his heart beat the longer I lay pressed into him.

Lunch was served at a Mama Put. When I saw the prices chalked on the small blackboard, I almost walked out. Eating for an amount that barely classed as change scared me. My hawker was halfway through when he noticed my plate of rice was still untouched.

‘Why aren’t you eating?’

‘Because – because I haven’t washed my hands.’

‘Oh sorry. I should have shown you.’

He lifted his plastic bag of drinking water and motioned for me to put out my palms. With my hands rinsed I didn’t have any more excuses. I slid the spoon into the rice, wishing I’d brought my own cutlery. Who knew how many mouths had salivated over that spoon?

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ I said, jamming the rice into my mouth. It was mushier than I would have liked and the stew was peppery but the meal was surprisingly edible.

‘Aren’t you going to finish your food?’

The Mama Put had been generous with her portions.

‘I have.’

‘Wasteful.’

‘I’m not wasteful. My nannies always made me leave food on the plate.’

‘My mother used to make us do the same. You would have liked her if you met her before. She had your sharp mouth.’

‘Me? I’m a gentle girl.’

He pushed my shoulder, his hand lingering for longer than was necessary.

‘So tell me about your own mother,’ he said, leaning against the giant Iroko tree. ‘What’s she like?’

I hesitated.

‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

I was rarely asked a question so direct. Immediately, a non-answer sprung to mind.

‘She’s very beautiful.’

‘Like her daughter.’

I smiled at what my mother would have taken for an insult. ‘No, not like me. She was a very famous actress.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Victoria Johnson née Ajumobi.’

‘Victoria Ajumobi,’ he repeated slowly.

‘Have you seen
Dangerous Passions
, or
Forbidden Fruit
?’

He shook his head.

‘
Secret Lovers
?
Love me or Die
?’

‘Victoria Ajumobi. I’m beginning to see her face.’

‘Fair, tall, slim, very large eyes.’

‘Yes, of course. One of the good actresses of her generation.’

‘No need to be polite. I’ve seen every single one of her movies and they’re all crap.’

‘You shouldn’t say that about your mother.’

‘It’s true.’

‘You still haven’t told me anything about her.’

‘I am a disappointment to her.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Don’t pity me,’ I said, turning to face him. ‘I’m glad. You should have seen me when I was five. I watched all her movies, memorised the famous scenes, rehearsed their delivery . . . what a
mugu
.’

I shouldn’t have said all this to a boy I had only known for a month. Yet he was so far outside my world. I felt safe telling him that at five, I moulded my inflections after a woman I saw more often on a screen than in real life. He would not taunt me with this image in school. He would not save it for ammunition in the next round of Frustration.

‘You weren’t—’

‘I was pathetic,’ I said, voicing a thought that had never strayed past my head. ‘I was stupid to even think there was space for me in her mirror. I should have been fairer, more talented, more like her.’

He took my hand and I let him hold it, his thumb massaging my palm.

‘I’m glad. I would have been a different person if she’d encouraged me. For one, I would have lived and died thinking her acting was wonderful.’

The Mama Put approached with a platter of fried meat.

‘You nah don finish? You no want meat?’

The hawker shook his head yet she ladled two pieces on to his plate. ‘Rice still dey for your plate. Just use this small one to finish am.’

We spent a long time under the branches of that Iroko tree. We stayed until the evening lights came on and brought the insects, until the Mama Put asked for her bench, until we could stay no longer. Once we stood, things became awkward. Behind him, I could see my car gleaming, ready to take me back.

‘Thank you for a nice day.’

I wondered if he would kiss me. I knew as I lifted my face to his that I wanted him to. Abikẹ Johnson kissing a hawker in front of a Mama Put. I didn’t care who saw.

‘I had a really nice time,’ I said, looking directly into his eyes. Maybe he didn’t like me in that way. I lowered my head, feeling foolish.

When he finally kissed me, it was a surprise. His lips rubbed mine, rough skin rubbing off my lip gloss and before I could respond, he had straightened up again.

It was a strange kiss. Not wet enough to be romantic not light enough for friends. I’m sure he will get better.

Today was her first time in Tejuosho Market. I find that incredible. Even when we lived in Maryland, we still came to Tejuosho, though not as often as I do now. She adapted well, shaking off the hands that tried to draw her to their stalls, holding her bag tight to her body, causing drama over a small issue. Still, if you watched closely you could see she was a stranger. She didn’t look at the ground when she walked and she shrank from people. Every time someone touched her or even brushed against her, she would almost recoil. Even in the
danfo
she tried not to lean against me. At first her head barely rested on my chest. As the bus moved it grew heavier until the weight was stopping me from breathing properly. I couldn’t help inhaling her. She smelled of things I don’t see often these days.

The Mama Put we had lunch at wasn’t my usual. I was afraid we would run into one of the boys and I would have to explain myself. The food in this place isn’t as good but the area is nice: a quiet side street with clean buildings that are free of listless men on their balconies. Hardly anyone used it today. There was only a dog ambling by, an old motorcycle coughing along. Every once in a while, the leaves of the Iroko tree would shiver in the breeze.

I told her about my mother to reassure us both, that once she had been different. Jọkẹ and I don’t speak of her, except as one would talk of a child. Has she eaten? Has she bathed? Aunty Precious is too old for us to discuss my private life in casual conversation and Mr T is too strange. I wonder how I have survived this long without friends my age.

She told me about her mother too, an actress so famous her star did not fit in my horizon. I could not admit my ignorance without embarrassing Abikẹ. She was so certain her mother was an icon that she had built parts of herself round this fact. How could I say that her mother’s name triggered no images, no films. I had to play along.

Before she left, I kissed her. While she was saying goodbye I watched her lips move. They were still glossy, even after the long day.

‘I’ve had a really nice time.’

What would she do if I kissed her? Before I could think myself out of it, I leaned forward. She must have thought it was a hug because her arms lifted. Then she realised and dropped her hands naturally to my shoulders. My lips brushed hers. I tasted the sweet tang of apple. I was easing my mouth open when a car exhaust backfired. My head turned at the sound. We were disconnected. Her hands that lay on my shoulders now seemed to be pushing me away.

‘I should go. Hassan is waiting.’

She stepped back.

‘When are we seeing each other again?’ I asked.

‘Monday, on the road.’

She entered her car with her slim legs swaddled in my jeans. For a second, I wish I’d been foolish enough to let her walk round Lagos in a miniskirt.