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 -  3 & Last Part) 

SEVENTEEN :-

Ayoola was seventeen the first time and scared out of her wits. She called me

and I could barely make sense of her words.

“You what?”

“I…the knife…it’s…there’s blood everywhere…” Her teeth were chattering

as though she were cold. I tried to control my rising panic.

“Ayoola, slow down. Take a deep breath. Where are you bleeding?”

“I…I’m not…Somto. It’s Somto.”

“You were attacked?”

“I…”

“Where are you? I’ll call—”

“No! Come alone.”

“Ayoola, where are you?”

“Will you come alone?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“I won’t tell you, unless you promise to come alone.” So I promised.

When I got to the apartment Somto was already dead. His trousers were

around his ankles and the shock on his face mirrored mine.

“You…you did this?”

Back then I was too scared to hang about and clean, so we torched the room.

I never even considered putting Ayoola at the mercy of the police. Why take the

risk that her cry of self-defense might go unheard?

Somto had a studio apartment to himself that overlooked the water—the very

water that led into the third mainland bridge lagoon. We took the diesel he was

keeping for his generator, poured it over his body, lit a match and fled. The

other tenants ran out of the block quickly when the fire alarm went off, so there

was no collateral damage. Somto was a smoker; it was all the proof the

university needed.

Murderer—Ayoola; Place—Studio Apartment; Weapon—Knife.

MANEATER :-

Ayoola wins Cluedo, but only because I am forced to keep explaining the

rules to Tade to prevent him from falling into the traps she is so adept at setting.

I had convinced myself that if Tade could win here…then maybe…

“You’re a pro at this,” he tells her, squeezing her thigh. “Hey, I’m hungry. I

wouldn’t mind some of that cake. Do you have any left?”

“Ask Korede na.”

“Oh. Korede bakes too?”

She raises her eyebrows and glances at me. I meet her eyes and wait.

“You think I bake?”

“Yes…I had your pineapple upside-down cake.”

“Did Korede tell you I baked that?”

He frowns. “Yes…Wait, no…It was your mum.”

She smiles at him, as if sorry that he was deceived.

“I can’t bake to save my life,” she states plainly. “Korede made apple crumble

this morning, would you like that?”

“Oh. Okay, sure.”

Ayoola calls for the house girl and tells her to bring the apple crumble with

custard and side plates. Five minutes later, she is dishing out hefty portions. I

push mine away, feeling nauseous. Tade takes a bite of his, closes his eyes and

smiles. “Korede, this is heavenly.”

AWAKE :-

I haven’t gone to Muhtar’s room since he came out of his coma. It’s the end

of that era. I can no longer talk to him with impunity and I was not the nurse

allocated to attend to him in the first place.

“Korede.”

“Hmmm.”

“The patient in room 313 would like to see you.”

“Muhtar? Why?”

Chichi shrugs. “Better go and ask him.”

I consider ignoring the summons, but he’ll soon be walking around the floor

as part of his physiotherapy, so I know it is only a matter of time before I see

him. I knock on his door.

“Come in.”

He is sitting up in bed with a book in his hands, which he sets down beside

him. He looks at me expectantly. There are heavy rings around his eyes, but his

pupils are focused and sharp. He seems to have aged since he woke up.

“I’m Nurse Korede.” His eyes widen.

“You’re the one.”

“The one?”

“The one who visited me.”

“Oh, they told you?”

“Who?”

“The nurses.”

“The nurses? No, no. I remember.”

“You remember what?” The room is cold; my hands are tingling, their

temperature dropping.

“I remember your voice. You talking to me.”

My skin is dark, but I am certain all the blood has rushed to my feet, rendering me ghostlike. What happened to all that research that established the

unlikelihood that comatose patients were aware of their surroundings? Yes,

Tade had been convinced that my visits were doing some good, but I had never

thought Muhtar could actually hear me.

“You remember me talking to you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what I said?”

MARKET :-

When I was ten, my mum lost me in the market.

We went to buy tomatoes, bitter leaf, crayfish, onions, ata rodo, tàtàsé,

plantain, rice, chicken and beef. I was holding the list, but I had already

memorized everything and I chanted it under my breath.

Mum was holding Ayoola’s hand and I walked behind them. My eyes were

focused on my mother’s back, so I wouldn’t lose them in the sea of people

pushing and shoving their way between the stalls. Ayoola saw something, a

lizard perhaps, and decided to chase it. She pulled her hand from my mother’s

grip and ran. My mother, acting on instinct, ran after her.

It took me a second to react. At the time, I didn’t know Ayoola had run off.

One minute my mother was walking quickly but steadily in front of me, the

next she was hightailing it away without me.

I tried to follow, but I lost her immediately and stopped running. Suddenly, I

was in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by threatening strangers. I feel now

much the way I felt then. Uncertain, afraid and very sure that something bad is

going to happen to me.

MEMORY :-

Muhtar frowns, knitting together his brows, and then he shrugs.

“It’s very patchy.”

“What do you remember?”

“Would you like to sit down?” He gestures at a seat and I oblige. I need to

keep him talking. I told this man almost every secret I had, convinced that he

would take those secrets to the grave, but now he is giving me a shy smile and

trying to meet my eye.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” I ask, but I don’t recognize my voice.

“Visit me. You don’t know me, and I get the impression the visits from my

family had dwindled to almost nothing.”

“It was tough for them, seeing you like that.”

“You don’t have to make excuses for them.” We are both silent after that, not

sure what to say. “I have a granddaughter now.”

“Congratulations.”

“The father says she isn’t his.”

“Oh. Curious.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Good. Marriage isn’t what they say it is.”

“You were saying you remembered something?”

“Yes. It’s amazing, isn’t it? You think the whole body is in hibernation, but

the brain is still working, still garnering information. Really fascinating.”

Muhtar is far more talkative than I thought he would be and he gestures quite

wildly when he talks. I can imagine him in front of a roomful of youths,

lecturing them on things they couldn’t care less about, but going at it with

passion and gusto.

“So, you remember a lot, then?” “No. Not a lot. I know you like popcorn with syrup. You said I should try it

sometime.”

My breath catches in my throat. No one else here would know that except

Tade, and Tade isn’t one to play tricks.

“Is that all?” I ask quietly.

“You seem nervous. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I have some water here, if you…”

“Really, I’m okay. Is there anything else?”

He appraises me, cocking his head. “Oh yes, I recall you saying that your

sister is a serial killer.”

MADNESS :-

What led me to confide in a body that still had breath left in it?

An unwanted thought enters my mind—a means to an end. I squash the

thought, meet his gaze and laugh. “Who did I say she killed?”

“I don’t quite remember that.”

“Well, it’s to be expected. Coma patients usually have a hard time separating

their dream world from the real world.”

He nods. “I was thinking the same thing.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, though, or perhaps my fear is making me read

too much into his tone of voice. He is still staring at me, trying to make sense

of things. I have to remain professional.

“Have you been experiencing any headaches?”

“No…I haven’t.”

“Good. Finding it hard to sleep?”

“Sometimes…”

“Hmmm…Well, if you begin to suffer hallucinations…”

“Hallucinations?!”

“Don’t be alarmed, just let the doctor know.”

He looks alarmed, and I feel a little guilty. I stand up.

“Rest, and if you need anything, press the button beside you.”

“Would you mind staying a bit longer? You have a pleasant voice.”

His face is narrow and stiff. His eyes are the most expressive thing about

him. I stand, pushing the chair back in its corner and his eyes follow me as I

move around straightening things that are already in their place. They put me on

edge.

“Sorry, sir, I have to return to work.”

“Aren’t you working by being here?”

“I’m not the nurse designated to care for you.” I force a smile and pretend to glance at his notes, and then head to the door. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,

Mr. Yautai,” I say, and leave the room.

Three hours later, Bunmi informs me that Muhtar has requested me as his

nurse. Yinka, who is his nurse, shrugs, not caring one chit.

“He has creepy eyes anyway.”

“To whom did he make the request?” I ask.

“Dr. ‘Put the Patient First.’ ” Dr. Akigbe. The chance that Dr. Akigbe will

allow Muhtar’s request is very, very high. He loves to grant patient requests that

require nothing from him.

I sink into the chair at the reception desk and consider my options, but none

of them are ideal. I imagine writing his name in the notebook. I wonder if this

is how it is for Ayoola—one minute she is giddy with happiness and good cheer,

and the next minute her mind is filled with murderous intent.

ASLEEP :-

I dream of Femi. Not the inanimate Femi. The Femi whose smile was

plastered all over Instagram and whose poetry is memorialized in my mind. I

have been trying to understand how he became a victim.

He was arrogant, there’s no doubt about it. But handsome, talented men

usually are. His tone on his blog was abrupt and cynical and he didn’t appear to

suffer fools lightly. But as though at war with himself, his poetry was playful

and romantic. He was…complex. The sort of man who shouldn’t have fallen

under Ayoola’s spell.

In my dream, he leans back in his chair and asks me what I’m going to do.

“Do about what?”

“She’s not going to stop, you know.”

“She was defending herself.”

“You don’t really believe that,” he chides, shaking his head feebly.

He stands up and starts to walk away from me. I follow him, because what

else can I do? I want to wake up, but I also want to see where Femi will take

me. It turns out, he wants to visit the place where he died. We stare at his body,

the utter helplessness of it all. Beside him, on the floor, is the knife she carries

with her and spills blood with. She had hidden it before I got there, but in my

dream I see it as clear as day.

He asks me if he could have done anything differently.

“You could have seen her for what she was.”

ICECREAM :-

Her name is Peju.

She is hovering outside our compound and makes her move the moment I

pull out of the gate. I don’t immediately recognize her, but I stick my head out

of the window to see what she wants.

“What did you do to him?”

“Sorry?”

“Femi. What did you do to Femi?” I realize then who she is. I have seen her,

too many times to count, on Instagram. She is the one who has been posting

about Femi, the one who called Ayoola out on Snapchat. She has lost a lot of

weight and her pretty eyes are red. I try to remain impassive.

“I can’t help you.”

“Can’t? Or won’t? I just want to know what happened to him.” I attempt to

drive on, but she opens my door. “The worst thing is not knowing.” Her voice

breaks.

I turn off the engine and climb out of the car. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Some people are saying he probably up and left the country, but he wouldn’t

do that, and he wouldn’t worry us like this…If we knew…”

I feel a strong urge to confess to her, to tell her what happened to her brother

so that she won’t have to go through life wondering. I think up the words in my

head—Sorry, my sister stabbed him in the back and I masterminded throwing his

body in the water. I think of how it would sound. I think of what would happen

after.

“Look, I’m really—”

“Peju?”

Peju’s head snaps up to see my sister coming down the drive.

“What are you doing here?” Ayoola asks.

“You’re the one who saw him last. I know there is something you’re not

saying. Tell me what happened to my brother.”

Ayoola is wearing dungarees—she is the only person I know who can still pull those off—and she is licking ice cream, probably from the parlor around

the corner. She pauses the licking, not because she is moved by Peju’s words,

but because she is aware that it is proper to pause whatever one is doing when in

the presence of someone who is grieving. I spent three hours explaining that

particular etiquette to her one Sunday afternoon.

“You think he is…dead?” asks Ayoola in a low soft voice.

Peju starts weeping. It is as though Ayoola’s question knocks down a dam

that she has been doing her best to keep up. Her cries are deep and loud. She

gulps in air and her body shudders. Ayoola takes another lick of the ice cream

and then she pulls Peju into an embrace with her free arm. She rubs Peju’s back

as she cries.

“It’ll be alright. It’ll be alright in the end,” Ayoola murmurs to her.

Does it matter who Peju is getting comfort from? What’s done is done. So

what if it is only her brother’s killer who can talk candidly about the possibility

of his death? Peju needed to be released from the crushing burden of hope that

Femi could still be alive and Ayoola was the only one willing to do it.

Ayoola continues to pat Peju on her back as she stares resignedly at the ice

cream, the one she can no longer lick, as it drip drips onto the road.

SECRET :-

“Korede, can I talk to you for a sec?”

I nod and follow Tade into his office. As soon as the door is shut, he beams

at me. My face flushes and I cannot help but smile back.

He looks particularly good today—he has recently had his hair cut. He is

usually quite conservative with his hair, trimming it down almost to the scalp,

but he has been growing it out recently, and now he has a short back and sides

with the middle left an inch high. It suits him.

“I want to show you something, but you have to promise to keep it a secret.”

“Okay…”

“Promise.”

“I promise I’ll keep it a secret.”

He hums as he goes to his drawer and fishes something out. It is a box. A

ring box.

“Who?” I squeak. As if there was ever any doubt who the ring is for. And

who it isn’t for.

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

The ring is a two-carat princess cut diamond with a precious-stone setting.

You would have to be blind not to like it.

“You want to propose to Ayoola,” I state, so we are all on the same page.

“Yes. Do you think she’ll say yes?”

Finally, a question I don’t know the answer to. I blink back hot tears and I

clear my throat. “Isn’t this too soon?”

“When you know, you know. You’ll understand one day, Korede, when

you’re in love.”

I surprise myself by laughing. It starts off as a gasp, then a giggle, then

uncontrollable tear-jerking laughter. Tade is staring at me, but I can’t stop.

When I finally calm down, he asks, “What’s so funny?”

“Tade…what do you like about my sister?”

“Everything.”

“But if you had to be specific.”

“Well…she is…she is really special.”

“Okay…but what makes her special?”

“She is just so…I mean, she is beautiful and perfect. I’ve never wanted to be

with someone this much.”

I rub my forehead with my fingers. He fails to point out the fact that she

laughs at the silliest things and never holds a grudge. He hasn’t mentioned how

quick she is to cheat at games or that she can hemstitch a skirt without even

looking at her fingers. He doesn’t know her best features or her…darkest

secrets. And he doesn’t seem to care.

“Put your ring away, Tade.”

“What?”

“This is all…” I perch on his desk and try to find the words. “This is all just

fun and games to her.”

He sighs, and shakes his head. “People change, Korede. I know she cheated

on me, and all that, but that’s ’cause she hasn’t known real love. And that’s what

I can give her.”

“She will hurt you.” I go to put my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs me

off.

“I can handle…”

How can a man be so obtuse? The frustration I feel is like a gas bubble in my

chest, and I cannot control the need to burp.

“No. I mean it—she will hurt you. Physically! She has hurt people—guys—

before.” I try to illustrate my point with my hands, strangling thin air.

There is a moment of silence while he considers what I’ve said and I consider

the fact that I said it. I drop my hands. I should stop talking now. I have told

him as much as I can. He’s on his own from here.

“Is it because you don’t have someone?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Why don’t you want Ayoola to move forward in life? It’s like you want her

to depend on you for the rest of her days.” He shakes his head in

disappointment and I have to check every urge to scream. I dig my nails into my palm. I’ve never held Ayoola back; if anything, I’ve given her a future.

“I don’t…”

“It’s like you don’t want her to be happy.”

“She’s killed before!” I shout, regretting the words as soon as I have uttered

them. Tade shakes his head again, marveling at how low I am willing to stoop.

“She told me about the guy who died. Said you blame her for it.” I’m

tempted to ask him which guy he is referring to, but I can see this is a battle

that I cannot win. I lost before I even knew it had started. Ayoola may not be

here, but Tade is like a puppet, speaking her words.

“Look.” His voice softens as he changes tack. “She really wants your

approval, and all she gets from you is judgment and disdain. She lost someone

she loved and all you do is make her feel responsible. I would never have

thought you could be so cruel. I thought I knew you, Korede.”

“No. You know nothing about me, or the woman you are about to propose to.

And by the way, Ayoola would never wear a ring less than three carats.” He

stares at me as though I’m speaking another language, the ring box still clutched

in his hand. What a waste of time this all was.

I glance at him over my shoulder as I open the door. “Just watch your back.”

She had warned me: He isn’t deep. All he wants is a pretty face.

FRIEND :-

As I approach the reception desk, Yinka looks up from her phone.

“Oh good, it’s you. I was afraid I would have to come and find you.”

“What do you want?”

“Excuse you…I don’t want anything, but coma guy has been asking for you

nonstop.”

“His name is Muhtar.”

“Whatever.” Yinka leans back and resumes playing Candy Crush. I turn on

my heel and make my way to room 313.

He is sucking on an àgbálùmọ̀, sitting in one of the armchairs. Another nurse

must have set him up there for a change of scenery. He smiles when I walk in.

“Hello!”

“Hi.”

“Please sit, sit.”

“I can’t really stay long.” I’m not in the mood for chatting, my conversation

with Tade is still ringing in my ears.

“Sit.”

I sit. He looks much better. His hair has been cut, and he appears to have put

on a bit of weight. His color looks better, too. I tell him as much.

“Thank you. It’s a wonder what being conscious can do for one’s health!” He

laughs at himself, then stops. “Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”

“I’m fine. What can I help you with, Mr. Yautai?”

“Please, there’s no need for formalities. Call me Muhtar.”

“Okay…”

He stands up and grabs a paper bag off the coffee table; he hands it to me.

Popcorn with syrup drizzled all over it. It looks delicious.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to. It’s the least I can do to thank you.” The hospital does not allow us to accept gifts from patients, but I do not want

to offend him by rejecting his attempt at gratitude. I thank him, take the bag

and set it to one side.

“I’ve been thinking some more about my memories, and some things are a

little clearer to me,” he begins.

Honestly, I am too tired for this. I can take only so much in a day. Perhaps he

will remember everything I told him, including where the bodies are, and it will

all be over.

“Let’s say for argument’s sake that one knew someone who had committed a

gross crime. Someone dear to one. What would one do?” He pauses.

I sit back in my chair and appraise him. I must choose my words wisely,

since I have carelessly given this man the tools he needs to have my sister and

me thrown into jail, and I have no idea what his angle is. “One would be duty

bound to report it.”

“One would be, yes, but most of us wouldn’t, would we?”

“Wouldn’t we?”

“No, because we are hardwired to protect and remain loyal to the people we

love. Besides, no one is innocent in this world. Why, go up to your maternity

ward! All those smiling parents and their newborns? Murderers and victims.

Every one of them. ‘The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with

smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we really are: a subtle

kind of murder.’ ”

“That’s quite…” I can’t complete the sentence. The words trouble me.

“It’s a quote by Jim Morrison. I cannot lay claim to such wisdom.” He

continues to suck on the àgbálùmọ̀. He is quiet, waiting for me to speak.

“Are you going to tell anyone about…this?”

“I doubt the words of a coma patient hold much water out there.” He gestures

with his thumb to the door that separates us from the world outside.

Neither of us says anything. I focus on slowing down my heart rate. Without

my permission, tears run down my face. Muhtar keeps mum. He allows me the

time to appreciate that there is someone who knows what I’m dealing with, that

there is someone on my side.

“Muhtar, you know enough to have us put away forever. Why do you keep

this secret?” I ask him as I wipe my face dry. He sucks on another àgbálùmọ̀and winces at the sharpness of the flavor.

“Your sister, I do not know. I hear from your colleagues that she is very

lovely, but I have not seen her for myself and so do not care about her. You, I

know.” He points to me. “You, I care about.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you. I woke up because of you—your voice calling to me. I still hear

you in my dreams…”

He is waxing lyrical. It feels like I’m in another dream.

“I’m afraid,” I say in the barest of whispers.

“Of what?”

“The guy she is with now…she might…”

“So, save him.”

FATHER :-

The day before the day it all ended was a Sunday. The sun was merciless.

All the air conditioners in the house were on full blast, but I could still feel

the warmth from outside. Sweat was beading on my forehead. I sat under one of

the air conditioners in the upstairs sitting room with no intention of moving.

That is, until Ayoola came scrambling up the stairs and found me.

“Dad has a guest!”

We leaned over the balcony to spy on the man. The agbádá he wore kept

slipping down his arms, so he was constantly pushing it back up again. It was a

rich blue and so large that it was near impossible to tell if there was a slim man

or a fat man within the yards of fabric. Ayoola pantomimed pushing her own

sleeves back up and we sniggered. We were not afraid of our father when he

had guests—he was always on his best behavior. We could laugh and play with

little fear of retribution. The guest looked up at us and smiled. His face is

forever etched in my mind—it was a square, black, much blacker than I am,

with teeth so white he had to have kept his dentist on speed dial. I imagined

him getting ṣàkì stuck between his back molars and then immediately

demanding to be wheeled in for orthodontic surgery. The thought tickled me

and I shared it with Ayoola, who laughed out loud. It caught my father’s

attention.

“Korede, Ayoola, come and greet my guest.”

We trooped down obediently. The guest was already seated, and my mother

was offering him delicacy after delicacy. He was important. We knelt down, as

was customary, but he waved us back to our feet.

“I am not that old o!” he cried. He and Father laughed even though we could

not see what was funny. My feet were hot and itching, and I wanted to go back

to the cool of the air conditioner. I switched from foot to foot, hoping my father

would dismiss us so that the men could talk business, but Ayoola was transfixed

by the visitor’s cane. It was studded from top to bottom with different colored

beads. Its brightness drew her eye and she went closer to examine it.

The man paused and watched my sister over the rim of his teacup. Seeing her

up close, he smiled—but it was not the same smile he had lavished on us

earlier. “Your daughter is very beautiful.”

“Really,” my father replied, cocking his head.

“Very, very lovely.” He moistened his lips. I grabbed Ayoola’s hand and

pulled her a couple of steps backward. The man looked like a chief, and when

we went to the village for Christmas our maternal grandparents always kept us

away from chiefs. Apparently, if a chief saw a girl he liked, he would reach out

and touch her with his bejeweled cane and she would become his bride, no

matter how many wives the man already had; no matter if the girl in question

wanted to be his wife or not.

“Hey! What you doing?” Ayoola whined. I hushed her. My father shot me a

dark look but said nothing. The way the visitor was eyeing her triggered an

instinctive fear inside of me. The visitor’s face was moistening with sweat, but

even as he wiped his brow with his handkerchief, his eyes did not leave

Ayoola’s. I waited for Father to put the man in his place. Instead, Father leaned

back and stroked the beard that he took great pains to maintain. He looked at

Ayoola, as though seeing her for the first time. He was the one man who never

referred to Ayoola’s stunning features. He treated us both exactly the same. I

was never given the impression he was even aware of how gorgeous she was.

Ayoola shifted under his gaze. He rarely looked at us closely, and when he

did, it never ended well. She stopped resisting my grip and allowed me to pull

her to me. Father redirected his gaze to the chief man. His eyes twinkled.

“Girls, leave us.”

We didn’t need to be told twice. We ran out of the main living room and shut

the door behind us. Ayoola started running up the stairs, but I pressed my ear

against the door.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. “If he catches us—”

“Shhhh.” I caught words floating through the door, words like “contract,”

“deal,” “girl.” The doors were thick oak, so I couldn’t hear much else. I joined

Ayoola on the stairs and we went to my room.

By the time the sun went down we were out on the balcony, watching the

man get into the backseat of his Mercedes and be driven out of our compound.

The fear that had been stuck in my throat receded, and I forgot about the

incident with the chief man.

FAMILY :-

Muhtar and I are talking, about the blandness of the food here, the

coarseness of the sheets and tall tales of his past students.

There is a knock and Mohammed enters the room, interrupting us. He

mumbles a greeting at me, then beams at Muhtar, greeting him in Hausa, to

which Muhtar enthusiastically responds. I did not realize they had made each

other’s acquaintance. And I have never seen Mohammed smile so…freely, at

someone other than the nurses who fight over him. Their barrage of Hausa

relegates me to the position of other and, five minutes in, I decide to leave; but

before I have a chance to announce my intentions, there is yet another knock on

the door.

One of Muhtar’s sons comes in, trailed by a fresh-faced girl. I do not know

the names of his children—it hasn’t seemed important. But I can tell this is the

older one; he is taller and has a full beard. He is thin like his father; they all are,

like reeds in the wind. His eyes fall on me. He is probably wondering what a

nurse is doing making herself comfortable at his father’s bedside, tracing the

rim of an empty cup with her finger.

Mohammed empties the wastebasket and shuffles out. I stand up.

“Good morning, Dad.”

“Good morning…Korede, you are leaving?”

“You have a guest.” I nod toward his son.

Muhtar snorts and waves his hand. “Sani, this is Korede, the owner of the

voice in my dreams. I’m sure you won’t mind her staying.”

The son frowns with displeasure. On closer inspection, he does not look as

much like his father as I thought. His eyes are small but wide-set, so that he

looks permanently surprised. He gives a stiff nod, and I sit back down.

“Dad, this is Miriam, the girl I want to marry,” he announces. Miriam lowers

herself into a tsugunnawa out of respect for the man she hopes will be her

father-in-law.

Muhtar narrows his eyes. “What happened to the last one you brought to

meet me?”

His son sighs. It is a long dramatic sigh. “It didn’t work out, Dad. You’ve been out of it for so long…” I should have left the room when I had a chance.

“I don’t understand what that means. Hadn’t I already met her parents?”

Miriam is still kneeling, her right palm cupping her left. The two men seem

to have forgotten that she is still here. If this is the first time she is hearing of

another woman, it does not seem to register. She glances up at me, her eyes

empty. She reminds me of Bunmi. Her face is round, and she is all curves and

soft flesh. Her skin is even darker than my own—she comes close to the color

black that we are all labeled with. I wonder how old she is.

“I have changed my mind about her, Dad.”

“And the money that has been spent?”

“It’s just money. Isn’t my happiness more important?”

“This is the madness you tried to pull while I was sick?”

“Dad, I want to begin the arrangements, and I need you to—”

“Sani, if you think you are getting a dime from me, you are more foolish than

I thought. Miriam, your name is Miriam, abi? Get up. I apologize, but I will not

sanction this marriage.” Miriam stumbles to her feet and then goes to stand

beside Sani.

Sani scowls at me, as though I were somehow to blame for this turn of

events. I meet his glare with a look of indifference. A man like him could never

ruffle my feathers. But Muhtar catches the exchange.

“Look at me, Sani, not Korede.”

“Why is she even here? This is a family matter!”

The truth is, I am asking myself the same question. Why does Muhtar want

me here? We both look to him for an answer, but he seems to be in no hurry to

provide one.

“I have said all I intend to say on this matter.”

Sani grabs Miriam’s hand and spins around, dragging her out of the room

with him. Muhtar closes his eyes.

“Why did you want me to remain here?” I ask.

“For your strength,” he replies.

SHEEP :-

After I tire of tossing and turning, I decide to go to Ayoola’s room. When we

were young, we often slept together, and it always had the effect of calming us

both. Together, we were safe.

She is wearing a long cotton tee and hugging a brown teddy bear. Her knees

are bent toward her stomach and she does not stir as I slip into bed beside her.

This is no surprise. Ayoola wakes up only when her body has tired of sleeping.

She does not dream, she does not snore. She lapses into a coma that even the

likes of Muhtar cannot fathom.

I envy her for this. My body is exhausted, but my mind is working overtime,

remembering and plotting and second-guessing. I am more haunted by her

actions than she is. We may have escaped punishment, but our hands are no less

bloody. We lie in our bed, in relative comfort even as Femi’s body is

succumbing to the water and the fish. I am tempted to shake Ayoola awake, but

what good would it do? Even if I succeeded in rousing her, she would tell me

that it would all be fine and promptly go back to sleep.

Instead I count—sheep, ducks, chickens, cows, goats, bush rats and corpses. I

count them to oblivion.

FATHER :-

Ayoola had a guest. It was the summer holidays, and he had come in the

hope of making her his girlfriend before school resumed. I think his name was

Ola. I remember he was gangly, with a birthmark that discolored half his face. I

remember he could not keep his eyes off Ayoola.

Father received him well. He was offered drinks and snacks. He was coaxed

into talking about himself. He was even shown the knife. As far as Ola was

concerned, our father was a generous, attentive host. Even Mum and Ayoola

had been fooled by the performance—they were both smiling. But I was on the

edge of my seat, my fingernails dug into the upholstery.

Ola knew better than to tell the father of the girl he wanted to date that he

was interested in her, but you could see it in the way he kept glancing at Ayoola,

how he angled his body toward her, how he constantly said her name.

“This boy is a smooth talker o!” Father announced with a chuckle, after Ola

had made some well-meaning comment about helping the homeless to find

work. “I’m sure you are popular with the ladies.”

“Yes, sir. No, sir,” he stammered, caught off guard.

“You like my daughters, eh? They are lovely, eh?” Ola blushed. His eyes

darted to Ayoola again. Father’s jaw clenched. I looked around me, but Ayoola

and my mother had not noticed. I remember wishing I had taught Ayoola some

type of code. I coughed.

“Pèlé,” Mother told me in her soothing voice. I coughed again. “Go and

drink water.” I coughed once more. Nothing.

Ayoola, follow me, I mouthed, my eyes wide.

“No, thanks.”

“Follow me now,” I hissed. She crossed her arms and looked back at Ola.

She was enjoying his attention too much to mind me. Father turned his head in

my direction and smiled. Then I followed his eyes to the cane.

The cane lay ten inches above the TV on a specially crafted ledge. And there

it stayed all day, every day. My eyes were constantly drawn to it. To the

uninitiated, it must have looked like a work of art—a nod to history and culture.

It was thick, smooth and marked with intricate carvings. The visit passed slowly until Father decided it was over, guiding Ola to the

door, telling him to come again and wishing him luck. Then he walked across

the silent living room and reached for the cane.

“Ayoola, come here.” She looked up, saw the cane and trembled. Mother

trembled. I trembled. “Are you deaf? I said come here!”

“But I did not ask him to come,” she whined, instantly understanding what

the matter was. “I didn’t invite him.”

“Please, sir, please,” I whispered. I was already crying. “Please.”

“Ayoola.” She stepped forward. She had started crying too. “Strip.”

She removed her dress, button by button. She did not hurry, she fumbled, she

cried. But he was patient.

“Nítorí Ọlọ́run, Kehinde, please. Nítorí Ọlọ́run.” Because of God, Mother

begged. Because of God. Ayoola’s dress fell in a pool at her feet. She was

wearing a white training bra and white panties. Even though I was older, I still

had no use for a bra. Mother was clinging to Father’s shirt, but he brushed her

off. She was never able to stop him.

I took a bold step forward and took Ayoola’s hand in my own. History had

shown me that if you came within reach of the cane, the cane would not

distinguish between victim and observer, but I had a feeling Ayoola would not

survive the confrontation without me.

“So, I am sending you to school to sleep around, abi?”

You hear the sound of a cane before you feel it. It whips the air. She cried

out, and I shut my eyes.

“I am paying all that money for you to be a prostitute?! Answer me na!”

“No, sir.” We didn’t call him Daddy. We never had. He was not a daddy, at

least not in the way the word “daddy” denotes. One could hardly consider him a

father. He was the law in our home.

“You think you are all that, abi? I will teach you who is all that!” He struck

her again. This time, the cane grazed me, too. I sucked in my breath.

“You think this boy cares about you? He just wants what is between your

legs. And when he is done he will move on.”

Pain has a way of sharpening your senses. I can still hear his heavy breathing.

He was not a fit man. He quickly tired during a beating, but he had a strong will

and a stronger desire to instill discipline. I can still remember the smell of our fear—acidic, metallic, sharper even than the smell of vomit.

He continued to give his sermon as he wielded his weapon. Ayoola’s skin was

light enough that you could see that it was turning red. Because I was not the

target, the cane would only occasionally catch me, on my shoulder or ear or the

side of my face, but even so, the pain was hard to bear. I could feel Ayoola’s

grip on my hand weakening. Her cries had turned into a low whimper. I needed

to act. “If you beat her any more, she will scar and people will ask questions!”

His hand stilled. If there was one thing in the world he actually cared about,

it was his reputation. He seemed momentarily uncertain of what to do next, but

then he wiped the sweat off his brow and returned the cane to its resting place.

Ayoola sank to the floor beside me.

Not long after, when we were back at school, Ola approached me during

break to deliver his thoughts about my father.

“Your dad is really cool,” he told me. “I wish my dad was like him.”

As for Ayoola, she never spoke to Ola again.

WIFE :-

“If you don’t like these shoes, I have more in storage. I can send you

pictures.” Bunmi and I look down at the avalanche of shoes that Chichi has

poured onto the floor behind the nurses’ station. Her shift has been over for at

least thirty minutes. She has changed her clothes, and apparently her profession,

too—she’s gone from nurse to saleswoman. She bends over, shuffling through

the shoes on the floor to find the ones we just have to buy. She bends over so

far that we see her ass crack appear above her jeans. I avert my eyes.

I was minding my own business, scheduling in a patient, when she stuck a

pair of black pumps under my nose. I had waved her away, but she insisted that

I come and check out her merchandise. The thing is, all the shoes she is selling

look cheap, the type that fall apart after a month. She hasn’t even bothered to

polish them and now they are lying on the floor. I force a smile onto my face.

“You know, they haven’t paid salaries yet…”

“And I just bought a couple new shoes…” Bunmi joins in.

Chichi squares her shoulders and wiggles a pair of diamante heels at us. “You

can never have too many shoes. My prices are very reasonable.”

She is just about to launch into a sales pitch for a pair of nine-inch wedges

when Yinka runs to us and slams her palms down on the counter. She may not

be my favorite person in the world, but I am grateful for the interruption.

“There is drama in the coma man’s room o!”

“Drama ke?” Chichi forgets her shoes and rests her elbow on my shoulder as

she leans forward. I resist the urge to swipe her arm away.

“Eh, I was going to see my patient and I heard shouting coming from his

room.”

“He was shouting?” I ask her.

“It’s the wife who is shouting o. I stopped to…make sure he was okay…and I

heard her calling him the devil. That he cannot take his money to the grave with

him.”

“Hey! I hate stingy men!” Chichi repeatedly snaps her fingers over her head,

warding off any stingy man who might be tempted to come near her. I open my

mouth to defend Muhtar, to tell them that he doesn’t have a stingy bone in his body, that he is generous and kind—but I look at Bunmi’s dull eyes, Chichi’s

thirsty ones and Yinka’s dark pupils and I know that my words would be

willfully misinterpreted. Instead, I stand up quickly, and Chichi stumbles.

“Where are you going?”

“We can’t allow our patients to be harassed by friends or family. As long as

they are here, they are in our care,” I call back to her.

“You should put that on a bumper sticker,” yells Yinka. I pretend I haven’t

heard her, and I take the steps two at a time. There are thirty rooms on the third

floor: 301 to 330. I hear the shouting as soon as I am in the corridor. There’s

the nasal voice of the wife, and a man’s voice, too. It is whining and cajoling, so

I know it is not Muhtar.

I knock on the door, and the voices quiet.

“Come in,” Muhtar calls out wearily. I open the door to find him standing by

the bed, wearing a gray jalabia. He grips one of the handrails, and I can see he

is half leaning on it. The strain on his body shows on his face. He looks older

than the last time I saw him.

His wife is draped in a red lace mayafi. It covers her hair and falls over her

right shoulder. Her dress is tailored from the same material. Her skin glows, but

the snarl on her face is like that of a beast’s. Muhtar’s brother, Abdul, stands

beside her with his eyes cast down. I suppose he is the owner of the whiny

voice.

“Yes?” the wife barks at me.

I ignore her. “Muhtar?”

“I’m okay,” he reassures me.

“Would you like me to stay?”

“What do you mean, would he like you to stay? You are a common nurse,

come on, get out of here!”

Her voice is like nails on a blackboard.

“Did you hear me?” she screeches.

I walk over to Muhtar and he gives me a wan smile.

“I think you should sit down,” I tell him gently. He loosens his grip on the bar

and I help him settle into the chair closest to him. I lay his blanket over his lap.

“Do you want them to stay?” I whisper.

“What is she saying to him?” the wife splutters behind me. “She is a witch!

She has used juju to useless my husband! She is the reason why he is not

making sense. Abdul, do something. Send her out!” She points at me. “I will

report you. I don’t know what black magic you are using…”

Muhtar shakes his head, and that is all the sign I need. I straighten up and

face her.

“Madam, please leave, or I will have to have Security escort you out.”

Her lower lip trembles and her eyes twitch. “Who do you think you are

talking to? Abdul!”

I turn to Abdul, but he doesn’t lift his eyes to meet mine. He is younger than

Muhtar, and may be even taller, but it is hard to tell for he has bent his head so

low that it threatens to fall off his neck. He rubs her arm in an attempt to soothe

her, but she shrugs him off. To be honest, I’d shrug him off too. The suit he is

wearing is expensive, but the fit is poor. It is too wide at the shoulders and too

broad at the chest. It could easily belong to someone else—the way the woman

whose arm he rubs belongs to someone else.

I look at her again. She may have been beautiful once. Maybe the first time

Muhtar laid eyes on her.

“I do not mean to be rude,” I tell her, “but my patient’s well-being is my

priority and we don’t allow anyone to jeopardize that.”

“Who do you think you are?! You think you will get money from him? Abi,

has he already given you money? Muhtar, you are there acting all high and

mighty, and now you are chasing a nurse. See you! You could not even pick a

fine one!”

“Get out!” The order comes from Muhtar and makes us all jump. There is an

authority to his voice I have not heard before. Abdul raises his head and quickly

lowers it again. The wife glowers at us both before turning on her heel and

marching out the door, with Abdul following limply behind. I drag a chair over

and sit beside Muhtar. His eyes are heavy. He pats one of my hands. “Thank

you.”

“It was you who got them out.”

He sighs.

“Apparently, Miriam’s father wants to run for governor of Kano state.”

“So your wife wants you to approve the union.”

“Yes.” “And will you?”

“Would you?” I think of Tade, ring in hand, eyes on me, waiting for my

blessing.

“Are they in love?”

“Who?”

“Miriam and…your son.”

“Love. What a novel concept.” He closes his eyes.

NIGHT :-

Tade stares at me, but his eyes are empty. His face is bloated, distorted. He

reaches out to touch me and his hands are cold.

“You did this.”

BROKEN :-

I slither inside Tade’s office and rummage through his desk drawers to

retrieve the ring box. Tade has taken a patient to radiology, so I know I’m alone.

The ring is as enchanting as I remember. I am tempted to slip it on my finger.

Instead I grip the band tightly, kneel on the floor and strike the diamond against

the tiles. I use every ounce of force in my body and strike again. I guess it’s true

that diamonds are forever—it withstands my every attempt to break it, but the

rest of the ring is not as strong willed. Soon the setting is in pieces on the

ground. The diamond looks smaller and less impressive without its casing.

It occurs to me that if I just damage the ring, Tade will suspect me. I slip the

diamond in my pocket. After all, no self-respecting thief would leave it here.

Besides, this would all be a colossal waste of time if Tade simply bought

another setting. I head to the medicine cabinet.

Twenty minutes later, Tade storms toward the reception desk. I hold my

breath. He looks at me and then quickly looks away, addressing Yinka and

Bunmi instead.

“Someone has turned my office upside down and destroyed the…some of my

things.”

“What?!” we cry in unison.

“Are you serious?” adds Yinka, though it is clear from Tade’s furrowed brows

that something is not right.

We follow him to his office, and he flings open the door. I try to look at it

from the eyes of an objective party. It appears as though someone was searching

for something and then lost control. The drawers are all open and most of the

contents scattered on the floor. The medicine cabinet is ajar, the pill bottles are

in disarray and there are files scattered all over his desk. When I left, the broken

ring setting was on the ground, but I can no longer see it.

“This is terrible,” I mumble.

“Who would do this?” Bunmi asks, frowning.

Yinka purses her lips together and claps her hands. “I saw Mohammed go

inside to clean earlier on,” she reveals, and I rub my tingling hands on my

thighs. “I don’t think Mohammed would—” begins Tade.

“When you left your office, it was normal, yes?” interrupts Yinka.

“Yes.”

“Then you went to do the X-ray and the ECG with a patient. How long were

you gone?”

“About forty minutes.”

“Well, I saw Mohammed go into your office in that time. Let’s say he spent

twenty minutes sweeping the floor and emptying the dustbin. It doesn’t give

anyone else enough time to enter, do all this and leave,” concludes Yinka, the

amateur detective.

“Why do you think he would do this?” I ask. She can’t hang him without a

motive, can she?

“Drugs, obviously,” she states. She crosses her arms, satisfied that she has

made her case. It’s easy to point the finger at Mohammed. He is poor,

uneducated. He is a cleaner.

“No.” It is Bunmi who speaks, Bunmi who protests. “I don’t accept that.” She

is eyeing Yinka, and because I am beside Yinka she is eyeing me too. Or does

she suspect something? “This man has been working in this place for longer

than the both of you and there has never been a problem. He wouldn’t do this.”

I have never seen Bunmi speak so passionately, or for so long. We all stare at

her.

“Drug addicts can hide their addiction for a long time,” argues Yinka finally.

“He was probably suffering from withdrawal or something. When these people

need a hit…Who knows how long he has been stealing drugs and getting away

with it.”

Yinka is content with her conclusion, and Tade is deep in thought. Bunmi

walks away. I have done the right thing…right? I have bought Tade more time

to think things through. I want to volunteer to clean up, but I know I should

keep my distance.

—

Mohammed denies the charges vehemently, but he is fired anyway. I can see

the decision does not sit well with Tade, but the evidence, or lack of evidence,

is not in Mohammed’s favor. It worries me that Tade does not mention the

broken ring to me. In fact, he has not sought me out at all.

“Hey,” I say a few days later, standing in the doorway of his office.

“What’s up?” He does not look at me, but continues writing in his file.

“I…I just wanted to check that everything is alright with you.”

“Yeah, everything is cool.”

“I didn’t want to ask in front of the others…but I hope the ring wasn’t

stolen…”

He stops writing and puts his pen down. He looks at me for the first time.

“Actually, Korede, it was.”

I’m about to feign shock and commiserate, when he continues.

“But what is funny is that the two bottles of diazepam in the cabinet weren’t.

The drugs were all over the place, but the ring was the only thing that was

actually taken. Curious behavior, for a drug addict.”

He holds my gaze. I refuse to blink or look away. I can feel my eyeballs

drying out. “Very curious,” I manage.

We stare at each other for a while longer, then he sighs and rubs his face.

“Okay,” he says, almost to himself. “Okay. Is there anything else?”

“No…no. Not at all.”

That night I drop the diamond into the third mainland bridge lagoon.

PHONE :-

I have found that the best way to take your mind off something is to binge-

watch TV shows. The hours pass by and I lie on my bed, stuffing my mouth

with groundnuts and staring at my laptop screen. I lean forward and type in the

address to Femi’s blog, but my efforts are met with a 404. His blog has been

taken down. He no longer exists for the online world; he can no longer exist for

me. He is beyond my reach now in death, as he would have been in life.

My phone vibrates and I consider ignoring it, but I reach forward and drag it

toward me.

It’s Ayoola.

My heart skips a beat.

“Hello?”

“Korede.”

#2: PETER :-

“Korede, he’s dead.”

“What?”

“He’s…”

“What the hell? What are you saying? He’s…you…you…”

She burst into tears.

“Please. Please. Help me.”

THEATER :-

This is the first time I will be entering Tade’s home. I imagined this moment

in several different ways, but never like this. I bang on the door and then I bang

again, not caring who hears or sees as long as the door is opened in time.

I hear the click of the door and step back. Tade stands there, sweat rolling off

his face and neck, in spite of the blast of air conditioning that hits me. I push

past him and look around. I see his living room, his kitchen, stairs. I don’t see

Ayoola.

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs,” he whispers. I run up the stairs, calling out to Ayoola, but she

does not reply. She can’t be dead. She can’t be. Life without her…And if she is

gone, it is my fault for saying more than I should have. I knew that this could

only ever be the case—to save him, I’ve sacrificed her.

“Turn left,” he says from close behind me. I open the door. My hand is

shaking. I am in his bedroom—the king-sized bed takes up a third of the room,

and on the other side of it I hear a low moan.

For a moment I am too scared to react. She is slumped on the floor, much

the same way that Femi was, pressing her hand to her side. I can see the blood

spilling through her fingers, but the knife—her knife—is still in her. She looks

at me and gives me a weak smile.

“The irony,” she says. I rush to her side.

“She…she…tried to kill me.”

I ignore him and use the scissors in my first aid kit to cut off the bottom half

of my shirt, after the bandages prove too paltry to do the job. I wanted to call

an ambulance, but I couldn’t risk Tade talking to anyone till I got to her.

“I didn’t take out the knife,” she tells me.

“Good girl.”

I use my jacket as a pillow and help her lie down. She moans again and it

feels as though someone were squeezing my heart. I take medical gloves out of

the kit and slip them on.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her.” “Ayoola, tell me what happened.” I don’t really want to know what happened,

but I need her to keep talking.

“He…he…hit me—” she begins as I cut her dress open.

“I did not hit her!” cries Tade—the first man able to defend himself against

Ayoola’s accusations.

“…then I tried to stop him and he stabbed me.”

“She came at me with a knife! Out of nowhere! Shit!”

“Shut up!” I tell him. “You’re not the one lying here bleeding out, are you?”

I bandage her wound with the knife still in it. If I took it out, I’d risk nicking

an artery or organ. I grab my phone and call the reception desk at the hospital.

Chichi picks up, and I silently thank God that Yinka’s not on night shifts this

week. I explain to her that I’ll be coming with my sister who has been stabbed

and I ask her to call in Dr. Akigbe.

“I’ll carry her,” Tade says. I don’t want him touching her, but he is stronger

than I am.

“Fine.”

He scoops her up and brings her down the stairs and out onto the drive. She

rests her head against his chest as though they were somehow still lovers.

Perhaps she cannot yet understand the gravity of what has taken place here.

I open the rear door of my car and he lays her in the back. I jump in the

driver’s seat. He tells me he will follow us in his car, and since I can’t do

anything to stop him, I nod. It’s 4 a.m., so traffic is sparse and there are no

police officers in sight. I take full advantage of this, driving 130 kilometers an

hour on one-way roads. We get to the hospital in twenty minutes.

Chichi and a trauma team meet us at the entrance. “What happened?” Chichi

asks, while two porters slide my little sister out onto a gurney. She’s no longer

conscious.

“What happened?” she insists.

“She got stabbed.”

“By was we are halfway through the corridor. He checks

Ayoola’s pulse and then barks orders at the nurses. As my sister is wheeled

away, he ushers me into a side room.

“Can’t I go in with her?”

“Korede, you’re going to have to wait outside.”

“But—”

“You know the rules. And you’ve done all you can do for the moment. You

requested me, so trust me.”

He sweeps out of the room and into the surgical theater. I walk into the

hallway just as Tade runs up, breathless.

“Is she in theater?”

I don’t respond. He reaches out to touch me. “Don’t.” He drops his hand.

“You know I didn’t mean to do it, right? We were both struggling with it and

I…” I turn my back on him and head to the water dispenser. He follows me.

“You said yourself that she’s dangerous.” I’m quiet. There isn’t anything to say

anymore. “Did you tell anyone what happened?” he asks in a quiet voice.

“No,” I say, pouring a cup of water. I’m surprised at how steady my hand is.

“And you’re not going to either.”

“What?”

“If you say anything about any of this, I will tell them that you attacked her.

And who do you think they will believe. You or Ayoola?”

“You know I’m innocent. You know I was defending myself.”

“I know I walked in and my sister had a knife in her side. That’s all I know.”

“She tried to kill me! You can’t…” He blinks at me, as though seeing me for

the first time. “You’re worse than she is.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s something wrong with her…but you? What’s your excuse?” He

walks away from me then in disgust.

I sit in the corridor outside the operating theater and wait for news.

WOUND :-

Dr. Akigbe comes out of the room and smiles at me. I breathe out.

“Can I see her?”

“She is sleeping. We are going to take her to a room upstairs. Once she is

settled, you can pop in.”

They put Ayoola in room 315, two doors away from Muhtar, who has never

seen my sister but knows more about her than I ever intended.

She looks innocent, vulnerable. Her chest rises and falls gently. Someone has

laid her dreads carefully beside her on the bed.

“Who did this to her?” It is Yinka. She looks upset.

“I’m just glad she is okay.”

“Whoever did this should be killed!” Her face has contorted into a mixture of

fury and contempt. “If it wasn’t for you, she probably would have died!”

“I…I…”

“Ayoola!” My mum rushes in, her heart in her mouth. “My baby!” She leans

over the bed and lowers her cheek to her unconscious daughter’s mouth—to feel

her breath, like she used to do sometimes when Ayoola was still a baby. When

she straightens, she is crying. She stumbles into me, and I put my arms around

her. Yinka excuses herself.

“Korede, what happened? Who did this?”

“She called me. I came to get her from where she was. She had the knife in

her.”

“Where did you pick her up from?”

Ayoola moans and we both turn to look at her, but she is still sleeping and

she quickly settles back into the task of breathing in and out.

“I’m sure Ayoola will be able to tell us both what took place when she gets

up.”

“But where did you find her? Why won’t you tell me?” I wonder what Tade is

doing, what he is thinking and what his next move will be. I will Ayoola to

wake, so that we can agree on whatever story needs to be told. Anything but the truth.

“She was at Tade’s house…I believe he found her there, like that.”

“Tade? Was there a break-in? Could…could Tade have done it?”

“I don’t know, Mum.” I suddenly feel exhausted. “We’ll ask Ayoola when she

wakes.” Mum frowns, but says nothing. All we can do now is wait.

FENCE :-

The hospital room is tidy, mostly because I have been setting it to rights for

the past thirty minutes. The teddy bears I brought from home are arranged at

the foot of the bed, according to color—yellow, brown, black. Ayoola’s phone

is fully charged, so the charger has been wrapped around itself and placed in

her bag—which I took the liberty of also rearranging. Her bag was a mess—

used tissue, receipts, cookie crumbs, notes from Dubai and candy that had been

sucked and rewrapped. I take a pen and write down the things I have thrown

away, in case she asks.

“Korede?”

I pause what I’m doing and look at Ayoola, whose big bright eyes are looking

at me.

“Hey…you’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Like hell.”

I stand up and fetch her a cup of water. I hold it to her lips and she drinks.

“Better?”

“A little…where’s Mum?”

“She went home to have a shower. She should be back soon.”

Ayoola nods, and then closes her eyes. She is asleep again within the minute.

The next time Ayoola wakes, she is more alert. She looks around, taking in

her surroundings. I don’t believe she has ever been in a hospital room before.

She never has anything worse than the common cold, and everyone close to her

has died before they reached the hospital.

“It’s so boring…”

“Would you like someone to paint graffiti on the walls for you, o great one?”

“No, not graffiti…art.” I laugh, and she laughs with me. There is a knock on

the door, but before we say a word, the door opens.

It’s the police. A different pair from the ones who questioned us about Femi.

One of them is a woman. They make a beeline for Ayoola, and I block them.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” “We understand that she was stabbed.”

“Yes?”

“We just want to ask a few questions, find out who it was,” replies the

woman, looking over my shoulder while I try to hustle them out.

“It was Tade,” says Ayoola. Just like that. It was Tade. She doesn’t pause or

hesitate. They could have asked her what the weather was and she wouldn’t have

sounded more relaxed. The floor is unsteady beneath me and I grab onto a chair

and sit down.

“And who is this Tade?”

“He is a doctor here,” my mum adds, materializing as though from thin air.

She looks at me strangely, probably trying to understand why I look like I am

about to throw up. I should have talked to Ayoola as soon as she woke up the

first time.

“Can you tell us what happened?”

“He proposed to me and I said I wasn’t interested and he lost it. He attacked

me.”

“How did your sister get to you?”

“He left the room and I called her.” They glance at me, but they don’t ask me

any questions, which is good because I doubt that I would be very coherent.

“Thank you, ma’am. We’ll be back.”

They run out, no doubt to locate Tade.

“Ayoola, what are you doing?”

“What do you mean what is she doing? That man stabbed your sister!”

Ayoola nods fervently, as outraged as our mother.

“Ayoola, listen to me. You will ruin that man’s life.”

“It’s him or me, Korede.”

“Ayoola…”

“You can’t sit on the fence forever.”

SCREEN :-

The next time I see Muhtar’s wife, she is leaning against the wall of the

corridor. Her shoulders are trembling, but no sound escapes her lips. Did no one

tell her it is painful to cry silently?

She senses she is not alone; her shoulders still and she looks up. Her eyes

narrow and her lips twist into a sneer, but she does not wipe the snot that is

trailing from her nose to her lip. I find myself taking a few steps backward.

Grief can be contagious and I have enough problems of my own.

She hitches up her dress and pushes past me in a flurry of lace and a fog of

Jimmy Choo L’Eau. She’s careful to catch me with the sharp point of her bony

shoulder. I wonder where her brother-in-law is and why he is not by her side. I

try not to breathe in the pungent smell of perfume and sadness as I head into

room 313.

Muhtar is seated on his bed, with the remote control pointed at the TV. He

puts it down when he sees me and flashes me a warm smile, though his eyes are

tired.

“I saw your wife on the way here.”

“Oh?”

“She was crying.”

“Oh.”

I wait for him to add something more, but he chooses to pick up the remote

control and continue flicking through channels. He does not seem surprised or

disturbed by what I’ve told him. Or particularly interested. I may as well have

told him that I saw a wall gecko on the way to work.

“Did you ever love her?”

“Once upon a time…”

“Perhaps she still loves you.”

“She does not cry for me,” he says, his voice hardening. “She cries for her

lost youth, her missed opportunities and her limited options. She does not cry

for me, she cries for herself.”

He settles on a channel—NTA. It’s like watching television from the nineties —the reporter has a green-gray tint and the transmission flickers and jumps.

We both stare at the screen, at the danfo buses zooming past and the passersby

craning their necks to take a look at what is being filmed. He’s muted the

sound, so I have no idea what is happening.

“I heard about what happened to your sister.”

“News travels fast around here.”

“I’m sorry.”

I smile at him. “I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

“She tried to hurt someone again.”

I don’t say anything—but then he didn’t phrase it as a question. On the TV,

the woman has now stopped to interview a passerby and his eyes continually flit

between her and the camera, as though he is unsure whom he should be making

his case to.

“You can do it, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Free yourself. Tell the truth.”

I can feel his gaze on me now. The TV has started to blur. I blink, blink

again and swallow. No words come out. The truth. The truth is that my sister

was hurt on my watch because of something I said, and I regret it.

He senses my discomfort and changes the subject. “They are discharging me

tomorrow.”

I turn to meet his eyes. He wasn’t going to be here forever. He isn’t a chair or

a bed or a stethoscope; he is a patient, and patients leave—alive or dead. And

yet, I feel something akin to surprise, akin to fear.

“Oh?”

“I do not want to lose touch,” he tells me.

It is funny, the only times I ever touched Muhtar was when he was sleeping

or at the gate between life and death, when it was necessary to move his body

for him. Now he turns his head back to face the screen on his own.

“Maybe you can give me your number and I can WhatsApp you?”

I cannot think of what to say. Does Muhtar exist outside these walls? Who is

he? Besides a man who knows my deepest secrets. And Ayoola’s. He has a

strangely European nose, this keeper of confidences. It is sharp and long. I wonder what his own secrets are. But then I do not even know what his hobbies

are, what his shackles are, where he rested his head at night before he was

carried into the hospital on a stretcher.

“Or I can give you my number and you can call anytime you need to talk.”

I nod. I am not sure he sees the nod. His eyes are still fixed to the screen. I

decide to leave. When I get to the door, I turn around. “Perhaps your wife still

loves you.”

He sighs. “You cannot take back words, once they’ve been spoken.”

“What words?”

“I divorce you. I divorce you. I divorce you.”

SISTER :-

Ayoola is lying on her bed, angling her body to show Snapchat her injury. I

wait for her to finish, and she eventually pulls her shirt back down over her

stitches, puts her phone to one side and grins at me. Even now, she looks

blameless. She is wearing cotton shorts and a white camisole and is holding on

to one of the plush bears on her bed.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

On the bedside table is an open box of candy, a get-well-soon gift. She

plucks out a lollipop, unwraps it and sticks it in her mouth, sucking on it

thoughtfully.

“Between Tade and me?”

“Yeah.”

She sucks some more.

“He said you broke my ring. Said you were accusing me of all sorts and that

maybe you had something to do with my ex going missing…”

“What…what…did you say?”

“I told him he was crazy. But he said you were really jealous of me and had

some kind of…umm…latent anger…that what if”—she pauses for dramatic

effect—“what if you had gone back, after we left, you know, to talk to Femi…”

“He thinks I killed Femi?!” I grab Ayoola’s arm, even though she is not to

blame this time. How could he think I was capable of that?

“Weird, right? I didn’t even tell him about Femi. Only Gboye. Maybe he saw

it on Insta. Anyway, it’s like he wanted to report you or something…So I did

what I had to do.” She shrugs. “Or at least I tried.”

She grabs a bear, buries her head in it and is quiet.

“And then?”

“Then when I was on the ground, he was all like, oh my gooooosh, Korede

was telling the truth. What did you tell him, Ko-re-de?”

She did this for me and ended up hurt because I betrayed her. I feel dizzy. I

don’t want to admit that I chose a man’s welfare over hers. I don’t want to

confess to letting him come between us, when she clearly chose me over him. “I…I told him you were dangerous.”

She sighs and asks, “What do you think will happen now?”

“There will be an investigation of sorts.”

“Will they believe his story?

“I don’t know…it’s his word against yours.”

“Against ours, Korede. It’s his word against ours.”

FATHER :-

Yoruba people have a custom of naming twins Taiwo and Kehinde. Taiwo is

the older twin, the one who comes out first. Kehinde, therefore, is the second-

born twin. But Kehinde is also the older twin, because he says to Taiwo, “Go

out first and test the world for me.”

This is certainly how Father considered his position as the second twin. And

Aunty Taiwo agreed—she did everything he told her to and held an

unquestioning trust in everything he did. Which is how—doing what she was

told, unquestioningly—she found herself in the house with us the Monday

before our father died, shouting at me to let go of Ayoola.

“No!” I screamed, pulling Ayoola even closer to me. My father was not

around and, though I knew I would pay for my obstinacy later, later was a while

away. His absence now gave me courage, and the promise of his return made

me determined.

“Your father will hear of this,” Aunty Taiwo threatened. But I couldn’t have

cared less. I had already begun to develop plans in my head for Ayoola’s and my

escape. Ayoola held on to me tighter, even as I promised I would not let her go.

“Please,” Mother moaned from one of the corners in the room. “She is too

young.”

“She should not have been flirting with her father’s guest, then.”

My mouth dropped open in disbelief. What lies had my father been telling?

And why did he insist that Ayoola go to meet the chief man in his home, alone?

I must have uttered the question out loud because Aunty Taiwo replied, “She

will not be alone; I will be there.” As though that were any kind of reassurance.

“Ayoola, it is important that you do this for your father,” she said in a

wheedling voice. “This business opportunity is very critical. He will buy you

whatever phone you want, when he gets the contract. Isn’t that exciting?!”

“Don’t make me go,” Ayoola cried.

“You are not going anywhere,” I told her.

“Ayoola,” Aunty Taiwo coaxed, “you are not a child anymore. You have

started menstruating. Many girls would be excited about this. This man will give

you anything you want. Anything.”

“Anything?” Ayoola asked between sniffs. I slapped her to bring her back to

her senses. But I understood. Half of her fear was because I was afraid. She did

not really know what they were demanding from her. Granted, she was

fourteen, but fourteen then was younger than fourteen now.

This was my father’s last gift to us. This arrangement he had made with

another man. But he had also passed on his strength to me, and I decided he

was not getting his way, not this time. Ayoola was my responsibility and mine

alone.

I grabbed the cane from its pedestal and waved it before me. “Aunty, if you

come near us, I will beat you with this cane and I will not stop until he comes

home.”

She was about to call my bluff. She was taller than I, heavier than I—but she

looked into my eyes and took a few steps backward. Emboldened, I took a

swipe at her. She retreated farther. I let go of Ayoola and chased Aunty Taiwo

out of the house, brandishing the cane. When I returned, Ayoola was shaking.

“He will kill us,” she sobbed.

“Not if we kill him first.”

TRUTH :-

“Dr. Otumu states that he acted in self-defense and that you can verify this.

He says, and I quote: ‘She warned me that Ayoola had killed before.’ Ms.

Abebe, has your sister killed before?”

“No.”

“What did you mean when you told him that your sister had killed before?”

My interviewers are well spoken and well educated. But this comes as no real

surprise. Tade is a talented doctor at a prestigious hospital, Ayoola a beautiful

woman from a “good” background. The case screams “high profile.” My hands

are resting one atop the other on my lap. I would have preferred to place them

on the table, but the table is grimy. There is a faint smile on my lips because I

am humoring them and they should know that I am humoring them—but it is

not enough of a smile to suggest that I find the circumstances at all humorous.

My mind is clear.

“A man died of food poisoning on a trip with my sister. I was angry that she

went with him, because he was married. I believed their actions led to his

death.”

“What of her ex-boyfriend?”

“Tade?”

“Femi; the one who went missing.”

I lean forward; my eyes light up. “Has he come back? Has he said

something?”

“No.”

I frown, lean back and lower my eyes. If I could, I would squeeze out a tear,

but I have never been able to cry on cue.

“So why do you think she has anything to do with that?”

“We suspect that—”

“A hundred suspicions don’t make proof. She is five-two. What the hell do

you think she did with him, if she hurt him?” My lips are firm, my eyes

disbelieving. I shake my head slightly for good measure.

“So you believe she may have hurt him?”

“No. My sister is the sweetest person you’ll ever meet. Have you met her?”

They shift uncomfortably. They have met her. They have looked into her eyes

and fantasized about her. They are all the same.

“What do you think happened that day?”

“All I know is that he stabbed her, and that she was unarmed.”

“He said she brought the knife with her.”

“Why would she do that? How could she know he would attack her?”

“The knife is missing. Nurse Chichi states that she logged it in after it was

removed during surgery. You would have known where it was kept.”

“All the nurses know…and all the doctors.”

“How long have you known Dr. Otumu?”

“Not very long.”

“Have you known him to be violent?” When I was picking my outfit, I chose

a light gray skirt suit. It is solemn, feminine, and a subtle reminder that the

police and I are not from the same social class.

“No.”

“So you admit that this is out of character for him…”

“I believe I just said I’ve not known him very long.”

GONE :-

Muhtar has gone home to begin his life anew. Room 313 is empty. I sit there

anyway, in the spot I usually sat when Muhtar was still in the realm between life

and death. I picture him on the bed and I feel an intense sense of loss, more so

than the one I feel for Tade, who is also gone.

They had his license revoked, and he has to spend a few months in jail for

assault. It could have been much worse, but many attested to the fact that he

was kind and had never displayed a whit of violence. Still, there was no denying

the fact that he stabbed Ayoola. And for that, society demanded that he pay.

I haven’t seen him since the day it happened. He was placed on suspension as

soon as she accused him, so I don’t know what he is thinking or feeling. But I

don’t much care. She was right. You have to choose a side, and my lot was cast

long ago. She will always have me and I will always have her; no one else

matters.

Muhtar gave me his number. He wrote it on a piece of paper that I put in the

pocket of my uniform.

I still toy with the idea of telling Ayoola that there is someone out there, free

and unconstrained, who knows her secret. That at any point, the things we’ve

done could become public record. But I don’t think I will.

The linen used for Muhtar’s bed has not been changed. I can tell. I can still

smell him in the room—that freshly showered smell he sported in those days of

consciousness. I close my eyes for a bit, and allow my mind to wander.

A short while later, I pick up the room phone and dial the number for the

fourth floor.

“Please call Mohammed down here, room 313.”

“Mohammed is gone, ma.”

“Oh…yes, of course. Send Assibi.”

#5 :-

-0809 743****-

I have keyed in his number three times and I have cleared the screen three

times. The paper where his number is written is not as smooth as it once was.

But I am already beginning to forget what his voice sounds like.

There is a knock on my door.

“Come in.”

The house girl opens the door a crack and sticks her head in. “Ma, Mummy

says I should call you. There is a guest downstairs.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s a man.”

I dismiss her, realizing she can’t tell me more than that.

She closes my door and I stare at the slip of paper with Muhtar’s number on

it. I light a candle on my nightstand and hold the paper over the flame until the

numbers are swallowed by blackness and fire licks the tips of my fingers. There

will never be another Muhtar, I know this. There will never be another

opportunity to confess my sins or another chance to absolve myself of the

crimes of the past…or the future. They disappear with the curling paper,

because Ayoola needs me; she needs me more than I need untainted hands.

When I’m done, I walk to the mirror. I am not exactly dressed to entertain

guests—I’m wearing a bubu and a turban—but whoever it is will have to take

me as I am.

I take the back stairs, pause before the painting. I glimpse the evanescent

shadow of the woman, and for a moment it feels as though she watches me from

a vantage point that I cannot see. The frame is tilting a little to the left; I correct

it and move on. Our house girl scurries by me carrying a vase of roses—the go-

to of the unimaginative; but I guess Ayoola will be pleased.

They are in the living room—my mum, Ayoola and the man. All three of

them look up at me as I approach.

“This is my sister, Korede.”

The man smiles. I smile back.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful first to God.

To Clare Alexander, thank you, because without you, and the insight you

possess, I would still be chugging away in the corner of my room waiting for

“the novel” to come along. You are my fairy agentmother. Thank you to

everyone at Aitken Alexander, for your efforts and your attention. I am truly

appreciative.

To Margo Shickmanter, my U.S. editor, and James Roxburgh, my U.K.

editor, thank you for your patience, your warmth and your understanding.

Thank you for believing in this book and in me. Thank you for encouraging me

to stretch myself; I think the book is far better for it.

Every day I learn how much work goes into publishing a novel, and so I

would like to thank the Doubleday team and the Atlantic team for the time

spent and the efforts made.

Emeka Agbakuru, Adebola Rayo, thank you for reading, and reading, and

reading again. It’s a blessing to be able to call you friend.

Obafunke Braithwaite, you are a pain, but without you, becoming a published

author would have been a little overwhelming.

Thank you to Ayobami Adebayo for taking the time to add the accents to my

Yoruba. One day, I shall be as fluent as a Lagos goat.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Oyinkan Braithwaite is a graduate of Creative Writing and Law from Kingston University. Following

her degree, she worked as an assistant editor at Kachifo, a Nigerian publishing house, and as a

production manager at Ajapaworld, a children’s educational and entertainment company. She now works

freelance as a writer and editor. In 2014, she was short-listed as a top-ten spoken-word artist in the Eko

Poetry Slam, and in 2016, she was a finalist for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize. She lives in

Lagos, Nigeria.