Read Online The Spider King's Daughter by Chibundu Onuzo - Free Book Online Page A

said when I was done. Since then the shavings have been consistently brown.
       
     
    I added a few stock cubes to a pot of water before setting the yam to boil. According to our roster, I cook Fridays to Sundays and Jọkẹ does the rest. Often I take some of her days during term time. I see it as an investment. It is Jọkẹ’s education that will get us out of Mile 12, not my hawking and certainly not Abikẹ’s money. Though my mind has wandered to some of the things she could do for us. My most extravagant dream is of moving into her house. There must be at least thirty rooms in that building. No one would notice if we took three. We wouldn’t mind where she put us as long as the beds were comfortable and water came out of the taps.
    After my first visit, I was bursting to describe her mansion to someone, but Aunty Precious wasn’t interested and it felt wrong to tell a homeless man what I’d seen. But Mr T kept asking questions. What was her house like? How large was the garden? How many guards, did you say?
    I didn’t tell him we were meeting again because I didn’t know if things were going to progress any further than tomorrow. No point getting excited over something that might not work out, something that perhaps I was imagining, I reminded myself, thinking of the moistness in Oritse’s eyes when he looked at her.
       
     
    The yam was ready.
    ‘Jọkẹ, come and eat.’
    ‘What did you make?’
    ‘Mile 12 pottage.’
    She lifted the lid and sniffed. ‘Poor man’s pottage is more accurate. There are houses in this area where they put stock fish. I know because I’ve eaten in them.’
    ‘What have I told you about eating in strangers’ houses?’
    ‘They are not strangers. They are our neighbours and their yam pottage tastes nothing like yours. Thank you.’ She took her plateful of food and flounced back to our room.
    No matter what she said, this dish was not the yam pottage of my childhood. It was one born of the necessity of Mile 12 just as my culinary skills were born of my new address. In Maryland, I never even knew how to light a stove. I had to learn after we moved here, like I had to learn to chase after cars with ice cream balanced on my head.
    * * *
    ‘Mummy, food is ready.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Will you eat some now?’
    ‘Later,’ she said, rising and moving towards her room. ‘You and Jọkẹ take your fill.’
    Widowhood is not a disease, I wanted to say as I watched her shuffle to her door. Or maybe her vacancy had nothing to do with the loss of my father. Maybe she was still mourning her jewellery and manicured nails. Stripped of those things, she was nothing. She shut her door and I was left alone with my thoughts about tomorrow.

    Chapter  13
     
     
    ‘What are you wearing?’
    Well I hadn’t been so rude about his pink shirt.
       
     
    It all started when I arrived at our meeting place and there was no hawker. Granted it would have been easier to sit in the car with the windows wound up. I had a feeling this would not fit with the day my hawker had planned.
    ‘Hassan, disappear.’
    He drove off with 2000 naira and left me glaring at anyone who wanted to grab my bag, which was everyone. I needed to relax. After all, who was going to attack me in broad daylight with at least a hundred people wandering around? My better judgement may have proved right if it were not for the outfit my mother suggested.
    First, it was the drivers. Pot-bellied men leaned out of their cars to whistle at me, one fool even got out of his Peugeot to talk to me. At first I found it amusing, this sparring between myself and the randy drivers of Lagos. So far I was winning with my returns of ‘Your mother’ for ‘Sexy lady’ and ‘Pervert’ when an old man shouted, ‘Nice legs.’
    Then the pedestrians joined in. They were too close, close enough to jostle me and whisper, ‘How much?’ Or perhaps, if their English could not handle such complexities, ‘Ashewo’ would do, which