My Sister The Serial killer - A Nobel

 My Sister

the Serial Killer

Oyinkan Braithwaite

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

Short Stories :

"My Sister The Serial Killer"

(Part -2) 

FLAPPER :-

When I burst into Ayoola’s room that evening, she is sitting at her desk

sketching a new design for her clothing line. She models the clothes she designs

on social media, and can barely handle the number of orders that comes in. It is

a marketing ploy: you look at a beautiful person with a great body and think

maybe—if you combine the right clothes and accessorize appropriately—you

can look as good as they do.

Her dreadlocks shield her face, but I don’t need to see her to know she is

chewing her lip and her eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. Her table is

bare except for her sketchbook, pens and three bottles of water, one of which is

almost empty. But everything else is upside down—her clothes are on the floor,

spilling out of cupboards, and piled on her bed.

I pick up the shirt at my feet and fold it.

“Ayoola.”

“What’s up?” She doesn’t look around or lift her head. I pick up another item

of clothing.

“I would like it if you stopped coming to my place of work.” I have gotten

her attention now; she puts her pencil down and spins to face me, the locks

spinning with her.

“Why?”

“I would just like to separate my work and home lives.”

“Fine.” She shrugs and turns back to the design. From where I stand I can see

that it is a dress in the style of a twenties flapper.

“And I’d like you to stop talking to Tade.”

She spins my way again, cocking her head to one side and frowning. It is odd

to see her frown, she does it so rarely.

“Why?”

“I just don’t think it is wise to start something with him.”

“ ’Cause I’ll hurt him?”

“I’m not saying that.”

She pauses, considering my words.

“Do you like him?”

“That’s really not the point. I don’t think you should be seeing anyone right

now.”

“I told you I had to do it. I told you.”

“I think you should just take a little break.”

“If you want him for yourself, just say so.” She pauses, giving me time to

stake my claim. “Besides, he isn’t all that different from the rest of them, you

know.”

“What are you talking about?” He is different. He is kind and sensitive. He

sings to children.

“He isn’t deep. All he wants is a pretty face. That’s all they ever want.”

“You don’t know him!” My voice is higher than I expect it to be. “He is kind

and sensitive and he—”

“Do you want me to prove it to you?”

“I just want you to stop talking to him, okay?”

“Well, we don’t always get what we want.” She swivels her chair, and

continues her work. I should walk out, but instead I pick up the rest of her

clothes and fold them one by one, clamping down on my anger and self-pity.

MASCARA :-

My hand isn’t steady. You need steady hands when you are applying makeup,

but I am not used to it. There never seemed to be much point in masking my

imperfections. It’s as futile as using air freshener when you leave the toilet—it

just inevitably ends up smelling like perfumed shit.

A YouTube video is streaming on the laptop beside me and I try to copy in

my dressing-table mirror what the girl is doing, but our actions don’t seem to be

corresponding. Still I persevere. I pick up the mascara and brush my lashes.

They clump together. I try to separate them and end up inking my fingers.

When I blink, traces of black gunk are left on the foundation around my eyes. It

took me a while to do the foundation and I don’t want it to smudge, so I just

add more.

I examine my handiwork in the mirror. I look different, but whether I look

better…I don’t know. I look different.

The things that will go into my handbag are laid out on my dressing table.

Two packets of pocket tissue, one 30-centiliter bottle of water, one first aid

kit, one packet of wipes, one wallet, one tube of hand cream, one lip balm, one

phone, one tampon, one rape whistle.

Basically, the essentials for every woman. I arrange the items in my shoulder

bag and walk out of my bedroom, carefully shutting the door behind me. My

mother and sister are still asleep, but I can hear the skittish movements of the

house girl in the kitchen. I head down to meet her and she gives me my usual

glass of orange, lime, pineapple and ginger juice. There is nothing like fruit

juice to wake up your body.

When the clock strikes 5, I leave the house and negotiate the early-morning

rush. I am at the hospital by 5:30. It is so quiet at this time of day that one is

tempted to speak in whispers. I drop my bag behind the reception desk and pull

down the incident book from the shelf to see if anything worthy of note took

place during the night. One of the doors behind me squeaks open and soon

Chichi is by my side.

It is the end of Chichi’s shift, but she lingers. “Ah ah, are you wearing

makeup?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“I just decided to—”

“Wonders will never end, you even put plenty foundation!”

I resist the urge to grab the wipes out of my bag and remove every trace of

makeup from my face right then and there.

“Abi, have you found boyfriend?”

“What?”

“You can tell me, I’m your friend.” I can’t tell her. Chichi will spread the

news before I have finished telling it. And we are not friends. She smiles,

hoping to put me at ease, but the expression does not sit comfortably on her

face. Her forehead and cheeks are caked in a too-light concealer to hide her

aggressive pimples (though she left puberty behind long before I was born), and

her bright red lipstick has seeped into the cracks in her lips. I would be more at

ease if the Joker were to smile at me.

Tade arrives at 9 a.m. He hasn’t slipped on his doctor’s coat yet and I can

make out the muscles beneath his shirt. I try not to stare at them. I try not to

dwell on the fact that they remind me of Femi’s. The first thing he asks is,

“How is Ayoola?” He used to ask how I was. I tell him she is fine. He peers at

my face curiously.

“I didn’t know you wore makeup.”

“I don’t really, I just thought I’d try something different…What do you

think?”

He frowns as he considers my handiwork.

“I think I prefer you without it. You have nice skin, you know. Really

smooth.”

He has noticed my skin…!

At the first opportunity, I sidle off to the toilet to remove the makeup, but

freeze when I see Yinka pursing her lips at one of the mirrors over the bank of

sinks. I take a couple of silent steps backward, but she turns her head in my

direction and raises her eyebrow.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I’m leaving.”

“But you just came in…”

She narrows her eyes, instantly suspicious, as she draws closer to me. The

moment she realizes I have makeup on, she sneers.

“My, my, how the ‘au natural’ have fallen.”

“It was just an experiment.”

“An experiment in the winning of Dr. Tade’s heart?”

“No! Of course not!”

“I’m playing with you. We both know Ayoola and Tade are meant to be.

They look gorgeous together.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Yinka smiles at me, but her smile is mocking. She sweeps past me as she

leaves the toilet and I let go of the breath I’ve been holding. I rush to the sink

and take a wipe from my bag, rubbing at my skin. When I’ve got the worst of it

off, I splash my face with handfuls of water, rinsing away any traces of makeup

and tears.

ORCHIDS :-

A bouquet of violently bright orchids is delivered to our house. For Ayoola.

She leans forward and picks out the card that is tucked between the stems. She

smiles.

“It is from Tade.”

Is this how he sees her? As an exotic beauty? I console myself with the

knowledge that even the most beautiful flowers wither and die.

She takes out her phone and begins to type a message, narrating her text out

loud—“I. Really. Prefer. Roses.” I should stop her, I really should. Tade is a

man who puts a lot of thought into everything he does. I can see him in a flower

shop, examining bouquet after bouquet, asking questions about varietals and

feeding needs, making a well-informed choice. I select a vase from our

collection and place the flowers on our center table. The walls are a solemn

cream and the flowers light up the living room. “Send.”

He will be taken aback by her text, disappointed and hurt. But perhaps he

will understand that she is not the one for him and he will finally back off.

At noon, a spectacular bouquet of roses arrives at our house, a mixture of red

and white. Ayoola is out textile shopping, so the house girl hands them to me,

despite us both knowing who they are for. They are not the already wilting roses

with which Ayoola’s admirers usually grace our table—these flowers are

bursting with life. I try not to inhale the sickly sweet smell and I try not to cry.

Mum walks into the room and zeroes in on the flowers.

“Who are these from?”

“Tade,” I hear myself say, even though Ayoola is not there and I have not

opened the signature card.

“The doctor?”

“Yes.”

“But didn’t he already send orchids this morning?”

I sigh. “Yes. And now he’s sent roses.”

She breaks into a dreamy smile—she is already picking the aṣọ ẹbí and

compiling the guest list for the wedding. I leave her there with the flowers and her fantasies and retire to my room. My bedroom has never seemed as devoid

of life as it does now.

—

hen Ayoola returns that evening, she fingers the roses, takes their picture

and is about to post it online when I remind her, once again, that she has a

boyfriend who has been missing for a month and whom she is supposed to be

mourning. She pouts.

“How long am I meant to post boring, sad stuff?”

“You don’t have to post at all.”

“How long, though?”

“A year, I guess.”

“You must be kidding me.”

“Any shorter than that and you will, at the very least, look like a sorry excuse

for a human being.” She examines me to see if I already believe she is a sorry

excuse for a human being. These days I don’t know what or even how to think.

Femi haunts me; he intrudes upon my thoughts uninvited. He forces me to

doubt what I thought I understood. I wish he would leave me alone, but his

words—his way of expressing himself—and his beauty set him apart from the

others. And then there is her behavior. The last two times, at least she shed a

tear.

ROSES :-

I can’t sleep. I lie in bed, turning from back to side, from side to front. I

switch the air conditioner on and off. Finally, I get out of bed and leave my

room. The house is silent. Even the house girl is asleep. I head to the living

room, where the flowers seem to be defying the darkness. I go to the roses first

and touch the petals. I peel one off. Then another. Then another after that.

Time passes slowly as I stand there in my nightie plucking flower after flower,

till the petals are all scattered at my feet.

—

n the morning, I hear my mum shrieking—it invades my dream, pulling me

back to consciousness. I fling back the blanket and dash out onto the landing;

the door to Ayoola’s room opens and I hear her behind me as we thunder

downstairs. I feel a headache coming on. Last night, I tore apart two gorgeous

bouquets of flowers and now my mother stands before their ruins, convinced

that someone broke into the house.

The house girl runs into the room. “The front door is still locked, ma,” she

whines to my mother.

“Then…who could it…was it you?” Mum barks at the girl.

“No, ma. I wouldn’t do that, ma.”

“Then how did this happen?”

If I don’t say something soon, my mum will decide it was the house girl and

she will fire her. After all, who else could it have been? I bite my lip as my

mother rails at the cowering girl, whose beaded cornrows quiver with her frame.

She doesn’t deserve the rebuke she is getting and I know I must speak up. But

how will I explain the feeling that struck me? Must I confess to my jealousy?

“I did it.”

They are Ayoola’s words, not mine.

My mum stops mid-rant. “But…why would you…”

“We fought, last night. Tade and I. He dared me. So I pulled them apart. I

should have thrown them away. I’m sorry.”

She knows. Ayoola knows I did it. I keep my head down, looking at the petals on the floor. Why did I leave them there? I abhor untidiness. My mother

shakes her head, trying to understand.

“I hope you…apologized to him.”

“Yes, we have made up.”

The house girl goes to get a broom to sweep away the remnants of my anger.

Ayoola and I don’t discuss what has taken place.

FATHER :-

One day he was towering over me, spitting pure hell. He reached for his cane

and then he…slumped, hitting his head against the glass coffee table as he fell

to the floor. His blood was brighter than the dark color we saw on TV. I got up

warily and Ayoola came out from behind the couch, where she’d been taking

cover. We stood over him. For the first time, we were taller. We watched the

life seep out of him. Eventually, I woke my mother up from her Ambien-

induced sleep and told her it was over.

—

t has been ten years now and we are expected to celebrate him, to throw an

anniversary party in honor of his life. If we do not we will end up fielding

difficult questions, and we are nothing if not thorough in our deception of

others.

“We could have something in the house?” Mum suggests to the awkward

planning committee gathered in the living room.

Aunty Taiwo shakes her head. “No, too small. My brother deserves a grand

celebration.”

I am sure they are celebrating him in hell. Ayoola rolls her eyes and chews

her gum, adding nothing to the conversation. Every once in a while, Aunty

Taiwo sends a worried glance her way.

“Where do you want to do it, aunty?” I ask with icy politeness.

“There is a venue in Lekki that’s really nice.” She names the place, and I

suck in my breath. The amount she has offered to contribute wouldn’t even

cover half the cost of a venue like that. She expects, of course, that we will dip

into the funds he left and she can flex, show off to her friends and drink lots of

champagne. He doesn’t deserve a single naira, but my mother wants to keep up

appearances and so she agrees. With the negotiations over with, Aunty Taiwo

leans back against the sofa and smiles at us. “So are the two of you seeing

anyone?”

“Ayoola is dating a doctor!” Mum announces.

“Ah, wonderful. You people are getting old o and the competition is tight.

Girls are not joking. Some of them are even taking men away from their wives!” Aunty Taiwo is one such woman—married to a former governor who

was already married when she met him. She is a curious woman, visiting us

whenever she flies over from Dubai, seemingly impervious to our dislike of her.

She never had any children and she has told us, time without number, that she

considers us her surrogate daughters. We consider ourselves no such thing.

“Help me tell them o. It’s like they just want to stay in this house forever.”

“You know, men are very fickle. Give them what they want and they will do

anything for you. Keep your hair long and glossy or invest in good weaves; cook

for him and send the food to his home and his office. Stroke his ego in front of

his friends and treat them well for his sake. Kneel down for his parents and call

them on important days. Do these things and he will put a ring on your finger,

fast fast.”

My mother nods sagely. “Very good advice.”

Of course, neither of us is listening. Ayoola has never needed help in the men

department, and I know better than to take life directions from someone

without a moral compass.

BRACELET :-

Tade comes to pick her up, Friday at seven. He is on time, but, of course,

Ayoola is not. In fact, she has not even showered yet—she is stretched out on

her bed laughing at videos of auto-tuned cats.

“Tade is here.”

“He is early.”

“It’s past seven.”

“Oh!”

But she doesn’t move an inch. I go back downstairs to tell Tade she is getting

ready.

“No problem, there’s no rush.”

My mum is sitting opposite him, beaming from ear to ear, and I join her on

the sofa.

“You were saying?”

“Yes, I am passionate about real estate. My cousin and I are building a block

of flats in Ibeju-Lekki. It’ll take another three months or so to conclude the

construction, but we already have takers for five of the flats!”

“That’s amazing!” she cries, as she calculates his worth. “Korede, offer our

guest something.”

“What would you like? Cake? Biscuits? Wine? Tea?”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out of your way…”

“Just bring everything, Korede.” So I get up and go to the kitchen, where the

house girl is watching Tinsel. She jumps up when she sees me and assists in

ransacking the larder. When I return with the goodies, Ayoola still has not

appeared.

“This is delicious,” Tade exclaims after taking his first bite of the cake.

“Who made this?”

“Ayoola,” my mum says quickly, shooting me a warning look. It is a stupid

lie. It is a pineapple upside-down cake, sweet and soft, and Ayoola couldn’t fry

an egg to save her life. She rarely enters the kitchen, except to forage for snacks or under duress.

“Wow,” he says, chewing happily. He is delighted by the news.

I see her first because I am facing the stairs. He follows my eyeline and twists

his body around to see. I hear him suck in his breath. Ayoola is paused there,

allowing herself to be admired. She is wearing the flapper dress she was

sketching a few weeks ago. The gold beads blend wonderfully with her skin.

Her dreads have been plaited into one long braid draped over her right shoulder

and her heels are so high, a lesser woman would have already fallen down the

stairs.

Tade stands up slowly and walks to meet her at the foot of the staircase. He

brings out a long velvet box from his inner suit pocket.

“You look beautiful…This is for you.”

Ayoola takes the gift and opens it. She smiles, lifting the gold bracelet so

Mum and I can see.

TIME:-

#FemiDurandIsMissing has been sidelined by #NaijaJollofvsKenyanJollof.

People may be drawn to the macabre, but never for very long, and so news of

Femi’s disappearance has been trumped by conversations about which country’s

jollof rice is better. Besides, he was almost thirty, not a child. I read the

comments. Some people say he probably got fed up and left Lagos. Some

suggest that perhaps he killed himself.

In an effort to keep people caring about Femi, his sister has started posting

poetry from his blog—www.wildthoughts.com. I can’t help but read them. He

was very talented.

I found the quiet

In your arms;

The nothing that I search for

Daily.

You are empty

And I am full.

Fully drowning.

I wonder if this poem was about her. If he knew—

“What are you looking at?”

I slam the lid of my laptop closed. Ayoola is framed in the doorway of my

bedroom. I narrow my eyes at her.

“Tell me what happened with Femi again,” I ask her.

“Why?”

“Just humor me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s upsetting to think about.”

“You said he was aggressive toward you.”

“Yes.”

“As in, he grabbed you?”

“Yes.”

“And you tried to run?”

“Yes.”

“But…there was a stab wound in his back.”

She sighs. “Look, I was afraid and then I kinda saw red. I don’t know.”

“Why were you afraid?”

“He was threatening me, threatening to, like, hit me and stuff. He had me

cornered.”

“But why? Why was he so angry?”

“I don’t…I don’t remember. I think he saw some messages from a guy on my

phone or something and he just flipped.”

“So he cornered you, how did you get to the knife? It was in your bag, wasn’t

it?”

She pauses. “I…I don’t know…it was all a blur. I’d take it back if I could. I’d

take it all back.”

THE PATIENT :-

“I want to believe her. I want to believe it was self-defense…I mean the first

time, I was furious. I was convinced Somto deserved it. And he had been so…

slimy—always licking his lips, always touching her. I caught him scratching

himself down there once, you know.”

Muhtar doesn’t stir. I imagine he tells me that scratching your balls is not a

crime.

“No, of course not. But it’s in character, I mean his whole…just sliminess

and overall dirtiness made it easy to believe the things she accused him of. Even

Peter was…dodgy. Said he did ‘business’ and always answered your questions

with one of his own.” I lean back, and close my eyes. “Everyone hates that. But

Femi…he was different…”

Muhtar wonders how different he could have been. After all, it sounds as if

he was obsessed with Ayoola’s looks, just like Peter and Somto.

“Everyone is obsessed with her looks, Muhtar…”

He tells me he isn’t, and I laugh. “You’ve never even seen her.”

The door suddenly opens and I jump out of the chair. Tade walks into the

room.

“I thought I’d find you here.” He looks down at Muhtar’s unconscious body.

“You really care about this patient, don’t you?”

“His family doesn’t visit him as much as they used to.”

“Yes, it’s sad. But it’s the way of things, I guess. Apparently he was a

professor.”

“Is.”

“What?”

“Is. You said ‘was.’ Past tense. He isn’t dead. Not yet, anyway.”

“Oh! Yes. My bad. Sorry.”

“You said you were looking for me?”

“I…I haven’t heard from Ayoola.” I sit back down in the chair. “I’ve called

several times. She isn’t picking up.”

I have to admit, I am a little embarrassed. I haven’t told Muhtar about Ayoola

and Tade and I feel his pity strongly. I find myself blushing.

“She isn’t great at returning calls.”

“I know that. But this is different. I haven’t spoken to her in two weeks…Can

you talk to her for me? Ask her what I’ve done wrong.”

“I’d rather not get involved…”

“Please, for me.” He crouches and grabs my hand, drawing it to his heart and

holding it there. “Please.”

I should say no, but the warmth of his hands around mine makes me feel

dizzy, and I find myself nodding.

“Thank you. I owe you one.”

With that, he leaves Muhtar and me to our devices. I feel too ridiculous to

stay long.

CLEANER :-

Femi’s family sent a cleaner to his home, to ready it to be put on the market

—to move on, I guess. But the cleaner discovered a bloody napkin down the

back of the sofa. It’s all there on Snapchat, for the world to see that whatever

happened to Femi, it did not happen of his own volition. The family is asking

again for answers.

Ayoola tells me she may have sat there. She may have put the napkin on the

seat to keep from staining the sofa. She may have forgotten about it…

“It’s fine, if they ask me I’ll just tell them he had a nosebleed.” She is sitting

in front of her dressing table tending to her dreadlocks and I am standing

behind her, clenching and unclenching my fists.

“Ayoola, if you go to jail—”

“Only the guilty go to jail.”

“First of all, that’s not true. Second of all, you killed a man.”

“Defending myself; the judge will understand that, right?” She pats her

cheeks with blusher. Ayoola lives in a world where things must always go her

way. It’s a law as certain as the law of gravity.

I leave her to her makeup and sit at the top of the staircase, my forehead

resting on the wall. My head feels as though there is a storm brewing inside it.

The wall should be cool, but it is a hot day, so there is no comfort to be had

there.

When I’m anxious, I confide in Muhtar—but he is in the hospital, and there

is no one to share my fears with here. I imagine for the millionth time how it

would go if I were to tell my mother the truth:

“Ma…”

“Hmmm.”

“I want to talk to you about Ayoola.”

“Are you people fighting again?”

“No, ma. I…there was an incident with erm Femi.”

“The boy who is missing?”

“Well, he isn’t missing. He is dead.”

“Hey!!! Jésù ṣàánú fún wa o!”

“Yes…erm…but you see…Ayoola was the one who killed him.”

“What is wrong with you? Why are you blaming your sister?”

“She called me. I saw him…I saw his body, I saw the blood.”

“Shut up! Does this look like something you should be joking about?”

“Mum…I just…”

“I said shut up. Ayoola is a beautiful child with a wonderful temperament…Is

that it? Is it jealousy that is making you say these horrible things?”

No, there is no point in involving my mother. It would be the death of her, or

she would flat out deny that it could have happened. She would deny it even if

she was the one who had been called upon to bury the body. Then she would

blame me for it because I am the older sister—I am responsible for Ayoola.

That’s how it has always been. Ayoola would break a glass, and I would

receive the blame for giving her the drink. Ayoola would fail a class, and I

would be blamed for not coaching her. Ayoola would take an apple and leave

the store without paying for it, and I would be blamed for letting her get hungry.

I wondered what would happen if Ayoola were caught. If, for once, she were

held responsible for her actions. I imagine her trying to blag her way out of it

and being found guilty. The thought tickles me. I relish it for a moment, and

then I force myself to set the fantasy aside. She is my sister. I don’t want her to

rot in jail, and besides, Ayoola being Ayoola, she would probably convince the

court that she was innocent. Her actions were the fault of her victims and she

had acted as any reasonable, gorgeous person would under the circumstances.

“Madam?”

I look up; the house girl is standing before me. She is holding a glass of

water. I take it from her and hold it to my forehead. The glass is ice cold and I

close my eyes and sigh. I thank her and she leaves as silently as she came.

—

here is banging, loud frenzied banging, in my head. I groan and roll over,

unwilling to wake up. I am lying in my bed, fully dressed. It is dark and the

banging is coming from the door and not my head. I sit up, trying to fight the

still-strong effects of the painkiller I took. I walk to the door and unlock it.

Ayoola pushes past me. “Shit, shit, shit. They saw us!”

“What?”

“See!” Ayoola shoves her phone in my face and I take it from her. She is on

Snapchat, and the video I am looking at has the face and shoulders of Femi’s

sister in the shot. Her makeup is impeccable but her look is somber.

“Guys, a neighbor has come forward. He didn’t say anything before because

he didn’t think it mattered, but now that he’s heard about the blood, he wants to

tell us everything he knows. He says he saw two women leave my brother’s

apartment that night. Two! He couldn’t see them too clearly, but he is pretty

certain one of them is Ayoola—the babe who was dating my brother. Ayoola

didn’t tell us about a second woman with her…Why would she lie?”

I feel a chill race up and down my body.

Ayoola abruptly snaps her fingers. “You know what? I’ve got it!”

“Got what?”

“We’ll tell them you were doing him behind my back.”

“What?!”

“And I came in and discovered you and I ended it with him and you followed

me out. But I didn’t say anything ’cause I didn’t want to bad-mouth someone

who had…”

“You are unbelievable.”

“Look, I know it paints you in a poor light, but it’s better than the

alternative.”

I shake my head, hand her the phone and open the door for her to leave.

“Okay. Okay…how about we say you came over ’cause he called you to

intervene between us. I wanted to end things and he thought you could convince

me not to…”

“Or…how about, he wanted to end things with you and you thought I could

intervene between the two of you and you were just too embarrassed to say.”

Ayoola bites her lips. “Would people really believe that, though?”

“Get out.”

BATHROOM :-

Alone in my room, I pace.

Femi’s parents have the money needed to rouse the curiosity and

professionalism of the police. And now they have a focus for their fear and

confusion. They will want answers.

For the first time in my adult existence, I wish he was here. He would know

what to do. He would be in control, every step of the way. He wouldn’t allow

his daughter’s grievous error to ruin his reputation—he would have had this

whole matter swept under the rug weeks ago.

But then it is doubtful Ayoola would have engaged in these activities had he

been alive. The only form of retribution she ever feared was the one that came

from him.

I sit down on my bed and think through the night of Femi’s death. They fight,

or something. Ayoola has her knife on her, since she carries it the way other

women carry tampons. She stabs him, then leaves the bathroom to call me. She

places the napkin on the sofa and sits on it. She waits for me. I arrive, we move

the body. That is the moment we were most exposed. As far as I can tell, no one

witnessed us moving the body, but I can’t be 100 percent certain.

There is nothing out of place in my room, nothing to organize or clean. My

desk has my laptop on it and my charger is neatly wound up and secured with a

cable tie. My sofa faces the bed, its seat free of clutter, unlike the one in

Ayoola’s room that is basically drowning in dress patterns and different colored

fabrics. My bed is turned down and the sheets are tightly tucked. My cupboard

is shut, concealing clothes folded, hung and arranged according to color. But

you can never clean a bathroom too many times, so I roll up my sleeves and

head to the toilet. The cabinet under the sink is filled with everything required

to tackle dirt and disease—gloves, bleach, disinfectant wipes, disinfectant spray,

sponge, toilet bowl cleaner, all-purpose cleaner, multi-surface cleaner, bowl

brush plunger and caddy, and odor-shield trash bags. I slip on the gloves and

take out the multi-surface cleaner. I need some time to think.

RESEARCH :-

I stare at Gboyega’s picture on Facebook. The man who stares back is a

younger, slimmer version of him. I scroll through his pictures until I am

satisfied that I know what kind of man he is. This is what I gather:

One well-dressed wife and three tall boys: the first two are now schooling in

England, while the third is still in secondary school here. They reside in a

townhouse on Banana Island—one of the most expensive estates in Lagos. He

works in oil and gas. His photos are mostly of holidays in France, the U.S.,

Dubai, etc. They are every bit the typical upper-middle-class Nigerian family.

If his life is so blandly formulaic, I can see why he would be intrigued by

Ayoola’s unattainability and spontaneity. His captions go on and on about how

wonderful his wife is, and how lucky he is to have her, and I wonder if his wife

knows that her husband seeks out other women. She is good-looking in her own

right. Even though she has birthed three sons and has left her youth behind, she

has maintained a trim figure. Her face is expertly made up and her outfits

flatter her and do justice to the money he must spend on her upkeep.

I have been calling Ayoola nonstop for half a day, trying to figure out where

the hell she is. She left the house early in the morning and informed my mum

that she was traveling. She didn’t bother to tell me. Tade has been calling me

just as much and I haven’t answered. What am I to say? I have no idea where

she is or what she is doing. Ayoola keeps her own counsel—until she needs me.

The house girl brings me a glass of cold juice while I continue my research. It is

burning hot outside, so I am spending my day off in the shadows of the house.

Gboyega’s wife is not active on Facebook, but I find her on Instagram. Her

posts about her husband and children are endless, broken up only by pictures of

food and the occasional opinion on President Buhari’s regime. Today’s post is

an old picture of herself and her husband on their wedding day. She is looking

at the camera, laughing, and he is looking lovingly at her. The caption says:

#MCM Oko mi, heart of my heart and father of my children. I

thank God for the day you laid eyes on me. I did not know

then you were afraid to speak to me, but I am glad you

overcame that fear. I cannot imagine what my life would have

been like without you. Thank you for being the man of my

dreams. Happy anniversary bae. #bae #mceveryday #throwbackthursday #loveisreal #blessed #grateful

CAR :-

The police return my car to me—at the hospital. There is nothing subtle

about their black uniforms and rifles. My fingernails dig into my palms.

“You couldn’t have returned this to my house?” I hiss at them. From the

corner of my eye, I see Chichi sidling closer.

“You better thank God we dey return am at all.” He hands me a receipt. A

torn piece of paper that has my license plate number, the date it was returned to

me and the amount of 5,000 naira on it.

“What is this for?”

“Logistical and transportation costs.” It is the younger one from the interview

at our house; the one who was stumbling over himself for Ayoola’s sake. His

demeanor is not so clumsy now. I can tell he is ready for me to make a scene.

Armed and ready. For a second, I wish Ayoola were beside me.

“Excuse me?!” They cannot be serious.

Chichi has almost reached my side. I cannot prolong this conversation. It

occurs to me that they chose to drop it at my workplace for this exact reason. At

home, I would have had all the power. I could simply demand that they leave

my compound. Here, I am at their mercy.

“Yes na. The cost of driving your car to and from our office is 5,000 naira.”

I bite my lip. Angering them is not in my best interests; I need them to leave

before they attract more attention. Every eye on either side of the hospital doors

is on me, my car and these two geniuses.

I look at my car. It is dirty, covered in dust. And I can see a food container

on the backseat. I can only imagine what the boot will look like. They have

soiled my entire vehicle with their filthy hands, and no amount of cleaning will

remove the memory of them.

But there is nothing I can do. I reach into my pocket and count out 5,000

naira.

“Did you find anything?”

“No,” admits the older man. “Your car dey clean.” I knew I had done a

thorough job. I knew it would be clean. But hearing him say the words makes me want to weep with relief.

“Good morning, Officers!” Why is Chichi still here? Her shift ended thirty

minutes ago. They return her cheerful good morning with a hearty one of their

own. “Well done o,” she tells them. “I see you brought my colleague’s car back.”

“Yes. Even though we are very busy people,” the younger policeman stresses.

He is leaning on my car, his fat hand on my bonnet.

“Well done. Well done. We are grateful. She had to be managing her sister’s

car since.” I hand over the money, they hand over my key. Chichi pretends she

hasn’t seen the exchange.

“Yes, thank you.” It hurts to say this. It hurts to smile. “I understand you are

both very busy. Don’t let me keep you.” They grunt and walk away. They will

probably end up hailing an okada to take them back to their station. Beside me,

Chichi is practically vibrating.

“Nawa o. What happened?”

“What happened to what?” I head back to the hospital, and Chichi follows.

“Why did they take your car na? I noticed since that you did not have your

car, but I thought maybe it was with the mechanic or something. But I did not

think the police had it!” She tries to whisper “police” and fails.

As we walk through the doors, so does Mrs. Rotinu. Tade is not in yet, so she

will have to wait. Chichi grabs my hand and drags me into the X-ray room.

“So what happened?”

“Nothing. My car was involved in an accident. They were just checking it, for

insurance purposes.”

“And they took your car away just for that?”

“You know these police. Always working hard.”

HEART :-

Tade looks like shit. His shirt is rumpled, he needs to shave and his tie is

askew. No singing or whistling has escaped his lips in days. This is the power

Ayoola has, and when I see Tade’s suffering, I cannot help but be in awe of it.

“There is another guy,” he tells me.

“There is?!” I’m overacting, my voice comes out as a squeak. Not that he

notices. His head is down. He is half sitting on his desk, with his hands on

either side, gripping it tightly, so I can make out the flexing and extending, the

working together, the rippling of his body.

I drop the file I brought for him on the desk and reach out to touch him. His

shirt is white. Not the sparkling white of the shirts Femi must have owned or of

my nurses’ uniform, but the white of a distracted bachelor. I could help Tade

bleach his whites, if he would let me. I let my hand rest on his back and rub it.

Does he find the gesture comforting? Eventually, he sighs.

“You’re so easy to talk to, Korede.”

I can smell his cologne mixed with his sweat. The heat outside is seeping into

the room and smothering the air from the AC.

“I like talking to you,” I tell him. He raises his head and looks at me. We are

only a step or two apart. Close enough to kiss. Are his lips as soft as they

appear? He gives me a gentle smile, and I smile back.

“I like talking to you too. I wish…”

“Yes?” Has he started to see that Ayoola isn’t right for him?

He looks down again, and I can’t help myself.

“You’re better off without her, you know,” I tell him softly.

I feel him stiffen.

“What?” His voice is soft, but there is something beneath it that wasn’t there

before. Irritation? “Why would you say that about your sister?”

“Tade, she hasn’t exactly been…”

He shrugs my hand off and pushes himself up and away from the desk, from

me. “You’re her sister, you’re supposed to be on her side.”

“I’m always on her side. It’s just that…she has many sides. Not all of them as

pretty as the one that you see…”

“This is you being on her side, is it? She told me that you treat her like she is

a monster, and I didn’t believe her.”

His words strike like arrows. He was my friend. Mine. He sought my counsel

and my company. But now he looks at me as though I were a stranger and I hate

him for it. Ayoola did what she always does in the company of men, but what is

his excuse? I wrap my arms around my stomach, and turn my face from him so

he can’t see how my lips are trembling.

“I take it you believe her now?”

“I’m sure she is just grateful somebody does! It’s no wonder she is always

looking for attention from…men.” He can barely say the last word, can barely

think of Ayoola in the arms of another.

I laugh. I cannot help it. Ayoola has won so completely. She has traveled to

Dubai with Gboyega (an update I got via text) and left Tade heartbroken, but

somehow I am the witch.

I bet she forgot to mention that she has been instrumental in the death of at

least three men. I take a deep breath so as not to say anything I’ll regret. Ayoola

is inconsiderate and selfish and reckless, but her welfare is and always has been

my responsibility.

From the corner of my eye, I see that sheets from the file are askance. He

must have shifted them when he got up from the desk. I use a finger to pull the

file toward me and I pick it up, tapping it against the surface to line the papers

up. Where is the merit in telling the truth? He doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t

want to believe anything that comes out of my mouth. He just wants her.

“What she needs is your support and love. Then she will be able to settle

down.”

Why won’t he shut up? The file is quaking in my hands now and I can feel a

migraine forming in a corner of my skull. He shakes his head at me. “You’re her

older sister. You should act like it. All I’ve seen you do is push her away.”

Because of you…But I say nothing. I’ve lost the urge to defend myself.

Was he always prone to lecturing this way? I drop the file on his table and

walk past him quickly. I think I hear him call my name as I twist the doorknob,

but it is drowned out by the sound of pounding in my head.

THE PATIENT

Muhtar is sleeping peacefully, waiting for me. I slip into his room and close

the door.

“It’s because she is beautiful, you know. That’s all it is. They don’t really care

about the rest of it. She gets a pass at life.” Muhtar allows me to rant. “Can you

imagine, he said I don’t support her, I don’t love her…She let him think that.

She told him that. After everything…”

I choke on my words, unable to finish them. Our silence is interrupted only

by the rhythmic beeping of the monitor. I take several steadying breaths and

check his chart. He is due for another bout of physiotherapy soon, so while I’m

there I might as well take him through his exercises. His body is compliant as I

move his limbs this way and that. My mind replays the scene with Tade over

and over, cutting parts out, zooming in on others.

Love is not a weed,

It cannot grow where it please…

Words, from yet another of Femi’s poems, come to me uninvited. I wonder

what he would think of all of this. He hadn’t been with Ayoola long. He would

have figured her out given enough time. He was perceptive.

My stomach grumbles; the heart may be broken but the flesh needs to eat. I

finish rolling Muhtar’s ankles, smooth down his bedsheets and leave his room.

Mohammed is mopping the floors of the corridor. The water he is using looks

yellow and he hums to himself.

“Mohammed, change this water,” I snap. He stiffens at the sound of my

voice.

“Yes, ma.”

BLOOD :-

They come the next day and take the car—my silver Ford Focus. The three

of us stand on the doorstep, arms crossed, and watch them drive it away. My

car is taken to a police station, in an area I never frequent, to be rigorously

examined for evidence of a crime I did not commit, while Ayoola’s Fiesta sits

pretty in our compound. My eyes settle on her white hatchback. It has the shiny

look of a newly washed vehicle. It has not been tainted with blood.

I turn to Ayoola.

“I’m using your car to go to work.”

Ayoola frowns. “But what if I need to go somewhere during the day?”

“You can take an Uber.”

“Korede,” Mum begins carefully, “why don’t you drive my car?”

“I don’t feel like driving stick. Ayoola’s car is fine.”

I walk back into the house and head up to my room, before either of them

has a chance to respond. My hands are cold, so I rub them on my jeans.

I cleaned that car. I cleaned it within an inch of its life. If they find a dot of

blood, it will be because they bled while they were searching. Ayoola knocks on

my door and comes in. I pay no mind to her presence and pick up the broom to

sweep my floor.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“I just don’t like being without a ride, is all.”

“And it’s my fault.”

“No. It’s Femi’s fault for bleeding all over my boot.”

She sighs and sits down on my bed, ignoring my “go away” face.

“You’re not the only one suffering, you know. You act like you are carrying

this big thing all by yourself, but I worry too.”

“Do you? ’Cause the other day, you were singing ‘I Believe I Can Fly.’ ” Ayoola shrugs. “It’s a good song.”

I try not to scream. More and more, she reminds me of him. He could do a

bad thing and behave like a model citizen right after. As though the bad thing

had never happened. Is it in the blood? But his blood is my blood and my blood

is hers.

FATHER :-

Ayoola and I are wearing aṣọ ẹbí. It is customary to wear matching ankara

outfits for these types of functions. She chose the color—it is a rich purple

ensemble. He hated the color purple, which makes her selection perfect. She

also designed both our pieces—mine is a mermaid dress, flattering to my tall

frame, and hers clings to her every curve. We both wear sunglasses to disguise

the fact that our eyes are dry.

My mother weeps in church, bent double; her sobs are so loud and powerful,

they rattle her body. I wonder what she is focusing on to bring about tears—her

own frailty? Or maybe she is simply recalling what he did to her, to us.

I scan the aisles, and I see Tade searching for a place to sit.

“You invited him?” I hiss.

“I told him about it. He invited himself.”

“Shit.”

“What’s the problem? You said I should be nice to him.”

“I said you should clear things up. I didn’t say you should bring him into this

further.” My mother pinches me and I keep my mouth shut, but my body is

shaking. Someone lays a kind hand on my shoulder, thinking me overcome with

emotion. I am; just not the kind they think.

“Let us close our eyes and remember this man, because the years he spent

with us were a gift from God.” The voice of the priest is low, solemn. It is easy

for him to say these things because he did not know the man. No one really

knew him.

I close my eyes and mutter words of gratitude to whatever forces keep his

soul captive. Ayoola searches for my hand and I take it.

—

after the service, people come to commiserate with us and to wish us well. A

woman approaches me; she hugs me and will not let go. She starts to whisper:

“Your father was a great man. He would always call me to check up on me and

he helped with my school funds…” I am tempted to inform her that he had

several girlfriends in various universities across Lagos. We had long since lost count. He once told me you had to feed the cow before you slaughtered it; it

was the way of life.

I respond with a simple, “Yes, he paid for a lot of fees.” When you have

money, university girls are to men what plankton is to a whale. She smiles at

me, thanks me and goes on her way.

The reception is what you would expect—a couple of people we know,

surrounded by people we don’t remember but at whom we smile all the same.

When I have some time to myself, I go outside and place another call to the

police station to ask when they will return my car. Again, they give me the

brush-off. If there was anything to be found, they will have found it by now, but

the man on the other end of the line does not appreciate my logic.

I return in time to see Aunty Taiwo on the dance floor proving that she

knows the latest steps to the latest hits. Ayoola is sitting in the middle of three

guys, all of them competing for her attention. Tade has already left, and these

guys are hoping to replace him for good. He had tried to be supportive, to stay

by her side throughout, as a man should; but Ayoola was far too busy flitting

this way and that, soaking in the spotlight. If he were mine, I wouldn’t leave his

side. I tear my eyes away from her and sip my Chapman.

MAGA :-

“Aunty, a man is here for you.”

Ayoola is watching a movie on her laptop in my room. She could be watching

it in her room, but she always seems to find her way to mine. She lifts her head

to look at the house girl. I sit up immediately. It must be the police. My hands

are cold.

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know him, ma.”

Ayoola shoots me a nervous look as she gets up from my bed, and I follow

her out. The gentleman is seated on our sofa, and from where I stand, I can see

that it is not the police and it is not Tade. The stranger holds a bouquet of roses

in his hands.

“Gboyega!” She rushes down the steps and he catches her in one arm before

swinging her around. They kiss.

Gboyega is a tall man with a protruding belly. His face is round and bearded,

and his eyes are small and sharp. He also has at least fifteen years more life

experience than Ayoola. If I squinted, I suppose I could see his attractiveness.

But first I see the Bvlgari watch on his wrist and the Ferragamo shoes on his

feet. He looks at me.

“Hello.”

“Gboyega, this is Korede, my big sister.”

“Korede, it is a pleasure to meet you. Ayoola tells me how you take care of

her.”

“You have me at a disadvantage. I haven’t heard about you at all.”

Ayoola laughs as if my comment were a joke, and she waves it away with a

flick of her wrist.

“Gboye, you should have called.”

“I know how you like surprises, and I just got into town.” He leans over and

they kiss again. I try not to gag. He hands her the flowers and she makes

appropriate cooing sounds, even though the roses pale in comparison to the

ones that Tade sent her. “Let me take you out.”

“Okay, I’ll need to get changed. Korede, will you keep Gboye company?”

She has already dashed back upstairs before I can say no. Still, I set out to

ignore her request and follow her up.

“So, you’re a nurse?” he says to my retreating back. I stop and sigh.

“And you’re married,” I reply.

“What?”

“Your ring finger, the part where your ring would sit is lighter than the rest.”

He shakes his head and smiles. “Ayoola knows.”

“Yeah. I’m sure she does.”

“I care about her. I want her to have the best of everything,” he tells me. “I

gave her the capital for her fashion business, you know, and paid for her

course.”

I’m surprised. She had told me that she paid for it herself—from the revenue

from her YouTube videos. She had even piously lectured me for my lack of

business sense. The more he talks, the more I realize that I am a maga—a fool

who has been taken advantage of. Gboyega is not the problem, he is just

another man, another person being used by Ayoola. If anything, he should be

pitied. I want to tell him how much we have in common, though he boasts of

the things he has done for her while I begin to resent the things that I have

done. In solidarity, and to get him to be quiet, I offer him some cake.

“Sure, I love cake. Do you have tea?”

I nod. As I pass him, he winks at me.

“Korede.” He pauses. “Ẹ jọ o, don’t spit in my tea.”

I give the house girl the necessary instructions and then cut through the

kitchen and charge up the back stairs to interrogate Ayoola. She is applying

eyeliner to her lower lids.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“This is why I didn’t tell you. You are so judgmental.”

“Are you serious? He tells me he paid for your fashion course. You said you

raised the funds.”

“I found a sponsor. Same difference.”

“What about your…what about Tade?”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, can you blame me for

wanting a little excitement in my life? Tade can be so boring. And he is needy.

Abeg, I need a break.”

“What is wrong with you? When are you going to stop?!”

“Stop what?”

“Ayoola, you better send this man on his way, or I swear I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” She raises her chin and stares at me.

I don’t do anything. I want to threaten her, to tell her that if she doesn’t listen

to me, she will have to deal with the consequences of her actions by herself for

once. I want to shout and scream, but I would be screaming at a wall. I storm

off to my bedroom. Thirty minutes later, she leaves the house with Gboyega.

She doesn’t return till 1 a.m.

I don’t sleep till 1 a.m.

FATHER :-

He often came home late. But I remember this night, because he wasn’t

alone. There was a yellow woman on his arm. We came out of my room

because Mum was screaming, and there they were on the landing. My mother

was wearing a camisole and her wrapper, her usual nightwear.

She never raised her voice to him. But that night, she was like a banshee; her

fro was free of its bands and restraints, adding to the illusion of madness. She

was Medusa and they were statues before her. She went to wrench the woman

off his arm.

“Ẹ gbà mí o! Ṣ’o fẹ́b’alé mi jẹ́? Ṣ’o fẹ́yí mi lọ́rí ni? Olúwa k’ọjú sí mi!” She

wasn’t even screaming at her husband—it was the interloper whom she was mad

at. I remember hissing at my mother, even though there were tears in my eyes. I

remember thinking how silly she looked, so worked up as he stood tall and

impassive before her.

He looked at his wife with indifference. “If you don’t shut up now, I will deal

with you,” he informed her firmly.

Beside me, Ayoola held her breath. He always carried out his threats. But this

time my mother was oblivious, she was embroiled in a tug of war with the

woman, who, though she looked like an adult to me then, I now know couldn’t

have been older than twenty. I understand now, too, that though my mother

must have been aware of his indiscretions, having them take place in her home

was more than she could bear.

“Free me!” the girl cried, trying to retrieve her wrist from my mother’s

ferocious grip.

Moments later he pulled our mother off her feet by her hair and slammed her

against the wall. Then he struck her face. Ayoola whimpered and clutched me.

The “woman” laughed.

“See, my boyfriend will not let you touch me.”

My mother slid down the wall to the ground. They stepped over her and

proceeded to his bedroom. We waited till the coast was clear and then ran to

help her. She was inconsolable. She wanted to be left there to cry. She howled. I

had to shake her.

“Mummy, please, let’s go upstairs.”

The three of us slept in my room that night.

The next morning, the banana-colored girl was gone and we sat around the

table for breakfast, silent except for my father, who spoke loudly about the day

ahead and congratulated his “perfect wife” on her excellent cooking. He wasn’t

sucking up, he had simply moved past the incident.

It wasn’t long after that that Mother began to rely on Ambien.

COMA :-

When I head to the reception desk, Chichi is still hovering. Perhaps there is a

man at home she is loath to return to. She is talking animatedly to a group of

staff members who are barely listening. I catch the words “miracle” and

“coma.”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Your best friend is awake!”

“Awake? Who? Yinka?”

“No. Mr. Yautai! He is awake!”

I’m running before I even think to answer. I leave Chichi standing by the

nurses’ station and hurry to the third floor. I would rather have heard the news

from Dr. Akigbe, so I could have asked the pertinent neurological questions, but

considering that he spied yet another opportunity to lecture on the hospital’s

history, it is no surprise that he failed to mention it. Or perhaps he didn’t

mention it because it is not true at all, and Chichi misunderstood…

Muhtar’s family is crowded around his bed, so I don’t immediately see him.

His wife, whose slender frame is carved in my memory, and a tall man who I

guess is his brother, have their backs to me. They are not touching, but their

bodies are leaning toward each other as if pulled together by some force.

Perhaps they have been comforting each other one time too often.

Facing the door, and now me, are his children. His two sons stand rod

straight—one crying silently—while his daughter holds her newborn in her

arms, angling the baby so her father can see. It is this gesture that finally forces

me to face the reality of his consciousness. Muhtar has rejoined the land of the

living.

I back away from the family reunion, but then I hear his voice. “She is

beautiful.”

I have never heard his voice before. When I met him, he was already in the

coma and I had imagined his voice to be rich and heavy. In reality, he hasn’t

spoken in months, so his voice is high-pitched, weak, almost a whisper.

I turn and bump into Tade.

“Whoa,” he says. He stumbles backward and catches himself.

“Hey,” I say, distracted, my mind still back in Muhtar’s room. Tade looks

over my shoulder at the scene.

“So, Mr. Muhtar is awake?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” I manage.

“I’m sure it is thanks to you.”

“Me ke?”

“You kept the guy going. He was never forgotten, never neglected.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

“Maybe not, but you can’t anticipate what stimuli the brain will respond to.”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” I wait, but he makes no mention of his promise that we would

celebrate the promotion.

I sidestep him and continue down the corridor.

—

Just as I return to reception, there is a scream. The waiting patients look

around themselves in surprise, while Yinka and I run toward the sound. It’s

coming from room 105. Yinka flings open the door and we burst in to find

Assibi and Gimpe locked together. Gimpe has Assibi in a headlock and Assibi

is clawing at Gimpe’s breasts. They freeze when they see us. Yinka begins to

laugh.

“Ye!” she cries after the laughter is gone from her.

“Thank you, Yinka,” I say pointedly.

She stands there, still grinning.

“Thank you,” I say again. The last thing I need is Yinka adding fuel to an

already raging flame.

“What?”

“I can handle it from here.”

For a moment I think she’s going to argue, but then she shrugs. “Fine,” she

mutters. She takes one more look at Assibi and Gimpe, smirks, then flounces

from the room. I clear my throat.

“You stand over there, you stand over there.” When they have taken their

places far away from each other, I remind them that this is a hospital and not a

bar by the side of the road.

“I should have you both fired.”

“No, ma.”

“Please, ma.”

“Explain to me what was so serious that you had to fight physically.” They

don’t respond. “I’m waiting.”

“It’s Gimpe. She has been trying to steal my boyfriend.”

“Oh?”

“Mohammed is not your boyfriend!” Mohammed? Seriously? Perhaps I

should have left Yinka to handle this. Now that I think of it, she probably

guessed what was going on.

Mohammed is a terrible cleaner with poor personal hygiene and yet he has

somehow gotten these two women to fall for him, creating drama inside the

hospital. He should really be fired. I would not miss him.

“I don’t care whose boyfriend Mohammed is. You people can eye each other

from afar or burn each other’s houses down, but when you enter this hospital,

you will behave in a professional manner or risk your jobs. Do you

understand?”

They mumble something that sounds like mmmshhh shingle hghate bchich.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Excellent. Please get back to work.”

When I return to reception, I find Yinka leaning back, eyes closed, mouth

open.

“Yinka!” I slam a clipboard down on the countertop, startling her awake. “If I

catch you sleeping again, I will write you up.”

“Who died and made you head nurse?”

“Actually,” mutters Bunmi, “they promoted her this morning.”

“What?”

“There will be a meeting about it later in the day,” I add.

Yinka doesn’t speak.

THE GAME :-

It’s raining, the sort of rain that wrecks umbrellas and renders a raincoat

useless. We are stuck in the house—Ayoola, Tade and I. I try to avoid them, but

Ayoola collars me as I walk through the living room.

“Let’s play a game!”

Tade and I sigh.

“Count me out,” I say.

“Why don’t we play, just the two of us?” Tade suggests to Ayoola. I ignore

the stab to my heart.

“No. It’s a three-or-more-person game. It has to be all of us or none of us.”

“We can play checkers, or chess?”

“No. I want to play Cluedo.”

If I were Tade, I’d tell her to stuff the Cluedo up her entitled be—

“I’ll go get it.” She jumps up and leaves Tade and me in the room together. I

don’t want to look at him, so I stare out the window at the washed-out scenery.

The streets in the estate are empty, everyone has taken refuge indoors. In the

Western world you can walk or dance in the rain, but here, the rain will drown

you.

“I may have been a bit harsh the other day,” he says. He waits for me to

respond, but I can think of nothing to say. “I’ve been told sisters can be very…

mean to one another.”

“Who told you that?”

“Ayoola.”

I want to laugh, but it comes out like a squeak.

“She really looks up to you, you know.” I finally look at him. I look into his

innocent light brown doe eyes and I wonder if I was ever like that, if I ever had

that kind of innocence. He is so wonderfully normal and naïve. Maybe his

naïveté is as alluring to Ayoola as it is to me—I suppose ours was beaten out of

us. I open my mouth to answer, and Ayoola hops back onto the couch. She is

holding the board game close to her chest. His eyes forget me and focus on her.

“Tade, have you played before?”

“No.”

“Okay, you play to find out who the murderer was, in what room the murder

took place and with what weapon. Whoever figures it out first, wins!”

She passes the rule book to him and winks at me. 

ANGEL OF DEATH :-

“How was your trip?”

“It was fine…except…he died.”

The glass I was drinking juice from slips out of my grip and shatters on the

kitchen floor. Ayoola is standing in the doorway. She has been home all of ten

minutes and I already feel as if my world is turning upside down.

“He…he died?”

“Yes. Food poisoning,” she answers, shaking her dreadlocks. She has

relocked them and placed beads on the ends, so as she moves they knock

against each other and make a rattling sound. Her wrists are adorned with big

gold bangles. Poison is not her style, and part of me wants to believe that this is

a coincidence. “I called the police. They informed his family.”

I crouch down to pick up some of the larger shards of glass. I think of the

man’s smiling wife on Instagram. Would she have the presence of mind to

request an autopsy?

“We were in the room together and he suddenly starts to sweat and hold his

throat. Then he starts to froth at the mouth. It was so scary.” But her eyes are

on fire, she is telling me a tale she thinks is fascinating. I don’t want to talk to

her, but she seems determined to share the details.

“Did you try to get him help?” I recall us, standing over our father, watching

him die, and I know she did not try to get Gboyega help. She watched him.

Maybe she didn’t poison him, but she stood aside and let nature take its course.

“Of course. I called the emergency operator. But they didn’t get there in

time.”

My eyes focus on the diamond comb sitting in her hair. The trip has been

good to her. The Dubai air seems to have brightened her skin and she is

wearing designer clothing from top to toe. Gboyega certainly wasn’t stingy with

his money.

“That’s a shame.” I search for a feeling greater than pity for this “family” man

who died, but even that is sparse. I had never met Femi, but his fate affected me

in a way this news does not.

“Yes. I’ll miss him,” she replies, absentmindedly. “Wait, I got you

something.” She dives into her handbag and begins rummaging, when the

doorbell rings. She looks up expectantly and smirks. Surely, it can’t be—but,

you know, life. Tade walks through the door and she flings herself into his

arms. He hugs her tight, burying his head in her hair.

“You naughty girl,” he tells her and they kiss. Passionately.

I walk away quickly before he has a chance to realize that there is a third

person in the room. I’d hate to have to swap banalities with him. I lock myself

in my room, sit on my bed cross-legged and stare into space.

Time passes. I hear a knock on my door.

“Ma, are you coming down to eat?” asks the house girl as she rocks back and

forth on the balls of her feet.

“Who is at the dining table?”

“Mummy, sister Ayoola and Mr. Tade.”

“Who sent you to call me?”

“I came myself, ma.” No, of course they wouldn’t think of me. My mum and

Ayoola will be reveling in Tade’s attention and Tade will…who cares what he

will. I smile at the only person who seems to care if I have nourishment or not.

From behind her small frame, laughter wafts toward me.

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

She shuts the door behind her as she leaves, shutting out the sound of

happiness. At least Ayoola won’t be in my space for a while. I use this

opportunity to Google Gboyega’s name. Sure enough, I find an article about his

tragic passing—
NIGERIAN DIES ON DUBAI BUSINESS TRIP
A Nigerian businessman died in Dubai after reportedly falling
victim to a drug overdose.
The Foreign Office confirmed that Gboyega Tejudumi—
who had been staying in the notorious Royal resort—died

after having taken ill in his room.

Despite the efforts of the emergency services, he was

pronounced dead at the scene.

There was no one else involved in the accident, according

to the police…

I wonder how Ayoola convinced the police to keep her name out of the news.

I wonder at the differences between a food poisoning and a drug overdose. I

wonder what the chances are that the death of a person in the company of a

serial killer would come about by chance.

Or perhaps the real question is, how confident am I that Ayoola only uses her

knife?

I open other articles about Gboyega’s death; I take in other lies. Ayoola never

strikes unless provoked. But if she had a hand in Gboyega’s death, if she was

responsible, then why did she do it? Gboyega seemed infatuated. He was a

cheat, but other than that he appeared harmless.

I think of Tade downstairs, smiling his signature smile and staring at Ayoola

as though butter could not melt in her mouth. I couldn’t bear to look into Tade’s

eyes, if he wasn’t looking back at me. But haven’t I done all I can to separate

them? All I have to show for my trouble is judgment and scorn.

I switch off my laptop.

I write Gboyega’s name in the notebook.

BIRTH :-

According to family lore, the first time I laid eyes on Ayoola I thought she

was a doll. Mum cradled her before me and I stood on my toes, pulling Mum’s

arm down closer to get a better look. She was tiny, barely taking up space in the

hammock Mum had created with her arms. Her eyes were shut and took up half

her face. She had a button nose and lips that were permanently pursed. I

touched her hair; it was soft and curly.

“Is she mine?”

Mum laughed, her body shaking, which stirred Ayoola awake. She gurgled. I

stumbled backward in surprise and fell on my backside.

“Mummy, it talked! The doll talked!”

“She is not a doll, Korede. She is a baby, your baby sister. You’re a big sister

now, Korede. And big sisters look after little sisters.” 

BIRTHDAY :-

It’s Ayoola’s birthday. I allow her to begin posting again on her social media

pages. Updates about Femi have dwindled. Social media has forgotten his

name.

“Open my present first!” insists Mum. Ayoola obliges. It is tradition in our

house that on a person’s birthday, you open gifts from your family first thing in

the morning. It took me a long time to figure out what to give her. I haven’t

exactly been in a giving mood.

Mum’s gift is a dining set, for when Ayoola gets married. “I know Tade will

ask soon,” she announces.

“Ask what?” Ayoola replies, distracted by my present. I bought her a new

sewing machine. She beams at me, but I can’t smile back. Mum’s words are

turning my stomach.

“Ask for your hand in marriage!” Ayoola screws up her nose at the

prediction. “It’s time you, the both of you, start thinking about settling down.”

“ ’Cause marriage worked so well for you…”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” I mutter. My mum eyes me but she did not hear me, so she is

forced to let it go. Ayoola gets up to change for her party, and I continue

blowing up balloons. We picked gray and white, out of respect for Femi.

Earlier, I read a poem of his on his blog—

The African sun shines brightly.

Burning on our backs;

on our scalps,

on our minds—

Our anger has no cause, except if

the sun was a cause.

Our frustrations have no root, except if

the sun was a root. I leave an anonymous message on the blog, suggesting that his poems be

collected and made into an anthology. I hope his sister or a friend comes across

the message.

Ayoola and I don’t really have friends in the traditional sense of the word. I

think you have to accept someone into your confidence, and vice versa, to be

able to call them a friend. She has minions, and I have Muhtar. The minions

begin to flood in around 4 p.m.; the house girl lets them in, and I direct them to

the food piled on the living room table. Someone puts on music, and people

nibble at the snacks. But all I can think about is whether or not Tade will use

this as an opportunity to try to secure Ayoola forever. If I thought she loved

him, I think I could be happy for them. I could, I think. But she doesn’t love

him and for some reason he is blind to that fact; or he doesn’t care.

It’s 5 p.m. and Ayoola hasn’t come down yet. I’m wearing the quintessential

black dress. It’s short and has a flared skirt. Ayoola said she would be wearing

black too, but I am pretty sure she has changed her mind at least a dozen times

by now. I resist the urge to go and check on her, even when I am asked for the

hundredth time where she is.

I hate house parties. People forget the etiquette they would apply if they

visited your house on a normal day. They leave their paper plates on any and

every surface; they spill drinks and walk away; they dip their hands in snack

bowls, take some and put some back; they look for places to make out. I pick

up a set of paper cups that someone has left on a footstool and put it in a

garbage bag. I’m just about to fetch some surface cleaner when the doorbell

rings: Tade.

He looks…he is wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that hugs his body, and a

gray blazer. I can’t help but stare at him.

“You look nice,” he tells me. I suppose complimenting my appearance is

supposed to be an olive branch. It shouldn’t affect me. I’ve stayed out of his

way, I’ve kept my head down. I don’t want his casual compliment to touch me;

but I feel a lightness inside me. I squeeze the muscles of my face to keep a

smile from bursting through. “Look, Korede, I’m sor—”

“Hey.” The “hey” comes from behind me, and I turn around to see Ayoola.

She is wearing a fitted maxi dress so close to the color and shade of her skin

that in the dim lighting she looks almost naked, with gold earrings, gold heels

and the bracelet Tade gave her to top it off. I can detect a smattering of light

gold bronzer on her skin.

Tade walks past me and kisses her gently on the lips. Love or not, they are a very attractive couple; on the outside, at least. He hands her a gift and I slide

closer so I can see what it is. It’s a small box, but too long and narrow to be a

ring. Tade looks my way, and I make like a bee and act busy. I head back to the

center of the party and start picking up paper plates again.

I see flashes of Tade and Ayoola throughout the night—laughing together by

the punch bowl, kissing on the stairs, feeding each other cake on the dance

floor, until I can take it no longer. I grab a shawl from a drawer and head out of

the house. It’s still warm, but I wrap my arms around myself under the fabric. I

need to talk to someone, anyone; someone besides Muhtar. I considered therapy

once, but Hollywood has revealed that therapists have a duty to break

confidence if the life of the patient or someone else is at stake. I have a feeling

that if I were to talk about Ayoola, that confidence would be broken in five

minutes. Isn’t there an option where no one dies and Ayoola doesn’t have to be

incarcerated? Perhaps I could see a therapist and just leave the murders out of

it. I could fill plenty of sessions just talking about Tade and Ayoola and how

seeing them together turns me inside out.

“Do you like him?” she had asked me. No, Ayoola. I love him.

HEAD NURSE :-

As soon as I walk into the hospital, I head to Dr. Akigbe’s office, as per his

email request. As usual, his email was abrupt, mysterious, designed to keep the

receiver on their toes. I knock.

“Come in!” His voice is like a hammer against the door.

At the moment Dr. Akigbe, St. Peter’s oldest and most senior doctor, is

staring at his computer screen, scrolling down with his mouse. He doesn’t say

anything to me, so I sit down of my own accord and wait. He stops scrolling and

raises his head.

“Do you know when this hospital was founded?”

“Nineteen seventy-one, sir.” I lean back in my seat and sigh. Is it really

possible that he called me here to lecture me on the hospital’s history?

“Excellent, excellent. I wasn’t here then, of course. I’m not that old!” He

laughs at his own joke. He is, of course, that old. He just happened to be

working elsewhere at the time. I clear my throat, in hopes of deterring him from

beginning a story I have heard a thousand times before. He stands up, revealing

his full six-foot-three frame and stretches. I know what he is doing. He’s going

to bring out the photo album. He will show me pictures of the hospital in its

earliest days and of the three founders he can never stop talking about.

“Sir, I have to, Ta…Dr. Otumu wants me to assist with a PET scan.”

“Right, right.” He is still scanning the bookshelf for the album.

“I’m the only nurse on the floor trained to assist with a PET scan, sir,” I say

pointedly. Perhaps it is too much to hope my words will hurry him, but

whatever he wants to say to me, I’d rather not wait an hour to hear it. To my

surprise, he spins around and beams at me.

“And that is why I called you here!”

“Sir?”

“I have been watching you for some time.” He demonstrates this with his

forefinger and middle finger directed at his eyes, and then at me. “And I like

what I see. You are meticulous and you are passionate about this hospital.

Frankly, you remind me of me!” He laughs again. It sounds like a dog barking.

“Thank you, sir.” His words warm me on the inside, and I smile at him. I was

just doing my job, but it is gratifying to have my efforts acknowledged.

“Needless to say, you were a shoe-in for the position of head nurse!” Head

nurse. It’s certainly a role that suits me. After all, I have been doing the work of

a head nurse for some time now. Tade mentioned that I was being considered

for the role and I think of the celebratory dinner he promised we would have.

That’s null and void now, I guess. I don’t have Tade’s friendship and Femi is

probably swelling to three times his size, but I am now the head nurse of St.

Peter’s Hospital. It has a nice ring to it.

“I’m honored, sir.”