Spider Web

 

    There is no way she would ever get used to this Lagos sun. A fan whirls above her head and another stands directly in front of her but the combined effort of both isn’t enough to blow cool air past the wide holes of her heavy lace. Nothing compared to their apartment in the States. This is all Debola’s doing. It’s for his sake she has to visit the market at least two times a week because his taste buds are sensitive yet he won’t grant her request to have an air conditioner fixed in their home. It's been three days now. Three whole days of her requesting. To think that this air-conditioner won't be of use to her alone. He would even be the one benefitting the most since his friends and business partners almost always trooped in and out like soldier ants. She on the other hand didn’t have a lot of friends. Too many friends, too much drama. Luckily, she knows exactly what to do. After all, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and the way to Debola’s ears is through his taste buds. 

Her red tapanppa had been carefully removed and placed on the arm of the chair exposing her shiny new weave. Her hair, the envy of every other woman that patronizes Banke's Special Hair Salon. Long, full and lush. Banke would always praise it while carefully whispering that most of her Big customers either had receding hairlines or stunted hair, completely inferior to hers.

“Christie! Biliki!”, he saunters in.

“Ah Honey! When did you get back?”. His speech is slow and clear. He is never in a rush to get his thoughts across to the next person. His eyes are sleepy and red. He looks down at her as he does even when she’s standing next to him..

“A few minutes ago. Ifemi, it’s really hot in here”

“Yes, I can feel it too. I couldn’t even get an hour of decent sleep. I was just turning and rolling even with the fans at full speed”. A smile tries to climb onto her lips. She won’t have to do much to convince him.

“Honey, where are these girls? Christie!”

“They’re getting the stuff I bought from the car. Why? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find my bracelet” 

Her eyes flicker to his wrist. He is right but how? He is never without it. She had worn it once before, after much persuasion, and realised she could fit two of her wrists into it. Although it doesn’t fit him well either, it has never fallen off.

"Ifemi, let me check again before the girls return", she pushes herself up from the gold embroidered sofa and vanishes from his sight. 

She stands in the middle of the room and wonders where to start from. Christie deserves all the accolades for getting this room clean everyday. She begins inside the closet they both shared. When she was a new bride, about three years ago, her sister-in-law got most of her clothes. Their clothes. Sista Olaotan, the youngest of Debola’s five older sisters, said she was too western. She remembered throwing her head back in laughter at the comment.

“Wearing shirts and trousers all the time will make all these tooth-pick legged girls think you’re their mate. I’m not saying you should stop wearing them. I’m not your husband. But let them know you’re a Gbadebo”

 Debola told her she was named Olaotan because their father’s plummeting business had suddenly skyrocketed a few days before her birth. Her name was a subtle message to her father’s ill-wishers. 

She checks through the clothes. Nothing. She moves into the bathroom. He has forgotten a lot of things in there before. Still nothing. She gives up after searching the cupboards and drawers. Her blouse is now stuck to her back and the longer she remains in the room, the more she’s convinced the sun keeps inching closer to her house with every second. 

 She slowly rises from the edge of the bed she has been sitting on and unties her Iro. A pin falls off. Straightening the Iro, she ties it around her waist firmly but gently. Big Mummy, Debola's oldest sister, says she should be careful. The first always poses strenuous, she’ll eventually get used to it.

She decides to return to her seat and her fans. They blew air at least. Her steps are careful but swift. She continues to move until her cloth stuck onto something. It's a nail. She doubles over to free herself but loses balance in the process. Her palms land firmly on the sofa just in time. She laughs, her chest thumping. 

Wem…Jumoke. Easy.

Her back is straight when she sees it. It’s been lying beneath the sofa all along. He told her why he is so attached to it. It was his mother’s last gift. She stoops, her knees gently touching the floor first. She reaches for the silver bracelet. She's about to rise when her eyes land on the webs. They look invisible yet have very thick connections. Almost as thick as a rope. She looks closely. A black insect seems to be trapped in it. It isn't moving. It must have struggled and struggled and eventually gotten exhausted. For how long did it have to struggle though? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Days? Weeks? Or Four years?

"No", she mutters

That isn't going to happen to her. Right? Her fate won't be like the insect's and she won't have to struggle too, would she?  Will her lies become a strong connected force that'll trap and eventually strangle her? What happens if he gets to know?  They’ll throw her out if they know, won’t they? That is not going to happen. She shakes her head. Nobody knows and nobody ever will. She picks a magazine from the stool in front of the sofa and clears away the webs. Weakling.

"Bloody murderer!"

She freezes. She recognises that voice anywhere. That unrepentant drunken tongue that refused to learn to speak in English and stuck to his coarse Yoruba dialect.

"Oh oh. So now that you live in a fancy house and wear trousers you think you have become a better person? An important person?".

The last time she heard those vicious spits was the last time she ever had to take a blow to the face.

"Wemimo, speaking English and living as a rich woman won’t ever wash the blood of my children off you. You murderer!”. She tries her best not to turn to him but her curiosity wants to see what has become of him.

“You. You. Wemimo. You…” Nothing has changed. He still remains her worst nightmare. Still reeks of alcohol and looks untidy. She wants to ask him how he got here, past Debola, the guard and the rest of the helps without getting turned back or chased out. 

“There is no Wemimo here. And no! I did not kill Sarah and Ibukun. You did!”, she spits in English. She’s up on her feet. Her heart is impulsively beating fast.
“Shut up!”

“What? The truth is bitter?!”, she continues in English. ”How did you even get here?”

“Wemimo, so because you memorised the big big grammar inside the books that your madam gave you, you have lost your respect. Remember I am your father!”.

 He didn’t like English because it is disrespectful. That was the reason she remembers him giving to people anyway. Miss Ursula was a fine Polish woman but her bargaining skills weren’t polished. She was hopelessly losing to the happy pepper seller when Wemimo came to her rescue. She became an intermediary between both women with her flawless Yoruba and galloping English. She was just fourteen. 

“Baba? I am more of a Father than you ever were and will ever be!”

She wants to hurt him just like he did to her and her little ones many years back when he slapped, kicked or beat them unprovoked. She wonders why he’s not trying to do the same now. His hands seem invisible though.

“When you know you weren’t man enough to take care of us, why did you have us? ", she switches to his tongue. "Did …”, she fights back the tears mounting in her eyes.

“Did you even know how I had to bury those two? Huh?”, her lips quivered. 

“How should that concern me? You took them away and killed them so they were yours to bury. I at least know why they died and that’s because of you! If you hadn’t taken my children away from me, they would still be here ”, he says pointedly. She tries to imagine if at any point he saw them as more than punching bags to vent his anger and frustration. After they ran from home with the little change she could find, they became penniless and hungry two weeks later. She fell ill and while she shivered on the wet mat in that uncompleted building, she vaguely heard the nine and six years old discussing finding a way to help their sick sister. She woke up hours later to an awful silence. She couldn’t find them and when she did, she had already lost them.

“When you know you won’t try or even pretend to be a father to us. Why did you give birth to us?!”, she ignores his remarks.

“Shut up! Shut up your dirty mouth, liar”, he snaps. “My doom started with you!”. Mrs Ursula took her in as a little help after she pleaded she had nowhere else to go. The Polish woman and her English husband, Sir Kelvin, took her in. They were an old couple with high moral standards. They took her to church where the gown-wearing pastor had once told them how unforgiveness was a cage of hurt, torment and stagnation. Wemmie, he’s a priest. A reverend father. Mrs Ursula would say after every Sunday mass until it stuck. At gatherings, she was introduced as Wemmie-our-little-friend. She read the big English books and practised speaking with the couple. 

Years down the line, she met Debola. Mrs. Ursula had gifted her a two-piece for her birthday that year. She wore it that day, matching it with the jewellery Sir Kelvin had given to her. She had to pick their niece from the airport. A weird tingling played at the tips of her finger as their hands touched. The warmth of his handshake transferred to the rest of her body. His smile made her feel important, special. Except the Martins, nobody else had looked at her with such respect and admiration. Even when people who came to visit her foreign friends acted polite, she could see in their eyes that they saw her as a maid without uniform. She felt different, lighter, giddy with this young man. But Wemimo did not deserve this happiness. Wemimo was the girl that caused her siblings to die. Wemimo belonged to the dump. Wemimo was the daughter of a poor drunk and was no match for Adebola Gbadebo.

Olajumoke.

“My problems started from the day I heard about you. You ruined my whole life's. You're surely a bastard and your mother pushed her bastard child with Akinola on me. That useless woman. I wish you had died instead. Instead of my children. I wish it was just you and your useless mother. You think you can kill my children and go scot free? Lead a peaceful and wealthy life?", he laughs. "Your lies will come knocking at your door soon and I'll be its escort". He points a finger at her.

And the reverend father says she should forgive this man?

“You won’t dare”, she snarls. She continues in English.

“Watch me”, he advances speedily to the door.

"Don’t do anything stupid", She hastens after him. He moves so fast she can’t tell if he’s floating or walking.

"You belong to the slums and you’ll return here. I’ll make sure of that", he keeps talking. She reaches to grab him a number of times but her hand never gets to him. He’s about to draw the curtain when her mouth opens.

“Debola!”

He looks up from the magazine in his hands. He’s now sitting in her seat. She walks in and looks around, her chest pounding hard against her chest. Her father is gone. Vanished. Disappeared into the thin air.

“Honey, your Big Mummy is back . She sent Jamiu to... ”, His voice trails off.

“Olajumoke, are you okay? Is there something wrong?”, he stands in his full glory. His eyes no longer look lazy. She’s soaked in sweat. Her eyes are puzzled and scared. 

“There's something I need to tell you”, her chest in motion.

He tilts his head and furrows his brows.

"Yes?"

She gulps.

“We need a new cleaner”.

***********************************Author's Note************************************

Hello there
Thanks for taking your time to read through. I know it's a long read but you would agree with me that it's an enjoyable right?
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