Her sons, they think and they think, and they remember every tale that Anansi ever told them. Then they go down to the tar pits, and they buy them sixpennyworth of tar, enough to fill four big buckets, and they take that tar back to the pea patch. And down in the middle of the pea patch, they make them a man out of tar: tar face, tar eyes, tar arms, tar fingers, and tar chest. It was a fine man, as black and as proud as Anansi himself.
That night, old Anansi, fat as he has ever been in his whole life, he scuttles up out of the ground, and, plump and happy, stomach swollen like a drum, he strolls over to the pea patch.
“Who you?” he says to the tar man.
The tar man, he don’t say one word.
“This is my place,” said Anansi to the tar man. “It’s my pea patch. You better get going, if you know what’s good for you.”
The tar man, he don’t say one word, he don’t move a muscle.
“I’m the strongest, mightiest, most powerful fellow there is or was or ever will be,” says Anansi to the tar man. “I’m fiercer than Lion, faster than Cheetah, stronger than Elephant, more terrible than Tiger.” He swelled up with pride at his power and strength and fierceness, and he forgot he was just a little spider. “Tremble,” says Anansi. “Tremble and run.”
The tar man, he didn’t tremble and he didn’t run. Tell the truth, he just stood there.
So Anansi hits him.
Anansi’s fist, it sticks solid.
“Let go of my hand,” he tells the tar man. “Let go my hand, or I’m going to hit you in the face.”
The tar man, he says not a word, and he doesn’t move the tiniest muscle, and Anansi hits him, bash, right in the face.
“Okay,” says Anansi, “a joke’s a joke. You can keep hold of my hands if you like, but I got four more hands, and two good legs, and you can’t hold them all, so you let me go and I’ll take it easy on you.”
The tar man, he doesn’t let go of Anansi’s hands, and he doesn’t say a word, so Anansi hits him with all his hands and then kicks him with his feet, one after another.
“Right,” says Anansi. “You let me go, or I bite you.” The tar fills his mouth, and covers his nose and his face.
So that’s how they find Anansi the next morning, when his wife and his sons come down to the pea patch by the old breadfruit tree: all stuck to the tar man, and dead as history.
They weren’t surprised to see him like that.
Those days, you used to find Anansi like that all the time.
CHAPTER SIX
IN WHICH FAT CHARLIE FAILS TO GET HOME, EVEN BY TAXI
DAISY WOKE UP TO THE ALARM. SHE STRETCHED IN HER BED like a kitten. She could hear the shower, which meant that her flatmate was already up. She put on a pink fuzzy dressing gown and went into the hall.
“You want porridge?” she called through the bathroom door.
“Not much. If you’re making it, I’ll eat it.”
“You certainly know how to make a girl feel wanted,” said Daisy, and she went into the kitchenette and put the porridge on to cook.
She went back into her bedroom, pulled on her work clothes, then looked at herself in the mirror. She made a face. She put her hair up into a tight bun at the back.
Her flatmate, Carol, a thin-faced white woman from Preston, stuck her head around the bedroom door. She was toweling her hair vigorously. “Bathroom’s all yours. What’s the word on the porridge?”
“Probably needs a stir.”
“So where were you the other night anyway? You said you were going off to Sybilla’s birthday drinks, and I know you never came back.”
“None of your beeswax, innit.” Daisy went into the kitchen and stirred the porridge. She added a pinch of salt and stirred it some more. She glopped the porridge into bowls and placed them on the counter.
“Carol? Porridge is getting cold.”