“How would I know? I didn’t even know you had one sister before, for all I know you people are ten.”
“Okay, fine, where is she?”
“She is in Dr. Otumu’s office.”
I take the stairs, two at a time. Tade’s office is directly opposite the lift, so that every time I arrive on the second floor, I am tempted to knock on his door. Ayoola’s laughter vibrates in the hallway—she has a big laugh, deep and unrestrained, the laughter of a person without a care in the world. On this occasion, I don’t bother to knock.
“Oh! Korede, hi. I am sorry I stole your sister. I understand you two have a lunch date.” I take in the scene. He has chosen not to sit behind his desk, but instead is sitting in one of the two chairs in front. Ayoola is perched on the other. Tade has angled his own seat so that it is facing her, and as though that were not enough, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
The top Ayoola has chosen to wear today is white and backless. Her leggings are a bright pink and her dreadlocks are piled atop her head. They look heavy, too heavy for her to bear, but her frame is straight. In her hands is his phone, where she was undoubtedly in the process of saving her number.
They look at me without a shadow of guilt.
“Ayoola, I told you I can’t do lunch.”
Tade is surprised by my tone. He frowns but says nothing. He is too polite to interrupt a squabble between sisters.
“Oh, that’s okay. I spoke to that nice girl Yinka and she said she will cover for you.” Oh, she would, would she?
“She shouldn’t have done that. I have a lot of work to do.”
Ayoola pouts. Tade clears his throat.
“You know, I haven’t had my lunch break yet. If you’re interested, I know a cool place around the corner.”
He is talking about Saratobi. They serve a mean steak dish there. I took him there the day after I discovered it. Yinka tagged along, but even that could not ruin the lunch for me. I learned that Tade is an Arsenal supporter and he once tried his hand at professional football. I learned he is an only child. I learned he isn’t a huge fan of vegetables. I had hoped one day we might repeat the experience—without Yinka—and I would learn more about him.
Ayoola beams at him.
“That sounds great. I hate to eat alone.”
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 conce
aler 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.
* * *
—
When 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.
* * *
—
In 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.
* * *
—
It 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 Sister, the Serial Killer Page 5