The Spider King's Daughter (9 page)

‘When did you turn eighteen?’

‘In January, before I met you.’

It had been his idea to come to the beach. Unfortunately the sun had refused to come along. The sky was grey and a cold breeze blew from the ocean. Between us lay the remains of our
suya
feast. The roasted meat had been too spicy at first.

‘What did you do for your birthday?’ I asked, sucking the last traces of pepper from my thumb.

‘I went to work, came back home, had dinner and slept.’

‘But it was your eighteenth. Didn’t you at least have a cake?’

‘No,’ he said, poking the sand with a stick. ‘I thought buying one was an unnecessary expense and Jọkẹ doesn’t know how to bake.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘She used to bake before my father died. I think she’s depressed now. You saw her. I wish I could buy her anti-
depressants
. They’re too expensive. Thousands of naira for a few and once they finish what will I do?’

‘I could—’

‘Don’t offer. Please. I’m not telling you this for charity.’

‘Even if I loaned you—’

‘Please, Abikẹ, drop it.’

Sometimes I admire this pride of his. Other times I think it’s selfish.

‘Anyway, even if she was well enough to bake, we don’t have an oven. And who would I have invited to eat the cake?’

‘You could have invited me.’

‘I didn’t know you then,’ he said, scooping sand and pouring it over my toes.

‘Well invite me now then.’

‘I don’t have any cake.’

‘Just invite me.’

‘OK. Will you eat birthday cake with me?’

‘Yes, let’s go back home. I’ll bake you one.’

The kitchen keys were in the basement with Aunty Grace, my ex-nanny. We collected them from her and went back upstairs. As we entered, fluorescent lights came on, turning every surface into a mirror. I gave him the remote and began my search for ingredients.

When I cracked an egg, part of the shell crumbled into the
mixture
.

‘Done.’

‘Already?’

‘It’s in the oven. I’ll give it twenty minutes.’

He switched off his episode of 
Fresh Prince
when I sat down. A pimple had formed on my chin and all the while we spoke, I covered it with my thumb. He asked about Aunty Grace, my ex-nanny. I was fond of her once. He told me about his
father
. An accident killed him. I was about to ask what his job had been, when I smelt smoke.

‘The cake!’

When I brought it out, the top was an even black.

‘I’ll get Hassan to buy something from close by.’

‘What’s wrong with this one?’

‘It’s burnt.’

‘It’s only the top that’s burnt. We can manage it.’

‘You can’t have burnt cake for your eighteenth birthday.’

‘I was actually hoping you wouldn’t take it out when it was nice and golden-brown.’

He ate it. I couldn’t take more than a bite of my slice but he finished his and asked for more. It was as I watched him bravely demolishing his second portion that I thought maybe what I felt for him was love. Not the stuff my mother overacted on screen. It was quiet but confident. He looked up while I was studying him. A cake crumb marred his left cheek. As I brushed it away, he took my palm and kissed it. I felt him ready to say what had been passing through my mind.

‘Abikẹ, Aunty Grace said I should check if you have finished so I can come and clean up.’

I turned and glared at the maid. It was only my hawker’s presence that stopped me from saying more than, ‘Thank you. We’ll be done later.’

When she left I turned back to my hawker. The moment was gone.

‘I should be going, Abikẹ. It’s getting late but thank you so much for this.’

‘Wait. I—’ My training has made me a coward in such matters. ‘I want to make a party pack for you.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. The celebrant can’t leave without a party pack.’

For a few moments after he left, I remained in the kitchen, watching the maid clean up. She was very conscientious, wiping everything twice before putting it away. It was because I was there.

‘Take this key and lock up when you finish.’

‘Aunty Grace said I should tell you to bring it. She wants to talk to you.’

I did not want to talk to her. She was always trying to remake the time when she had been like my mother. I don’t remember when I started noticing that she had no style and her English was as simple as a child’s. Once I saw, there was no going back.

‘Just take it to her. I have some homework to do.’

I chose the beach because it was a setting more obviously romantic than her parlour or the Mama Put near my house. I chose wrongly. It would have been better to stay in Mile 12. The beach was crowded with beggars and white-
garmented
church members. The water was too cold for wading and the sand was damp. I thought she just wanted to leave when she offered to bake me a birthday cake. When we got to her house, instead of going to her living room as I had expected, we descended a flight of stairs. After one floor, we stood at the start of a starkly lit corridor that stretched past many doors.

‘Where are we?’

‘Boys’ quarters. Most of the unmarried servants live here. The left half is for men. The right is for women.’

As we walked, I peeped into the lives of these downstairs people. Their rooms were pristine, each one a replica of the last, each occupant dressed in identical uniform. Many came out to greet her. Finally she stopped at a door and knocked.

‘It’s Abikẹ.’

The door opened and a squat beaming woman stood on the threshold.

‘Abikẹ, long time. You don’t come and visit me again. Who is this handsome boy? Is he your boyfriend?’

She ignored the question.

‘Good afternoon, Aunty Grace. Please can I have the key to the kitchen?’

‘What do you want to eat? I’ll send somebody to make it for you.’

‘Don’t worry; I’ll do it myself. Thank you.’

Her voice was tender and she called this maid, who could be no relative of hers, Aunty.

‘Here is the key. When you finish bring it so we can talk. I’ve missed you.’

My mother would have loved the kitchen. It seemed new. The granite floors shone almost as brightly as the lights they reflected. There was a small TV in the corner. While she baked, I watched an episode of what used to be a favourite show. It had been long since I had sat in front of a television by myself. I had lost the habit. I was glad when she put the cake in the oven and came to sit next to me. I switched off the TV.

‘Don’t let me interrupt.’

‘No, let’s talk instead. Tell me about Aunty Grace. The two of you seem very close.’

‘We used to be when I was younger. Typical story. The maid changed my nappies, carried me when I cried, was the last person I saw before I went to sleep . . . There’s one point I thought she was my real mother and my father refused to marry her because she wasn’t beautiful. Then I grew up and became more interested in spending time with people my own age. Also, my father said it wasn’t proper for me to be so close to a maid.’

‘I wonder what he would think of me.’

‘He doesn’t approve of any guy I know. What about you? Did you have a maid that you were very attached to?’

‘I’m a hawker. What do you think?’

I wasn’t ready to tell her how much my life had changed. What if she didn’t believe me? That would hurt more than her thinking I was born with no wider prospects than running on the road.

‘How did your father die?’

‘In a car accident.’

I remember the day we found out. My mother took me to identify the body. At the last moment she changed her mind, leaving me standing in the waiting room too disgusted by the stained chairs to sit. I knew the body would not be his. We would drive home and my father would be sitting in the living room reading a newspaper. Instead, when she came out, she had aged in expression. She hugged me and I inhaled the faint smell of smoke and meat that had not been on her clothes before.

‘If he had been sick, at least we would have been able to prepare but it was so sudden. He didn’t come back from work on Friday. On Saturday we got a phone call saying he was dead. I was man of the house at fifteen. My mother was better then. Still I had to remind her to eat sometimes. One day I found Jọkẹ, leaning against the wall, crying. I wanted to join her but I had to be strong. I was the tissue bringer.’

She reached across the table and touched my hand.

‘What wor—’

‘I think something is burning.’

_{* * *}

It was the cake. I didn’t mind it being burnt. Just the offer would have been enough for me.

‘Abikẹ, it’s really nice.’

‘I’m the one that made it and I can’t even lie to myself.’

While she wasn’t looking, I sneaked some eggshell out of my mouth.

‘Don’t disagree with the celebrant. I like the cake.’

‘The celebrant has some cake on his face.’

‘Where?’ I asked, raising my hand to my left cheek.

‘To the left.’

I moved my hand.

‘
Your
left.’

I deliberately placed my hand further away from the crumb.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll do it.’

She reached across to brush my face and was about to withdraw when I took her hand. I kissed it in the place her palm joined with her wrist.

‘Abikẹ—’

Her maid walked in, breaking the moment. I thought she would say something when the maid had left. Instead she offered to make me a party pack.

‘Abikẹ, this is too much. Just a slice of cake would be fine.’

‘No, take it. It’s the least I can do after making you eat burnt food.’

‘Thank you. Jọkẹ and my mother will enjoy this.’

‘And you too. It’s for you as well.’

_{* * *}

Jọkẹ was sitting at the table doing her homework when I got home.

‘What’s this?’

‘Look and see.’

By the time she’d got to the bottom of the bag, I had to tell her to be quiet, afraid the neighbours would complain.

‘Who gave you?’

‘Abikẹ. She came to the house the other day.’

‘Is she your girlfriend?’

‘No, she’s not.’

‘Then why would she give you all this?’ Before I could answer, Jọkẹ had taken the bag to my mother’s room. ‘Mummy, look. Toblerone. Grapes. Apples.’

I was relieved when the maid interrupted us today. If she hadn’t, I would have asked Abikẹ to be my girlfriend and I might be sitting at home now, nursing a rejection. It is pleasanter to live in this precarious hope than to know for certain she doesn’t want me.

I don’t know where going to Yale will leave my hawker and me. A long-distance relationship is impossible with someone who doesn’t have a phone and will never let me buy him one. I could fly down every holiday but that would still leave months where we wouldn’t have contact with each other. What am I worrying about? Are we even in a relationship? He’s kissed me once on the palm and once on my lips. That may mean nothing to him. I’ve done as much with Oritse in a school dance and we’ve never moved further than flirting.

Last week he came to my house to watch a rom-com I hoped would spur him on. Throughout the movie, he held my hand, sometimes rubbing his thumb over my palm. Apart from this light teasing, he ignored the excellent example of the lead actor and neither strayed past my hands nor made any bold declarations.

I gave him a bottle of shower gel Cynthia had wrapped because he’d mentioned Jọkẹ didn’t like the soap he bought. He refused to take it until he knew what was inside and he refused to take it when I told him.

‘When it finishes?’

‘I’ll give her another one.’

He shook his head. ‘We can’t keep borrowing soap from you, Abikẹ.’

‘It’s a gift.’

‘You know I can’t accept it.’

It was true. I knew he wouldn’t accept it though he has never told me why. The label ‘used to be rich’ hangs from everything that concerns him. Yet, he will not tell me how he ended up a hawker. I’m almost certain his father’s death was the key. There’s nothing new in that. Every year or so someone drops out of Forest House because their father has died and they can’t afford the fees any more. They may not become hawkers but some find their position drastically altered. I just wish he’d trust me enough to tell me that once he was more than a hawker and his father’s death changed all that.

I wish Abikẹ would be like my mother and be more forthcoming. My father was the son of a peasant farmer from Ondo State. My mother was the daughter of an Igbo car magnate. As she often recounted proudly, she had been the instigator.

‘I knew your father liked me,’ she would say, speaking to us but looking at him. ‘He was very shy and I was a babe on campus. He was always staring at me but whenever I looked his way, he would pretend he could not see me. So one day I walked up to him and said, “Is there something on my face.”

Here, always, he would interrupt, leaning forward in his leather armchair. ‘No, children. Don’t listen to your mother. What she said was, “Is there something
wrong
with my face? And I said—”

‘Then your father said, “No. Far from it. Your face is the most beautiful face I have ever seen.” Your dad knew how to toast a girl.’

Except, of course, she was the one who did all the toasting. When my grandfather threatened to disown her if she brought Yoruba labourers into his family, my father, ever timid, considered ending their relationship.

‘Girls from good homes didn’t marry without their parents’ permission,’ he would explain sheepishly when they reached this point.

‘Yes but your grandfather was a tribalist. That was the only reason he refused to let me and your father marry. Tribalism is what is holding Nigeria back. You must never judge someone based on their tribe.’

We would nod absently. Jọkẹ’s Barbie and my Gameboy always more interesting than the tired story of how my parents got married.

If anyone could teach me how to toast Abikẹ it would be my mother. Only she could explain the inner workings of a girl who has always had everything. Which words would I use to start such a conversation? Mother, I think I am in love with a girl. Mum, I know I am in love. Mummy, please help me to toast this girl.

Maybe it is normal for Abikẹ to kiss boys. Maybe this means nothing to her. Without a clear sign, I do not know how to trick myself into believing I am enough. Yet, she is different enough for me to try. She is not like the friends who disappeared soon after my private school ‘excluded’ us for not being able to pay the fees. They were happy to come to Maryland and offer their consolations. Once we moved to Mile 12 it was a different story. The first time Tunde came to the flat, I opened the door and found him covering his nose.

‘My guy, how do you deal with the stench? Let’s go out, please.’

His driver took us to the cinema. At the front of the queue, I found out ticket prices had increased.

‘No problem, it’s just a hundred naira you need,’ he said, sliding the money out of his stuffed wallet.

The following weekend, once I opened the door and saw him standing with his hand over his nose I said, ‘Let’s do something in the area.’

‘There’s a party—’

‘No. I don’t want to go for any party. I just want to chill. The Mama Put down the road serves really good food.’

He winced when I said Mama Put.

‘Or we can eat here.’

‘No. Thanks. I’m not hungry.’

‘Since when? You’re always hungry.’

‘There will be food at the party.’

‘There’s food here.’

‘Bros, don’t be offended. My mum said I shouldn’t eat anything here. Let’s just go to the party.’

It was something my mother would have said when we lived in Maryland and could afford such snobberies.

‘I don’t want to go to the party.’

If things were reversed and Tunde was the one in Mile 12, I would have ignored my mother.

‘OK, see you soon then.’

That was the last time I saw him or anyone else from my school.

Abikẹ is as comfortable in her mansion as she is in a Mama Put. I’ve told her of how Jọkẹ wants to be an engineer. I’ve told her of the first time I chased after a
danfo
bus. I’ve even told her of how I felt after my father’s accident, something I’ve never mentioned to my mother. My story is my only thing of value so I am sparing with it.

Nothing has happened since the day I kissed her palm. On days when the sun has made me delirious, I imagine she is in love with me. On other days when the rain has turned me cold, I know this is just an experiment. Yet I still hope. Whenever she takes my hand, or laughs at something I have said, despite myself, this deluded feeling flares up and threatens to drive away all common sense.

The first girl I ever told ‘I love you’ was Ego Ofili. We were fourteen, in the same class. Many seniors wanted her chest that was more than twice her age but I did not want Ego just for her stupendous 32J breasts, according to toilet rumours. I also wanted her because when we were paired on a school trip, I discovered that a girl could be more than her bra size. Ego was funny, she laughed confidently, she had opinions on football yet she could still make me feel breathless when her fingers brushed against my arm.

‘I love you,’ I said into her ear one day, after weeks of gathering courage. I waited for the effect my words would have.

None, it turned out, and I have never had occasion to repeat them. I don’t find any of the Mile 12 girls attractive. It is Abikẹ that I want as a girlfriend. I will tell her soon.