My Sister, The Serial killer - Nobel

"My Sister, 

The Serial Killer"

Oyinkan Braithwaite

Mystery | Thriller | Crime | Murder | Serial Killer |   Suspense

Short Stories : 

(Part -1) 

"My Sister, The Serial killer "

WORDS :-

Ayoola summons me with these words -  Korede, I killed him.

I had hoped I would never hear those words again.

BLEACH :-

I bet you didn’t know that bleach masks the smell of blood. Most people use

bleach indiscriminately, assuming it is a catchall product, never taking the time

to read the list of ingredients on the back, never taking the time to return to the

recently wiped surface to take a closer look. Bleach will disinfect, but it’s not

great for cleaning residue, so I use it only after I have first scrubbed the

bathroom of all traces of life, and death.

It is clear that the room we are in has been remodeled recently. It has that

never-been-used look, especially now that I’ve spent close to three hours

cleaning up. The hardest part was getting to the blood that had seeped in

between the shower and the caulking. It’s an easy part to forget.

There’s nothing placed on any of the surfaces; his shower gel, toothbrush and

toothpaste are all stored in the cabinet above the sink. Then there’s the shower

mat—a black smiley face on a yellow rectangle in an otherwise white room.

Ayoola is perched on the toilet seat, her knees raised and her arms wrapped

around them. The blood on her dress has dried and there is no risk that it will

drip on the white, now glossy floors. Her dreadlocks are piled atop her head, so

they don’t sweep the ground. She keeps looking up at me with her big brown

eyes, afraid that I am angry, that I will soon get off my hands and knees to

lecture her.

I am not angry. If I am anything, I am tired. The sweat from my brow drips

onto the floor and I use the blue sponge to wipe it away.

I was about to eat when she called me. I had laid everything out on the tray in

preparation—the fork was to the left of the plate, the knife to the right. I folded

the napkin into the shape of a crown and placed it at the center of the plate. The

movie was paused at the beginning credits and the oven timer had just rung,

when my phone began to vibrate violently on my table.

By the time I get home, the food will be cold.

I stand up and rinse the gloves in the sink, but I don’t remove them. Ayoola is

looking at my reflection in the mirror.

“We need to move the body,” I tell her.

“Are you angry at me?” Perhaps a normal person would be angry, but what I feel now is a pressing

need to dispose of the body. When I got here, we carried him to the boot of my

car, so that I was free to scrub and mop without having to countenance his cold

stare.

“Get your bag,” I reply.

We return to the car and he is still in the boot, waiting for us.

The third mainland bridge gets little to no traffic at this time of night, and

since there are no lamplights, it’s almost pitch-black, but if you look beyond the

bridge you can see the lights of the city. We take him to where we took the last

one—over the bridge and into the water. At least he won’t be lonely.

Some of the blood has seeped into the lining of the boot. Ayoola offers to

clean it, out of guilt, but I take my homemade mixture of one spoon of

ammonia to two cups of water from her and pour it over the stain. I don’t know

whether or not they have the tech for a thorough crime scene investigation in

Lagos, but Ayoola could never clean up as efficiently as I can.

THE NOTEBOOK :-

“Who was he?”

“Femi.”

I scribble the name down. We are in my bedroom. Ayoola is sitting cross-

legged on my sofa, her head resting on the back of the cushion. While she took

a bath, I set the dress she had been wearing on fire. Now she wears a rose-

colored T-shirt and smells of baby powder.

“And his surname?”

She frowns, pressing her lips together, and then she shakes her head, as

though trying to shake the name back into the forefront of her brain. It doesn’t

come. She shrugs. I should have taken his wallet.

I close the notebook. It is small, smaller than the palm of my hand. I watched

a TEDx video once where the man said that carrying around a notebook and

penning one happy moment each day had changed his life. That is why I bought

the notebook. On the first page, I wrote, I saw a white owl through my bedroom

window. The notebook has been mostly empty since.

“It’s not my fault, you know.” But I don’t know. I don’t know what she is

referring to. Does she mean the inability to recall his surname? Or his death?

“Tell me what happened.”

THE POEM :-

Femi wrote her a poem.

(She can remember the poem, but she cannot remember his last name.)

I dare you to find a flaw

in her beauty;

or to bring forth a woman

who can stand beside

her without wilting.

And he gave it to her written on a piece of paper, folded twice, reminiscent

of our secondary school days, when kids would pass love notes to one another

in the back row of classrooms. She was moved by all this (but then Ayoola is

always moved by the worship of her merits) and so she agreed to be his woman.

On their one-month anniversary, she stabbed him in the bathroom of his

apartment. She didn’t mean to, of course. He was angry, screaming at her, his

onion-stained breath hot against her face.

(But why was she carrying the knife?)

The knife was for her protection. You never knew with men, they wanted

what they wanted when they wanted it. She didn’t mean to kill him; she wanted

to warn him off, but he wasn’t scared of her weapon. He was over six feet tall

and she must have looked like a doll to him, with her small frame, long

eyelashes and rosy, full lips.

(Her description, not mine.)

She killed him on the first strike, a jab straight to the heart. But then she

stabbed him twice more to be sure. He sank to the floor. She could hear her

own breathing and nothing else.

BODY :-

Have you heard this one before? Two girls walk into a room. The room is in a

flat. The flat is on the third floor. In the room is the dead body of an adult male.

How do they get the body to the ground floor without being seen?

First, they gather supplies.

“How many bedsheets do we need?”

“How many does he have?” Ayoola ran out of the bathroom and returned

armed with the information that there were five sheets in his laundry cupboard.

I bit my lip. We needed a lot, but I was afraid his family might notice if the only

sheet he had was the one laid on his bed. For the average male, this wouldn’t be

all that peculiar—but this man was meticulous. His bookshelf was arranged

alphabetically by author. His bathroom was stocked with the full range of

cleaning supplies; he even bought the same brand of disinfectant as I did. And

his kitchen shone. Ayoola seemed out of place here—a blight in an otherwise

pure existence.

“Bring three.”

Second, they clean up the blood.

I soaked up the blood with a towel and wrung it out in the sink. I repeated the

motions until the floor was dry. Ayoola hovered, leaning on one foot and then

the other. I ignored her impatience. It takes a whole lot longer to dispose of a

body than to dispose of a soul, especially if you don’t want to leave any

evidence of foul play. But my eyes kept darting to the slumped corpse, propped

up against the wall. I wouldn’t be able to do a thorough job until his body was

elsewhere.

Third, they turn him into a mummy.

We laid the sheets out on the now dry floor and she rolled him onto them. I

didn’t want to touch him. I could make out his sculpted body beneath his white

tee. He looked like a man who could survive a couple of flesh wounds, but then

so had Achilles and Caesar. It was a shame to think that death would whittle

away at his broad shoulders and concave abs, until he was nothing more than

bone. When I first walked in I had checked his pulse thrice, and then thrice

more. He could have been sleeping, he looked so peaceful. His head was bent

low, his back curved against the wall, his legs askew. Ayoola huffed and puffed as she pushed his body onto the sheets. She wiped

the sweat off her brow and left a trace of blood there. She tucked one side of a

sheet over him, hiding him from view. Then I helped her roll him and wrap him

firmly within the sheets. We stood and looked at him.

“What now?” she asked.

Fourth, they move the body.

We could have used the stairs, but I imagined us carrying what was clearly a

crudely swaddled body and meeting someone on our way. I made up a couple of

possible explanations—

“We are playing a prank on my brother. He is a deep sleeper and we are

moving his sleeping body elsewhere.”

“No, no, it’s not a real man, what do you take us for? It’s a mannequin.”

“No, ma, it is just a sack of potatoes.”

I pictured the eyes of my make-believe witness widening in fear as he or she

ran to safety. No, the stairs were out of the question.

“We need to take the lift.”

Ayoola opened her mouth to ask a question and then she shook her head and

closed it again. She had done her bit, the rest she left to me. We lifted him. I

should have used my knees and not my back. I felt something crack and

dropped my end of the body with a thud. My sister rolled her eyes. I took his

feet again, and we carried him to the doorway.

Ayoola darted to the lift, pressed the button, ran back to us and lifted Femi’s

shoulders once more. I peeked out of the apartment and confirmed that the

landing was still clear. I was tempted to pray, to beg that no door be opened as

we journeyed from door to lift, but I am fairly certain that those are exactly the

types of prayers He doesn’t answer. So I chose instead to rely on luck and speed.

We silently shuffled across the stone floor. The lift dinged just in time and

opened its mouth for us. We stayed to one side while I confirmed that the lift

was empty, and then we heaved him in, bundling him into the corner, away

from immediate view.

“Please hold the lift!” cried a voice. From the corner of my eye, I saw Ayoola

about to press the button, the one that stops the lift from closing its doors. I

slapped her hand away and jabbed the ground button repeatedly. As the lift

doors slid shut, I caught a glimpse of a young mother’s disappointed face. I felt

a little guilty—she had a baby in one arm and bags in the other—but I did not feel guilty enough to risk incarceration. Besides, what good could she be up to

moving around at that hour, with a child in tow?

“What is wrong with you?” I hissed at Ayoola, even though I knew her

movement had been instinctive, possibly the same impulsiveness that caused her

to drive knife into flesh.

“My bad,” was her only response. I swallowed the words that threatened to

spill out of my mouth. This was not the time.

On the ground floor, I left Ayoola to guard the body and hold the lift. If

anyone was coming toward her, she was to shut the doors and go to the top

floor. If someone attempted to call it from another floor, she was to hold the lift

doors. I ran to get my car and drove it to the back door of the apartment

building, where we fetched the body from the lift. My heart only stopped

hammering in my chest when we shut the boot.

Fifth, they bleach.

SCRUBS :-

The administration at the hospital decided to change the nurses’ uniform

from white to pale pink, as the white was beginning to look more like curdled

cream. But I stick with my white—it still looks brand-new.

Tade notices this.

“What’s your secret?” he asks me as he touches the hem of my sleeve. It feels

like he has touched my skin—heat flows through my body. I hand him the chart

of the next patient and I try to think of ways to keep the conversation going, but

the truth is, there is no way to make cleaning sound sexy—unless you are

cleaning a sports car, in a bikini.

“Google is your friend,” I say.

He laughs at me and looks down at the chart, then groans.

“Mrs. Rotinu, again?”

“I think she just likes seeing your face, Doctor.” He looks up at me and grins.

I try to smile back without betraying the fact that his attention has made my

mouth go dry. As I exit the room, I swing my hips the way Ayoola is fond of

doing.

“Are you okay?” he calls after me as my hand reaches the doorknob. I turn to

face him.

“Hmmm?”

“You’re walking funny.”

“Oh, uh—I pulled a muscle.” Shame, I know thy name. I open the door and

leave the room quickly.

—

rs. Rotinu is seated on one of our many leather sofas in reception. She has

one entirely to herself, and she has used the excess space to settle her handbag

and makeup bag next to her. The patients look up as I head toward them,

hoping it is now their turn. Mrs. Rotinu is powdering her face, but she pauses as

I approach her.

“Is the doctor ready to see me now?” she asks. I nod and she stands, clicking the powder case shut. I gesture for her to follow, but she stops me with a hand

on my shoulder: “I know the way.”

Mrs. Rotinu has diabetes—type 2; in other words, if she eats right, loses

some weight, and takes her insulin on time, there is no reason for us to see her

as often as we do. And yet here she is, half skipping to Tade’s office. I

understand, though. He has the ability to look at you and make you feel like you

are the only thing that matters for as long as you have his attention. He doesn’t

look away, his eyes don’t glaze over, and he is generous with his smile.

I redirect my steps to the reception desk and slam my clipboard on it, hard

enough to wake Yinka, who has found a way to sleep with her eyes open.

Bunmi frowns at me because she is on the phone booking in a patient.

“What the hell, Korede? Don’t wake me up unless there’s a fire.”

“This is a hospital, not a bed and breakfast.”

She mutters “Bitch” as I walk away, but I ignore her. Something else has

caught my attention. I let the air out through my teeth and go to find

Mohammed. I sent him to the third floor an hour ago, and sure enough, he is

still there, leaning on his mop and flirting with Assibi, she of the long, permed

hair and startlingly thick eyelashes, another cleaner. She makes a run for it as

soon as she sees me coming down the corridor. Mohammed turns to face me.

“Ma, I was just—”

“I don’t care. Did you wipe the windows in reception with hot water and one-

quarter distilled vinegar, like I asked you to?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Okay…show me the vinegar.” He shifts from foot to foot, staring at the

floor and trying to figure out how to weave his way out of the lie he has just

told. It comes as no surprise to me that he can’t clean windows—I can smell

him from ten feet away, and it is a rank, stale odor. Unfortunately, the way a

person smells is not grounds for dismissal.

“I no see where I go buy am from.”

I give him directions to the local store, and he slouches off to the staircase,

leaving his bucket in the middle of the hallway. I summon him back to clean up

after himself.

When I return to the ground floor, Yinka is asleep again—her eyes staring

into nothing, much the way Femi’s did. I blink the image from my mind and

turn to Bunmi. “Is Mrs. Rotinu done?”

“No,” Bunmi replies. I sigh. There are other people in the waiting room. And

all the doctors seem to be occupied with talkative people. If I had my way, each

patient would have a fixed consultation time.

THE PATIENT :-

The patient in room 313 is Muhtar Yautai.

He is lying on the bed, his feet dangling over the end. He has daddy longlegs

limbs, and the torso to which they are attached is quite long too. He was thin

when he got here, but has gotten thinner still. If he does not wake soon, he will

waste away.

I lift the chair from beside the table in the corner of the room and set it down

a few inches from his bed. I sit on it, resting my head in my hands. I can feel a

headache coming on. I came to talk to him about Ayoola, but it is Tade whom I

cannot seem to get out of my mind.

“I…I wish…”

There is a comforting beep every few seconds from the machine monitoring

his heart. Muhtar doesn’t stir. He has been in this comatose state for five

months—he was in a car accident with his brother, who was behind the wheel.

All the brother got for his efforts was whiplash.

I met Muhtar’s wife once; she reminded me of Ayoola. It wasn’t that her

looks were memorable, but she seemed completely oblivious to all but her own

needs.

“Isn’t it expensive to keep him in a coma like this?” she had asked me.

“Do you want to pull the plug?” I returned.

She raised her chin, offended by my question. “It is only proper that I know

what I am getting myself into.”

“I understood that the money was coming from his estate…”

“Well, yes…but…I…I’m just…”

“Hopefully, he will come out of the coma soon.”

“Yes…hopefully.”

But a lot of time has passed since that conversation and the day is drawing

near when even his children will think shutting off his life support is best for

everyone.

Until then, he plays the role of a great listener and a concerned friend. “I wish Tade would see me, Muhtar. Really see me.”

HEAT :-

The heat is oppressive, and so we find ourselves conserving our energy by

restricting our movements. Ayoola is draped across my bed in her pink lace bra

and black lace thong. She is incapable of practical underwear. Her leg is

dangling off one end, her arm dangling off the other. Hers is the body of a

music video vixen, a scarlet woman, a succubus. It belies her angelic face. She

sighs occasionally to let me know she is alive.

I called the air conditioner repairman, who insisted he was ten minutes away.

That was two hours ago.

“I’m dying here,” Ayoola moans.

Our house girl ambles in carrying a fan and places it facing Ayoola, as though

she is blind to the sweat rolling down my face. The loud whirring sound of the

blades is followed by a gust of air, and the room cools very slightly. I lower my

legs from the sofa and drag myself to the bathroom. I fill the basin with cold

water and rinse my face, staring at the water as it ripples. I imagine a body

floating away. What would Femi think of his fate, putrefying under the third

mainland bridge?

At any rate, the bridge is no stranger to death.

Not long ago, a BRT bus, filled to the brim with passengers, drove off the

bridge and into the lagoon. No one survived. Afterward, the bus drivers took to

shouting, “Osa straight! Osa straight!” to their potential customers. Lagoon

straight! Straight to the lagoon!

Ayoola lumbers in, pulling down her knickers: “I need to pee.” She plops

herself on the toilet seat and sighs happily as her urine pitter-patters into the

ceramic bowl.

I pull the plug in the basin and walk out. It’s too hot to protest the use of my

facilities, or to point out that she has her own. It’s too hot to speak.

I lie on my bed, taking advantage of Ayoola’s absence, and close my eyes.

And there he is. Femi. His face forever etched into my mind. I can’t help but

wonder what he was like. I met the others before they lost their lives, but Femi

was a stranger to me.

I knew she was seeing someone, the signs were all there—her coy smiles, the

late-night conversations. I should have paid closer attention. If I had met him, perhaps I would have seen this temper she claims he had. Perhaps I could have

steered her away from him, and we would have been able to avoid this outcome.

I hear the toilet flush just as Ayoola’s phone vibrates beside me, giving me an

idea. Her phone is password protected, if you can call “1234” protection. I go

through her many selfies until I find a picture of him. His mouth is set in a firm

line, but his eyes are laughing. Ayoola is in the shot, looking lovely as usual, but

his energy fills the screen. I smile back at him.

“What are you doing?”

“You got a message,” I inform her, swiping quickly to return to the home

page.

INSTAGRAM :-

#FemiDurandIsMissing has gone viral. One post in particular is drawing a lot

of attention—Ayoola’s. She has posted a picture of them together, announcing

herself as the last person to have seen him alive, with a message begging

anyone, anyone, to come forward if they know anything that can be of help.

She was in my bedroom when she posted this, just as she is now, but she

didn’t mention what she was up to. She says it makes her look heartless if she

says nothing; after all, he was her boyfriend. Her phone rings and she picks it

up.

“Hello?”

Moments later she kicks me.

“What the—?”

It’s Femi’s mother, she mouths. I feel faint; how the hell did she get Ayoola’s

number? She puts the phone on loudspeaker.

“…dear, did he tell you if he was going to go anywhere?”

I shake my head violently.

“No, ma. I left him pretty late,” Ayoola replies.

“He was not at work the next day.”

“Ummm…sometimes he used to jog at night, ma.”

“I know, I told him, I told him all the time it was not safe.” The woman on

the line starts to cry. Her emotion is so strong that I start to cry too—I make no

sound, but the tears I have no right to burn my nose, my cheeks, my lips.

Ayoola starts crying too. Whenever I do, it sets her off. It always has. But I

rarely cry, which is just as well. Her crying is loud and messy. Eventually, the

sobs turn to hiccups and we are quiet. “Keep praying for my boy,” the woman

says hoarsely, before hanging up.

I turn on my sister. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

“What?”

“Do you not realize the gravity of what you have done? Are you enjoying

this?” I grab a tissue and hand it to her, then take some for myself. Her eyes go dark and she begins to twirl her dreadlocks.

“These days, you look at me like I’m a monster.” Her voice is so low, I can

barely hear her.

“I don’t think you’re—”

“This is victim shaming, you know…”

Victim? Is it mere coincidence that Ayoola has never had a mark on her,

from any of these incidents with these men; not even a bruise? What does she

want from me? What does she want me to say? I count the seconds; if I wait too

long to respond, it will be a response in itself, but I’m saved by my door

creaking open. Mum wanders in, one hand pinned to her half-formed gèlè.

“Hold this for me.”

I stand up and hold the part of the gèlè that is loose. She angles herself to

face my standing mirror. Her miniature eyes take in her wide nose and fat lips,

too big for her thin oval face. The red lipstick she has painted on further

accentuates the size of her mouth. My looks are the spitting image of hers. We

even share a beauty spot below the left eye; the irony is not lost on me. Ayoola’s

loveliness is a phenomenon that took my mother by surprise. She was so

thankful that she forgot to keep trying for a boy.

“I’m going to Sope’s daughter’s wedding. The both of you should come. You

might meet someone there.”

“No, thank you,” I reply stiffly.

Ayoola smiles and shakes her head. Mum frowns at the mirror.

“Korede, you know your sister will go if you do; don’t you want her to

marry?” As if Ayoola lives by anyone’s rules but her own. I choose not to

respond to my mother’s illogical statement, nor acknowledge the fact that she is

far more interested in Ayoola’s marital fate than in mine. It is as though love is

only for the beautiful.

After all, she didn’t have love. What she had was a politician for a father and

so she managed to bag herself a man who viewed their marriage as a means to

an end.

The gèlè is done, a masterpiece atop my mother’s small head. She cocks her

head this way and that, and then frowns, unhappy with the way she looks in

spite of the gèlè, the expensive jewelry and the expertly applied makeup.

Ayoola stands up and kisses her on the cheek. “Now, don’t you look

elegant?” she says. No sooner is it said than it becomes true—our mother swells with pride, raises her chin and sets her shoulders. She could pass for a dowager

now at the very least. “Let me take a picture of you?” Ayoola asks, pulling out

her phone.

Mum strikes what seems like a hundred poses, with Ayoola directing them,

and then they scroll through their handiwork on the screen and select the picture

that satisfies them—it is one of my mum in profile with her hand on her hip

and her head thrown back in laughter. It is a nice picture. Ayoola busies herself

on the phone, chewing on her lip.

“What are you doing?”

“Posting it on Instagram.”

“Are you nuts? Or have you forgotten your previous post?”

“What’s her previous post?” interjects Mum.

I feel a chill go through my body. It has been happening a lot lately. Ayoola

answers her.

“I…Femi is missing.”

“Femi? That fine boy you were dating?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Jésù ṣàánú fún wa! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I…I…was in shock.”

Mum rushes over to Ayoola and pulls her into a tight embrace.

“I’m your mum, you must tell me everything. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma.”

But of course she can’t. She can’t tell her everything.

TRAFFIC :-

I am sitting in my car, fiddling with the knob, switching between channels

because there is nothing else to do. Traffic plagues this city. It is only 5:15 a.m.

and my car is one among many packed tightly on the road, unable to move. My

foot is tired of tapping on and off the brake.

I look up from the radio and I inadvertently meet the eye of one of the

LASTMA officials lurking around the line of cars, watching out for his next

hapless victim. He sucks in his cheeks, frowns and walks toward me.

My heart drops to the floor, but there is no time to pick it back up. I tighten

my fingers around the wheel to still the tremor in my hand. I know this has

nothing to do with Femi. It can’t have anything to do with Femi. Lagos police

are not even half that efficient. The ones tasked with keeping our streets safe

spend most of their time ferreting out money from the general public to bolster

their meager salary. There is no way they could be on to us already.

Besides, this man is LASTMA. His greatest task, his raison d’être: to chase

down individuals who run a red light. At least, this is what I tell myself as I

begin to feel faint.

The man knocks on my window. I wind it down a few inches—enough to

prevent angering him, but not enough for his hand to slip through and unlock

my door.

He rests his hand on my roof and leans forward, as though we were two

friends about to have a casual tête-à-tête. His yellow shirt and brown khakis are

starched to an inch of their life, so much so that even the strong wind is unable

to stir the fabric. An orderly uniform is a reflection of the owner’s respect for

his profession; at least, that’s what it is supposed to mean. His eyes are dark,

two wells in a vast desert—he is almost as light as Ayoola. He smells of

menthol.

“Do you know why I have stopped you?”

I am tempted to point out that it is the traffic that has stopped me, but the

futility of my position is all too clear. I have no way to escape.

“No, sir,” I reply as sweetly as I can. Surely if they were on to us, it’s not

LASTMA that they would send, and they wouldn’t do it here. Surely…

“Your seat belt. You are not wearing your seat belt.” “Oh…” I allow myself to breathe. The cars in front of me inch forward, but I

am forced to stay in place.

“License and registration, please.” I am loath to give this man my license. It

would be as foolhardy as allowing him to enter my car—then he would call the

shots. I don’t answer immediately, so he tries to open my door, grunting when

he finds it locked. He stands up straight, his conspiratorial manner flung away.

“Madam, I said license and registration!” he barks.

On a normal day, I would fight him, but I cannot draw attention to myself

right now, not while I’m driving the car that transported Femi to his final

resting place. My mind wanders to the ammonia blemish in the boot.

“Oga,” I say with as much deference as I can muster, “no vex. It was a

mistake. E no go happen again.” My words are more his than mine. Educated

women anger men of his ilk, and so I try to adopt broken English, but I suspect

my attempt betrays my upbringing even more.

“This woman, open the door!”

Around me cars continue to press forward. Some people give me a look of

sympathy, but no one stops to help.

“Oga, please let’s talk, I’m sure we can reach an understanding.” My pride

has divorced itself from me. But what can I do? Any other time, I would be able

to call this man the criminal that he is, but Ayoola’s actions have made me

cautious. The man crosses his arms, dissatisfied but willing to listen. “I no go

lie, I don’t have plenty money. But if you go gree—”

“Did you hear me ask for money?” he asks, fiddling once again with my door

handle, as though I’d be silly enough to unlock it. He straightens up and puts his

hands on his hips. “Oya park!”

I open my mouth and shut it again. I just look at him.

“Unlock your car. Or we go tow am to the station and we go settle am there.”

My pulse is thumping in my ears. I can’t risk them searching the car.

“Oga abeg, let’s sort am between ourselves.” My plea sounds shrill. He nods,

glances around and leans forward again.

“Wetin you talk?”

I bring 3,000 naira out of my wallet, hoping it is enough and that he will

accept it quickly. His eyes light up, but he frowns.

“You are not serious.” “Oga, how much you go take?”

He licks his lips, leaving a large dollop of spittle to glisten at me. “Do I look

like a small pikin?”

“No, sir.”

“So give me wetin a big man go use enjoy.”

I sigh. My pride waves me goodbye as I add another 2,000 to the money. He

takes it from me and nods solemnly.

“Wear your seat belt, and make you no do am again.”

He wanders off, and I pull my seat belt on. Eventually, the tremors still.

RECEPTION :-

A man enters the hospital and makes a beeline for the reception desk. He is

short, but he makes up for that in girth. He barrels toward us, and I brace

myself for the impact.

“I have an appointment!”

Yinka grits her teeth and offers him her best smile. “Good morning, sir, can I

take your name?”

He tosses her his name and she checks the files, thumbing through them

slowly. You can’t rush Yinka, but she slows down intentionally when you push

her buttons. Soon the man is tapping his fingers, then his feet. She raises her

eyes and peers at him through her lashes, then lowers them again and continues

her search. He starts to puff up his cheeks; he is about to explode. I consider

stepping in and diffusing the situation, but a yelling from a patient might do

Yinka some good, so I settle back into my seat and watch.

My phone lights up and I glance at it. Ayoola. It is the third time she has

called, but I am not in the mood to talk to her. Maybe she is reaching out

because she has sent another man to his grave prematurely, or maybe she wants

to know if I can buy eggs on the way home. Either way, I’m not picking up.

“Ah, here it is,” Yinka cries, even though I have seen her examine that exact

file twice and continue her search. He breathes out through his nostrils.

“Sir, you are thirty minutes late for your appointment.”

“Ehen?”

It is her turn to breathe out.

This morning is quieter than usual. From where we sit, we can see everyone

in the waiting area. It is shaped like an arc, with the reception desk and sofas

facing the entrance and a large-screen TV. If we dimmed the lights, we would

have ourselves a personal cinema. The sofas are a rich burgundy color, but

everything else is devoid of color. (The decorator was not trying to broaden

anyone’s horizons.) If hospitals had a flag it would be white—the universal sign

for surrender.

A child runs out of the playroom to her mum and then runs back in. There is

no one else waiting to be attended to except the man who is right now getting on Yinka’s nerves. She sweeps a curl of Monrovian hair from her eyes and stares at

him.

“Have you eaten today, sir?”

“No.”

“Okay, good. According to your chart, you haven’t had a blood sugar test in a

while. Would you like to have one?”

“Yes. Put it there. How much is it?” She tells him the price, and he hisses.

“You are very foolish. Abeg, what do I need that for? You people will just be

calling price anyhow, as if you are paying someone’s bill!”

Yinka glances my way. I know she is checking if I am still there, still

watching her. She is recalling that if she steps out of line she will be forced to

listen to my well-rehearsed speech about the code and culture of St. Peter’s. She

smiles through clenched teeth.

“No blood sugar test it is then, sir. Please take a seat, and I will let you know

when the doctor is ready to see you.”

“You mean he is not free now?”

“No. Unfortunately you are now”—she checks her watch—“forty minutes

late, so you’ll have to wait till the doctor has a free appointment.”

The man gives a terse shake of his head and then takes his seat, staring at the

television. After a minute he asks us to change the channel. Yinka mutters a

series of curses under her breath, masked only by the occasional sounds of

delight from the child in the sunny playroom and the football commentary from

the TV.

DANCING :-

There is music blasting from Ayoola’s room. She is listening to Whitney

Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” It would be more appropriate to

play Brymo or Lorde, something solemn or yearning, rather than the musical

equivalent of a packet of M&M’S.

I want to have a shower, to rinse the smell of the hospital’s disinfectant off

my skin, but instead I open the door. She doesn’t sense my presence—she has

her back to me and is thrusting her hips from side to side, her bare feet stroking

the white fur rug as she steps this way and that. Her movements are in no way

rhythmical; they are the movements of someone who has no audience and no

self-consciousness to shackle them. Days ago, we gave a man to the sea, but

here she is, dancing.

I lean on the door frame and watch her, trying and failing to understand how

her mind works. She remains as impenetrable to me as the elaborate “artwork”

daubed across her walls. She used to have an artist friend, who painted the bold

black strokes over the whitewash. It feels out of place in this dainty room with

its white furniture and plush toys. He would have been better off painting an

angel or a fairy. At the time, I could tell that he hoped his generous act and his

artistic talents would secure him a place in her heart, or at the very least a place

in her bed, but he was short and had teeth that were fighting for space in his

mouth. So all it got him was a pat on the head and a can of Coke.

She starts to sing; her voice is off-key. I clear my throat. “Ayoola.”

She turns to me, still dancing; her smile spreads. “How was work?”

“It was alright.”

“Cool.” She shakes her hips and bends her knees. “I called you.”

“I was busy.”

“Wanted to come and take you out for lunch.”

“Thanks, but I normally eat lunch at work.”

“Okay o.”

“Ayoola,” I begin again, gently.

“Hmmm?”

“Maybe I should take the knife.”

She slows her movements, until all she is doing is swaying side to side with

the occasional swing of her arm. “What?”

“I said, maybe I should take the knife.”

“Why?”

“Well…you don’t need it.”

She considers my words. It takes her the time it takes paper to burn.

“No thanks. I think I’ll hold on to it.” She increases the tempo of her dance,

whirling away from me. I decide to try a different approach. I pick up her iPod

and turn the volume down. She faces me again and frowns. “What is it now?”

“It’s not a good idea to have it, you know, in case the authorities ever come to

the house to search. You could just toss it in the lagoon and reduce the risk of

getting caught.”

She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. We stare at each other for a

moment, then she sighs and drops her arms.

“The knife is important to me, Korede. It is all I have left of him.”

Perhaps if it were someone else at the receiving end of this show of

sentimentality, her words would hold some weight. But she cannot fool me. It is

a mystery how much feeling Ayoola is even capable of.

I wonder where she keeps the knife. I never come across it, except in those

moments when I am looking down at the bleeding body before me, and

sometimes I don’t even see it then. For some reason, I cannot imagine her

resorting to stabbing if that particular knife were not in her hand; almost as if it

were the knife and not her that was doing the killing. But then, is that so hard to

believe? Who is to say that an object does not come with its own agenda? Or

that the collective agenda of its previous owners does not direct its purpose

still?

FATHER :- 

Ayoola inherited the knife from him (and by “inherited” I mean she took it

from his possessions before his body was cold in the ground). It made sense that

she would take it—it was the thing he was most proud of.

He kept it sheathed and locked in a drawer, but he would bring it out

whenever we had guests to show it off to. He would hold the nine-inch curved

blade between his fingers, drawing the viewer’s attention to the black comma-

like markings carved and printed in the pale bone hilt. The presentation usually

came with a story.

Sometimes, the knife was a gift from a university colleague—Tom, given to

him for saving Tom’s life during a boating accident. At other times, he had

wrenched the knife from the hand of a soldier who had tried to kill him with it.

Finally—and his personal favorite—the knife was in recognition of a deal he

had made with a sheik. The deal was so successful that he was given the choice

between the sheik’s daughter and the last knife made by a long-dead craftsman.

The daughter had a lazy eye, so he took the knife.

These stories were the closest things to bedtime tales we had. And we

enjoyed the moment when he would bring out the knife with a flourish, his

guests instinctively shrinking back. He always laughed, encouraging them to

examine the weapon. As they oohed and aahed, he nodded, reveling in their

admiration. Inevitably, someone would ask the question he was waiting for

—“Where did you get it?”—and he would look at the knife as though seeing it

for the first time, rotating it until it caught the light, before he launched into

whichever tale he thought best for his audience.

When the guests were gone he would polish the knife meticulously with a rag

and a small bottle of rotor oil, cleaning away the memory of the hands that had

touched it. I used to watch as he squeezed a few drops of oil out, gently rubbing

it along the blade with his finger in soft circular motions. This was the only time

I ever witnessed tenderness from him. He took his time, rarely taking note of

my presence. When he got up to rinse the oil from the blade, I would take my

leave. It was by no means the end of the cleaning regimen, but it seemed best to

be gone before it was over, in case his mood shifted during the process.

Once, when she thought he had gone out for the day, Ayoola entered his

study and found his desk drawer unlocked. She took the knife out to look, smearing it with the chocolate she had just been eating. She was still in the

room when he returned. He dragged her out by her hair, screaming. I turned up

just in time to witness him fling her across the hallway.

—

am not surprised she took the knife. If I had thought of it first, I would have

taken a hammer to it.

KNIFE :-

Maybe she keeps it under her queen-sized bed or in her chest of drawers?

Perhaps it is hidden in the pile of clothes stuffed into her walk-in closet? Her

eyes follow mine as they roam the bedroom.

“You’re not thinking of sneaking in here and taking it, are you?”

“I don’t understand why you need it. It’s dangerous to have it in the house.

Give it to me, and I’ll take care of it.”

She sighs and shakes her head.

ÈFÓ :-

I took almost nothing from my father, in terms of looks. When I look at my

mother, I am looking at my future self, though I could not be any less like her if

I tried.

She is beached on the sofa in the downstairs living room, reading a Mills &

Boon novel—a tale of the type of love she has never known. Beside her, in an

armchair, Ayoola is hunched over, scrolling through her phone. I walk past

them and reach for the adjoining door to the kitchen.

“You are going to cook?” my mum asks.

“Yes.”

“Korede, teach your sister now. How will she look after her husband if she

cannot cook?”

Ayoola pouts but says nothing. She doesn’t mind being in the kitchen. She

likes to sample everything she sets her eyes on.

In our home, the house girl and I do most of the cooking; my mother cooks

too, but not as much as she used to when he was alive. Ayoola, on the other

hand—well, it’ll be interesting to see whether she can do anything more

strenuous than putting bread in the toaster.

“Sure,” I say, as Ayoola gets up to follow.

The house girl has prepared everything that I will need and set it aside on the

counter, already washed and chopped. I like her. She is neat and has a calm

demeanor, but more important, she knows nothing about him. We let go of all

our staff after he passed, for “practical” reasons. We went a year with no help,

which is harder than it sounds in a house of this size.

The chicken is already boiling. Ayoola opens the lid so the smell escapes,

thick with fat and Maggi. “Mmm.” She sucks in the aroma and moistens her

cherry lips. The house girl blushes. “You try o!”

“Thank you, ma.”

“Maybe I should help you taste if it is ready,” Ayoola suggests, smiling.

“Maybe you could help by chopping the spinach.”

Ayoola looks at all the prepped goods. “But it is already chopped na.” “I need more.” The house girl hurries to get another bushel of spinach, but I

call her back. “No, let Ayoola do it.”

Ayoola sighs theatrically but fetches the spinach from the pantry. She picks

up a knife, and unwittingly I think of Femi slumped in the bathroom, his hand

not far from where the wound was, as though he had tried to stop the blood loss.

How long was it before he died? Her grip is loose and the blade is pointed

downward. She chops the spinach quickly and roughly, wielding the knife like a

child would, with no care toward what the finished product will look like. I am

tempted to stop her. The house girl tries not to laugh. I suspect that Ayoola is

going out of her way to frustrate me.

I choose to ignore her and instead pour palm oil into a pot and add onions

and peppers, which soon begin to fry.

“Ayoola, are you watching?”

“Mm-hmm,” she replies as she leans on the counter and types furiously on

her phone with one hand. She is still gripping the kitchen knife with the other. I

go over to her, remove her fingers from the hilt and take the knife from her

possession. She blinks.

“Please focus; after this we add the tàtàsé.”

“Got it.”

As soon as I turn my back, I hear the tapping sound of her keypad again. I

am tempted to react, but I have left the palm oil for too long and it is beginning

to spit and hiss at me. I reduce the heat of the flame and decide to forget about

my sister for the time being. If she wants to learn, she will.

“What are we making again?”

Seriously?

“Èfọ́,” the house girl replies.

Ayoola nods solemnly and angles her phone over the pot of simmering ẹ̀fọ́,

just as I add the spinach.

“Hey people, ẹ̀fọ́loading!”

For a moment, I am frozen, spinach still in hand. Could she really be

uploading videos to Snapchat? Then I shake myself out of the trance. I grab the

phone from her and hit delete, staining the screen with the oil on my hands.

“Hey!”

“Too soon, Ayoola. Way too soon.”

#3 :-

“Femi makes three, you know. Three, and they label you a serial killer.”

I whisper the words in case anyone were to pass Muhtar’s door. In case my

words were to float through the two inches of wood and tickle the ears of a

passerby. Aside from confiding in a comatose man, I take no risks. “Three,” I

repeat to myself.

Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I stopped counting backward and sat at my

desk, turning on my laptop. I found myself typing “serial killer” into the Google

search box at 3 a.m. There it was: three or more murders…serial killer.

I rub my legs to rid them of the pins and needles that have set in. Is there any

point in telling Ayoola what I have learned?

“Somewhere, deep down, she must know, right?”

I look at Muhtar. His beard has grown again. If it is not shaved at least once a

fortnight, it gets knotted and threatens to cover half his face. Someone must

have overlooked items in his care roster. Yinka is usually the culprit in matters

such as these.

The faint sound of whistling in the corridor, drawing nearer. Tade. When he

is not singing, he is humming, and when he tires of that, he whistles. He is a

walking music box. The sound of him lifts my spirits. I walk to the door and

open it just as he is approaching. He smiles at me.

I wave at him, then drop my hand, chastising myself for my eagerness. A

smile would have been more than enough.

“I should have known you’d be here.”

He opens the file he is carrying, glances at it and then hands it over. It is

Muhtar’s file. There is nothing of note in it. He hasn’t gotten better or worse.

The time when they will make the call is drawing nearer. I twist my head to get

another look at Muhtar. He is at peace, and I envy him that. Every time I close

my eyes I see a dead man. I wonder what it would be like to see nothing again.

“I know you care about him. I just want to make sure you’re prepared if…”

His voice trails off.

“He’s a patient, Tade.” “I know, I know. But there’s no shame in caring about another human being’s

fate.”

He touches my shoulder gently, a gesture of comfort. Muhtar will die

eventually, but he won’t die in a pool of his own blood and he won’t be

devoured by the saltwater crabs that thrive in the water below the third

mainland bridge. His family will know his fate. Tade’s warm hand lingers on my

shoulder, and I lean into it.

“On a more positive note, rumor has it you are going to be promoted to head

nurse!” he tells me, abruptly removing his hand. It’s not a huge surprise; the

post has been vacant for some time and who else could fill it? Yinka? I’m much

more concerned with the hand that no longer lingers on my shoulder.

“Great,” I say, because that is what he’d expect me to say.

“When you get it, we will celebrate.”

“Cool.” I hope I sound nonchalant.

SONG :-

Tade has the smallest office of all the doctors, but I have never heard him

complain. If it has even occurred to him that it may be unjust, he doesn’t show

it.

But today, the size of his office works to our advantage. At the sight of the

needle, the little girl bolts for the door. Her legs are short, so she doesn’t get far.

Her mother grabs her.

“No!” cries the girl, kicking and scratching. She is like a wild chicken. Her

mother grits her teeth and bears the pain. I wonder if this was what she

imagined when she was posing for her pregnancy photo shoot and making

merry at the baby shower.

Tade dips his hand into the bowl of candy he keeps on his desk for his child

patients, but she smacks away the proffered lollipop. His smile does not falter;

he begins to sing. His voice fills up the room, submerging my brain. Everything

stills. The child pauses, confused. She looks up at her mother, who is transfixed

by the voice too. It doesn’t matter that he sings “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” We

still have goosebumps. Is there anything more beautiful than a man with a voice

like an ocean?

I am standing beside the window, and I look down to see a group of people

gathered, peering up and pointing. Tade rarely puts on the air conditioner and

his window is usually open. He told me he likes to hear Lagos while he works—

the never-ending car horns, the shouts of hawkers and tires screeching on the

road. Now Lagos listens to him.

The little girl sniffs, and wipes away her mucus with the back of her hand.

She waddles toward him. When she is older, she will remember him as her first

love. She will think of how perfect his crooked nose was, and how soulful his

eyes. But even if she forgets his face, his voice will stay with her in her dreams.

He scoops her into his arms and dries her tears with a tissue. He looks up at

me expectantly and I shake myself out of my reverie. She doesn’t notice as I

approach her with the needle. She doesn’t budge as I wipe her thigh with an

alcohol swab. She tries to join him in song, her voice broken by the occasional

sniff and hiccup. Her mother twists her wedding ring with her finger, as though

contemplating taking it off. I consider passing her a tissue to catch the drool

that threatens to spill from her mouth.  

The little girl flinches as I inject the drug into her, but Tade’s grip on her is

firm. It’s all over.

“Aren’t you a brave girl?” he says to her. She beams and this time is willing

to collect her prize, a cherry-flavored lollipop.

“You are so good with kids,” her mother coos. “Do you have any of your

own?”

“No, I don’t. One day, though.” He smiles at her, showing off his perfect

teeth and creasing his eyes. She can be forgiven for believing that this smile is

just for her, but it is the smile he gives to everyone. It is the smile he gives to

me. She blushes.

“And you are not married?” (Madam, do you want two husbands?)

“No, no, I’m not.”

“I have a sister. She is very—”

“Dr. Otumu, here are the prescriptions.”

Tade looks up at me, confused by my abruptness. Later, he will tell me

gently, always gently, that I shouldn’t cut patients off. They come to the hospital

for healing and, sometimes, it’s not just their bodies that need attention.

RED :-

Yinka is painting her nails at the reception desk. Bunmi sees me coming and

nudges her, but it is a pointless warning—Yinka will not stop on my account.

She acknowledges my presence with a feline smile.

“Korede, those shoes are nice o!”

“Thanks.”

“The original must be very expensive.”

Bunmi chokes on the water she is sipping, but I won’t rise to the bait. Tade’s

voice is still ringing in my body, calming me as it calmed the child. I ignore her

and turn to Bunmi.

“I’m going to take my lunch break now.”

I head to the second floor with food in hand and knock on Tade’s office

door, waiting for his rich voice to grant entry. Gimpe, another cleaner (with all

these cleaners, you would think the hospital would be spotless), looks my way

and gives me a friendly, knowing smile—showing off her high cheekbones. I

refuse to return it; she knows nothing about me. I try to bury my nerves and

give the door another gentle knock.

“Come in.”

I am not entering his office in my capacity as a nurse. My hands are holding

a container of rice and ẹ̀fọ́. I can tell that the smell makes its way to him as

soon as I walk in.

“To what do I owe this honor?”

“You rarely take advantage of your lunch break…so I thought I would bring

lunch to you.”

He accepts the container from me, and peers inside, inhaling deeply. “You

made this? It smells exquisite!”

“Here.” I hand him a fork and he digs in. He closes his eyes and sighs, and

then opens them to smile at me.

“This is…Korede…men…you’re going to make someone an awesome wife.”

I’m sure the grin on my face is too big to be captured in a picture. I feel it all

the way to my toes.  “I’m going to have to eat the rest of this later,” he tells me, “I need to finish

this report.”

I stand up from the corner of the desk that I had made my temporary seat,

and offer to stop by later for the Tupperware.

“Korede, seriously, thank you. You’re the best.”

—

here is a woman in the waiting room trying to calm a crying baby by rocking

it back and forth, but the child won’t be hushed. It is irritating some of the other

patients who are waiting in reception. It is irritating me. I head toward her with

a rattle, on the off chance that it will distract the baby, just as the entrance

doors open—

Ayoola walks in, and every head turns her way and stays there. I stop where I

am, rattle in hand, trying to understand what is happening. She looks as though

she has brought the sunshine in with her. She is wearing a bright yellow

shirtdress that by no means hides her generous breasts. Her feet are in green,

strappy heels that make up for what she lacks in height, and she is holding a

white clutch, big enough to house a nine-inch weapon.

She smiles at me, and saunters in my direction. I hear a man mutter “Damn”

under his breath.

“Ayoola, what are you doing here?” My voice is tight in my throat.

“It’s lunchtime!”

“And?”

She floats away not answering my question and heads toward the reception

desk. Their eyes are fixed on her and she smiles her best smile. “You’re my

sister’s friends?”

They open their mouths and shut them again.

“You’re Korede’s sister?” Yinka squeaks. I can see her trying to make the

connection, measuring Ayoola’s looks against mine. The resemblance is there—

we share the same mouth, the same eyes—but Ayoola looks like a Bratz doll

and I resemble a voodoo figurine. Yinka, who is arguably the most attractive

employee at St. Peter’s, with her cherub nose and wide lips, pales to the point of

insignificance beside Ayoola. She knows it, too; she is twirling her expensive

hair with her fingers and has pushed back her shoulders.

“What scent is that?” asks Bunmi. “It’s like…it’s really…”  Ayoola leans forward and whispers something into Bunmi’s ear, and then she

straightens up. “It’s our little secret, okay?” She winks at Bunmi, and Bunmi’s

usually impassive face lights up. I’ve had enough. I head toward the desk.

Just then, I hear Tade’s voice and my heart quickens. I grab Ayoola, dragging

her toward the exit.

“Hey!”

“You have to go!”

“What? Why? Why are you being so—”

“What’s going…” Tade’s voice trails to nothing and the blood cools within

my body. Ayoola frees herself from my grip, but it doesn’t matter; it’s too late

anyway. His eyes settle on Ayoola and dilate. He adjusts his coat. “What’s going

on?” he says again, his voice suddenly husky.

“I’m Korede’s sister,” she announces.

He looks from her to me, then back to her again. “I didn’t know you had a

sister?” He is talking to me, but his eyes have not left hers.

Ayoola pouts. “I think she is ashamed of me.”

He smiles at her; it is a kind smile. “Of course not. Who could be? Sorry, I

didn’t get your name.”

“Ayoola.” She puts out her hand, the way a queen would for her subjects.

He takes it and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I’m Tade.”

SCHOOL :-

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I realized that Ayoola was beautiful and I

was…not. But what I do know is that I was aware of my own inadequacies long

before.

Secondary school can be cruel. The boys would write lists of those who had a

figure eight—like a Coca-Cola bottle—and those who had a figure one—like a

stick. They would draw pictures of girls and exaggerate their best or worst

features and tack them on the school notice board for the world to see—at least

until the teachers took the pictures down, tearing them from the pins, an act that

left a little shred of paper stuck like a taunt.

When they drew me, it was with lips that could belong to a gorilla and eyes

that seemed to push every other feature out of the way. I told myself boys were

immature and dumb, so it didn’t matter that they didn’t want me; and it didn’t

matter that some of them tried anyway because they assumed I’d be so grateful

for the attention that I’d do whatever they wanted. I stayed away from all of

them. I mocked girls for swooning over guys, judged them for kissing, and held

them in contempt at every opportunity. I was above it all.

I was fooling no one.

Two years in, I was hardened and ready to protect my sister, who I was sure

would receive the same treatment that I had. Maybe hers would be even worse.

She would come to me each day weeping and I would wrap my arms around her

and soothe her. It would be us against the world.

Rumor has it that she was asked out on her first day, by a boy in SS2. It was

unprecedented. Boys in the senior classes didn’t notice juniors, and when they

did, they rarely tried to make it official. She said no. But I received the message

loud and clear.

STAIN :

“I just thought we should spend lunchtime together.”

“No, you wanted to see where I work.”

“And what’s wrong with that, Korede?” my mother exclaims. “You’ve been

working there for a year and your sister has never seen the place!” She is

horrified by this, as she is by every injustice that she feels Ayoola suffers.

The house girl brings the stew out of the kitchen and sets it on the table.

Ayoola leans forward and serves herself a bowlful. She has unwrapped the

àmàlà and dipped it in the soup before my mother and I have finished serving

ourselves.

We sit in our customary places at our rectangular table: my mother and I are

seated on the left, Ayoola on the right. There used to be a chair at the head of

the table, but I burnt it down to a crisp in a bonfire just outside our compound.

We don’t talk about that. We don’t talk about him.

“Your aunty Taiwo called today,” Mum begins.

“Did she now?”

“Yes. She says she would like to hear from both of you more.” Mum pauses,

waiting for some sort of response from one of us.

“Can you pass the okro, please?” I ask.

My mother passes the okro.

“So,” she pivots, seeing as her previous topic baited no one, “Ayoola said

there is a cute doctor at your work.”

I drop the bowl of okro and it spills on the table—it is green and filmy,

quickly seeping into the floral tablecloth.

“Korede!”

I dab at it with a cloth but I can barely hear her—my thoughts are eating my

brain.

I can feel Ayoola’s eyes on me and I try to calm down. The house girl runs to

clean the stain, but the water she uses makes the stain bigger than it was before.

HOME :

I am staring at the painting that hangs above the piano nobody plays.

He commissioned it after he passed off a shipment of refurbished cars to a

car dealership as brand-new—a painting of the house his dodgy deals had built.

(Why have a painting of the house you live in, hanging inside said house?)

As a child I would go stand before it and wish myself inside. I imagined that

our alternates were living within its watercolor walls. I dreamt that laughter and

love lay beyond the green lawn, inside the white columns and the heavy oak

door.

The painter even added a dog barking at a tree, as if he knew that we used to

have one. She was soft and brown and she made the mistake of peeing in his

office. We never saw her again. The painter could not have known this; and yet,

there is a dog in the painting and sometimes I swear I could hear her bark.

The beauty of our home could never compare to the beauty of the painting,

with its perpetual pink dawn and leaves that never withered, and its bushes,

tinted with otherworldly shades of yellow and purple, ringing the garden. In the

painting, the outside walls are always a crisp white, while in reality we have not

been able to repaint them and they are now a bleached-out yellow.

When he died, I sold every other painting he had bought for the cash. It was

no great loss. If I could have gotten rid of the house itself, I would have. But he

had built our southern-style home from scratch, which meant no rent and no

mortgage (besides, no one was interested in acquiring a home of that size, when

the paperwork for the land it was built on was dubious at best). So instead of

moving into a smaller apartment, we managed the maintenance costs of our

grand, history-rich home as best we could.

I glance at the painting once more as I make the trip from bedroom to

kitchen. There are no people in it, which is just as well. But if you squint, you

can see a shadow through one of the windows that looks like it might be a

woman.

“Your sister just wants to be around you, you know. You are her best friend.”

It is my mother. She comes to stand beside me. Mother still talks about Ayoola

as if she were a child, rather than a woman who rarely hears the word “no.”

“What harm will it do if she comes to your workplace now and again?”  “It’s a hospital, Mum, not a park.”

“Eh, we have heard. You stare at that painting too much,” she says, changing

the subject. I look away, and instead direct my eyes to the piano.

We should really have sold the piano, too. I swipe my finger across the lid,

making a line in the dust. My mother sighs and walks away, because she knows

I won’t be able to rest until there is not a speck of dust left on the piano’s

surface. I head to the supply cabinet and grab a set of wipes. If only I could

wipe away all our memories with it.

BREAK :-

“You didn’t tell me you have a sister.”

“Mm.”

“I mean, I know the school you went to and the name of your first boyfriend.

I even know that you love to eat popcorn with syrup drizzled on it—”

“You really need to try it sometime.”

“—but I didn’t know you have a sister.”

“Well, you know now.”

I turn away from Tade and dispose of the needles on the metal tray. He could

do it himself, but I like to find ways to make his work easier. He is hunched

over his desk, scribbling on the page before him. No matter how quickly he

writes, his handwriting is large and its loops connect letter to letter. It is neat

and clear. The scratching sound of the pen stills, and he clears his throat.

“Is she seeing anyone?”

I think of Femi sleeping on the ocean bed, being nibbled at by fishes. “She is

taking a break.”

“A break?”

“Yes. She isn’t going to be dating anyone for a while.”

“Why?”

“Her relationships tend to end badly.”

“Oh…guys can be jerks.” This sounds strange coming from a guy, but Tade

has always been sensitive. “Do you think she would mind if you gave me her

number?” I think of Tade, fish swimming by as he drifts down toward the

ocean bed, toward Femi.

I place the syringe back on the tray carefully so I don’t accidentally stab

myself with it.

“I’ll have to ask her,” I tell him, though I don’t intend to ask Ayoola anything.

If he doesn’t see her, she will fade into the far reaches of his mind like a cold

draft on an otherwise warm day.

FLAW :-

“So, you people share the same father and mother?”

“She told you she is my sister.”

“But is she your full sister? She looks kinda mixed.”

Yinka is really starting to piss me off. The sad thing is that her questions are

neither the most obnoxious I have received in my lifetime nor the most

uncommon. After all, Ayoola is short—her only flaw, if you consider that to be

a flaw—whereas I am almost six feet tall; Ayoola’s skin is a color that sits

comfortably between cream and caramel and I am the color of a Brazil nut,

before it is peeled; she is made wholly of curves and I am composed only of

hard edges.

“Have you informed Dr. Imo that the X-ray is ready?” I snap.

“No, I—”

“Then I suggest you do that.”

I walk away from her before she has a chance to finish her excuse. Assibi is

making the beds on the second floor and Mohammed is flirting with Gimpe

right in front of me. They’re standing close to each other, his hand pressed on

the wall as he leans toward her. He will have to wipe that spot down. Neither of

them see me—his back is to me, and her eyes are cast down, lapping up the

honeyed compliments he must be paying her. Can’t she smell him? Perhaps she

can’t; Gimpe also gives off a rank smell. It is the smell of sweat, of unwashed

hair, of cleaning products, of decomposed bodies under a bridge…

“Nurse Korede!”

I blink. The couple has vanished. Apparently I’ve been standing in the

shadows for a while, lost in thought. Bunmi is looking at me quizzically. I

wonder how many times she has called me. She is hard to read. There doesn’t

seem to be a whole lot going on in her frontal lobe.

“What is it?”

“Your sister is downstairs.”

“Excuse me?”

I don’t wait for her to repeat her statement and I don’t wait for the lift—I run  down the stairs. But when I get to the reception area, Ayoola is nowhere to be

seen and I am panting for breath. Perhaps my colleagues have sensed how much

my sister’s presence here rattles me; maybe they are messing with me.

“Yinka, where is my sister?” I wheeze.

“Ayoola?”

“Yes. The only sister I have.”

“How would I know? I didn’t even know you had one sister before, for all I

know you people are ten.”

“Okay, fine, where is she?”

“She is in Dr. Otumu’s office.”

I take the stairs, two at a time. Tade’s office is directly opposite the lift, so

that every time I arrive on the second floor, I am tempted to knock on his door.

Ayoola’s laughter vibrates in the hallway—she has a big laugh, deep and

unrestrained, the laughter of a person without a care in the world. On this

occasion, I don’t bother to knock.

“Oh! Korede, hi. I am sorry I stole your sister. I understand you two have a

lunch date.” I take in the scene. He has chosen not to sit behind his desk, but

instead is sitting in one of the two chairs in front. Ayoola is perched on the

other. Tade has angled his own seat so that it is facing her, and as though that

were not enough, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

The top Ayoola has chosen to wear today is white and backless. Her leggings

are a bright pink and her dreadlocks are piled atop her head. They look heavy,

too heavy for her to bear, but her frame is straight. In her hands is his phone,

where she was undoubtedly in the process of saving her number.

They look at me without a shadow of guilt.

“Ayoola, I told you I can’t do lunch.”

Tade is surprised by my tone. He frowns but says nothing. He is too polite to

interrupt a squabble between sisters.

“Oh, that’s okay. I spoke to that nice girl Yinka and she said she will cover

for you.” Oh, she would, would she?

“She shouldn’t have done that. I have a lot of work to do.”

Ayoola pouts. Tade clears his throat.

“You know, I haven’t had my lunch break yet. If you’re interested, I know a cool place around the corner.”

He is talking about Saratobi. They serve a mean steak dish there. I took him

there the day after I discovered it. Yinka tagged along, but even that could not

ruin the lunch for me. I learned that Tade is an Arsenal supporter and he once

tried his hand at professional football. I learned he is an only child. I learned he

isn’t a huge fan of vegetables. I had hoped one day we might repeat the

experience—without Yinka—and I would learn more about him.

Ayoola beams at him.

“That sounds great. I hate to eat alone.”