Free The Spider King's Daughter by Chibundu Onuzo Page B

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.

    Chapter  14
     
     
    ‘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,