The Spider King's Daughter Read Online Free

the rear-view mirror. ‘I no believe I dey do this to your father’s car because of a hawker.’
    He wasn’t just a hawker. He was a hawker I was considering adding to my collection of friends. I was tired of people who went to Forest House, or schools just like it.
    Hassan slammed his foot down and the car made a whirring noise.
    ‘Hurry before we pass the place.’
    If after spending an hour with him, I discovered that beneath the good English he had the grasping manners and mindset of a street hawker, I would drive off and never take this route again.
    This time, the sound Hassan made was doubled.
    ‘Quick.’
    A third time and the car slowed down. Smoke began to stream out of the bonnet.
    ‘Hassan, can’t you see the smoke?’
    ‘Aunty, stop making noise. No be you who want car break down?’
    Smoke continued to pour out but I was silent until the car came to a halt. When I flung the door open, the unexpected noise made him cower to the steering.
    ‘Remember, wait an hour before you come back with a mechanic.’
    ‘Why I must bring mechanic?’
    ‘So it will look like the car actually broke down.’
    I climbed out and made a visor with my hand. Cars drove past without bothering to stop. Passers-by did the same. I could see my hawker walking towards us with his sack of ice cream.
    ‘What happened?’ he asked.
    ‘I don’t know.’
    I turned to Hassan. ‘What happened?’
    ‘You know—’
    I gave him a look that sent him sprinting to the car front. When he opened the top, a cloud enveloped his head. By the time the fumes had subsided, my hawker was beside me.
    ‘Maybe you should go and get a mechanic, Hassan.’
    ‘What about you?’
    ‘I’ll stay here with the car.’
    ‘Your daddy no go like it.’
    ‘I’ll be fine.’
    ‘I’m not sure o, Aunty.’
    ‘Hassan,’ I said softly, because my hawker was there.
    ‘Yes, ma.’
    He locked the car and left.
       
     
    Some of the girls on my road can be very forward. Like everyone who sells here, the road has made them brasher and louder. They spit with the boys, they argue with the boys, sometimes they even fight with the boys, scratching and biting until someone comes to drag them away. Yet, they never let us forget that they are girls. Their tops plunge low; buttons remain undone, cheap perfume clings to them. Not all are like this, but the ones I wish to speak to will not speak to me. They look down when I say hello, hiding their smiles behind their fingers until I am gone. When they do speak, I am sad to hear the broken words they call English.
    Still, whether brash or shy, all the girls on my road have a grace to their movements that I have seen nowhere else. In my old school, many of the girls walked with their eyes sweeping the floor. They were always being judged either for their bra size or their fashion sense and they learnt to look down. On the road, none of the girls care who is watching, or if they care, it is because they want to give the watcher a good show. Not only do they glide gracefully with burdens on their heads, they bend to pick money that has been flung at them; dash across roads with cars zooming by and the most daredevil do all this with a child strapped to their back.
       
     
    It was while I was watching a woman pass change to a conductor that the rich girl’s jeep drove past with smoke streaming from its bonnet. I watched it come to a halt and wondered if I should go and see what was wrong. The traffic rush would not start for at least another twenty minutes. By the time I reached her, the driver was peering into the car, his white shirt in danger from engine oil, his watch glinting in the sun. I looked down, painfully aware of the gap between us. When I looked up, the driver was gone.
    Sometimes I’d wondered what would happen if the rich girl climbed from her car to speak to me instead of sticking her head out of the window, then retreating into the safety of her AC. Now she was beside me and I could feel her waiting