My Sister, the Serial Killer

by Oyinkan Braithwaite

  The younger policeman blushes. “How long had the two of you been dating, ma?”

  “A month.”

  “That’s not very long.”

  She says nothing, and I feel a sense of pride.

  “But he wanted to break up with you?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “He—wanted—to—break—up—with—you? Abi, was it the other way around?”

  I wonder if Ayoola was right, that in my anger I had overlooked the unlikelihood that a man would willingly leave her side. Even now, we all pale beside her. She is dressed simply in a gray blouse and navy trousers, she has applied nothing but eyebrow pencil to her face and she isn’t wearing jewelry—but it makes her look younger and fresher. When she gives the policemen an occasional smile she reveals her deep dimples.

  I clear my throat and hope that Ayoola gets the message.

  “Does it matter who wanted to end it?”

  “Ma, if you wanted to end it, we need to know.”

  She sighs, and wrings her hands.

  “I cared about him, but he wasn’t really my type…” My sister is in the wrong profession. She should be in front of the camera, with the lights framing her innocence.

  “What’s your type, ma?” asks the younger one.

  “So your sister came to mediate the issue?” his senior quickly adds.

  “Yes. She came to help.”

  “And did she?”

  “Did she what?”

  “Did she help? Were you back together?”

  “No…it was over.”

  “So, you and your sister went out together and left him there.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “She has answered you na,” interjects Mum. I feel another headache hovering. This is not the time for her mother-bear antics. She is puffed up now, having controlled herself for most of the interview. I imagine none of this makes sense to her. Ayoola gives her hand a gentle pat.

  “It’s okay, Mum, they’re just doing their job. The answer is yes.”

  “Thank you, ma. What was he doing when you left him?”

  Ayoola bites her lips, looks up and to the right. “He followed us to the door and shut it behind us.”

  “He was angry?”

  “No. Resigned.”

  “Resigned, ma?”

  She sighs. It is a masterful mix of weariness and sadness. We watch as she twirls a lock of hair around her finger. “I mean, he had accepted that things wouldn’t work out between us.”

  “Ms. Korede, do you agree with that assessment? Did Mr. Durand accept his fate?”

  I remember the body, half lying, half sitting on the bathroom floor, and the blood. I doubt he had time to come to terms with his fate, let alone accept it.

  “I imagine he was unhappy. But there was nothing he could have done to change her mind.”

  “And then you both drove home?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the same car?”

  “Yes.”

  “In Ms. Korede’s car?” I dig my nails into my thighs and blink. Why are they so interested in my car? What could they possibly suspect? Did someone see us move the body? I attempt to slow my breathing without drawing attention to myself. No; no one saw us. If we had been seen carting around a body-shaped bundle, this interrogation would not be taking place in the comfort of our own home. These men didn’t really suspect us. They had probably been paid to interview us.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get there, Ms. Ayoola?”

  “I don’t like to drive, I took an Uber.”

  They nod.

  “Can we have a look at your car, Ms. Korede?”

  “Why?” asks my mother. I should be moved that she feels the need to defend me, too; but instead I am furious at the fact that she suspects nothing, knows nothing. Why should her hands be clean, while mine become more and more stained?

  “We just want to make sure we have covered all the bases.”

  “Why should we go through all this? My girls have done nothing wrong!” My mother rises from her seat as she delivers her heartfelt, misguided defense. The older policeman frowns and stands up, scraping his chair across the marble floor, and then nudges his partner to follow suit. Perhaps I will let this play out. Wouldn’t the innocent be indignant?

  “Ma, we will just have a quick look—”

  “We have been accommodating enough. Please leave.”

  “Ma, if we have to, we will return with the necessary paperwork.”

  I want to speak, but the words won’t leave my mouth. I’m paralyzed—all I can think of is the blood that was in the boot.

  “I said leave,” my mother stresses. She marches to the door, and they are forced to follow suit. They give Ayoola curt nods and leave the house. Mum slams the door behind them. “Can you believe those imbeciles?”

  Ayoola and I don’t answer. We are both reviewing our options.

  BLOOD

  They come the next day and take the car—my silver Ford Focus. The three of us stand on the doorstep, arms crossed, and watch them drive it away. My car is taken to a police station, in an area I never frequent, to be rigorously examined for evidence of a crime I did not commit, while Ayoola’s Fiesta sits pretty in our compound. My eyes settle on her white hatchback. It has the shiny look of a newly washed vehicle. It has not been tainted with blood.

  I turn to Ayoola.

  “I’m using your car to go to work.”

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

  “You can take an Uber.”

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

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

  I walk back into the house and head up to my room, before either of them has a chance to respond. My hands are cold, so I rub them on my jeans.

  I cleaned that car. I cleaned it within an inch of its life. If they find a dot of blood, it will be because they bled while they were searching. Ayoola knocks on my door and comes in. I pay no mind to her presence and pick up the broom to sweep my floor.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “No.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

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

  “And it’s my fault.”

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

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

  “You’re not the only one suffering, you know. You act like you are carrying this big thing all by yourself, but I worry too.”

  “Do you? ’Cause the other day, you were singing ‘I Believe I Can Fly.’ ”

  Ayoola shrugs. “It’s a good song.”

  I try not to scream. More and more, she reminds me of him. He could do a bad thing and behave like a model citizen right after. As though the bad thing had never happened. Is it in the blood? But his blood is my blood and my blood is hers.

  FATHER

  Ayoola and I are wearing aṣọ ẹbí. It is customary to wear matching ankara outfits for these types of functions. She chose the color—it is a rich purple ensemble. He hated the color purple, which makes her selection perfect. She also designed both our pieces—mine is a mermaid dress, flattering to my tall frame, and hers clings to her every curve. We both wear sunglasses to disguise the fact that our eyes are dry.

  My mother weeps in church, bent double; her sobs are so loud and powerful, they rattle her body. I wonder what she is focusing on to bring about tears—her own frailty? Or maybe she is simply recalling what he did to her, to us.

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

  “You invited him?” I hiss.

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

  “Shit.”

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

  “I said you should clear things up. I didn’t say you should bring him into this further.” My mother pinches me and I keep my mouth shut, but my body is shaking. Someone lays a kind hand on my shoulder, thinking me overcome with emotion. I am; just not the kind they think.

  “Let us close our eyes and remember this man, because the years he spent with us were a gift from God.” The voice of the priest is low, solemn. It is easy for him to say these things because he did not know the man. No one really knew him.

  I close my eyes and mutter words of gratitude to whatever forces keep his soul captive. Ayoola searches for my hand and I take it.

  * * *

  —

  After the service, people come to commiserate with us and to wish us well. A woman approaches me; she hugs me and will not let go. She starts to whisper: “Your father was a great man. He would always call me to check up on me and he helped with my school funds…” I am tempted to inform her that he had several girlfriends in various universities across Lagos. We had long since lost count. He once told me you had to feed the cow before you slaughtered it; it was the way of life.

  I respond with a simple, “Yes, he paid for a lot of fees.” When you have money, university girls are to men what plankton is to a whale. She smiles at me, thanks me and goes on her way.

  The reception is what you would expect—a couple of people we know, surrounded by people we don’t remember but at whom we smile all the same. When I have some time to myself, I go outside and place another call to the police station to ask when they will return my car. Again, they give me the brush-off. If there was anything to be found, they will have found it by now, but the man on the other end of the line does not appreciate my logic.

  I return in time to see Aunty Taiwo on the dance floor proving that she knows the latest steps to the latest hits. Ayoola is sitting in the middle of three guys, all of them competing for her attention. Tade has already left, and these guys are hoping to replace him for good. He had tried to be supportive, to stay by her side throughout, as a man should; but Ayoola was far too busy flitting this way and that, soaking in the spotlight. If he were mine, I wouldn’t leave his side. I tear my eyes away from her and sip my Chapman.

  MAGA

  “Aunty, a man is here for you.”

  Ayoola is watching a movie on her laptop in my room. She could be watching it in her room, but she always seems to find her way to mine. She lifts her head to look at the house girl. I sit up immediately. It must be the police. My hands are cold.

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know him, ma.”

  Ayoola shoots me a nervous look as she gets up from my bed, and I follow her out. The gentleman is seated on our sofa, and from where I stand, I can see that it is not the police and it is not Tade. The stranger holds a bouquet of roses in his hands.

  “Gboyega!” She rushes down the steps and he catches her in one arm before swinging her around. They kiss.

  Gboyega is a tall man with a protruding belly. His face is round and bearded, and his eyes are small and sharp. He also has at least fifteen years more life experience than Ayoola. If I squinted, I suppose I could see his attractiveness. But first I see the Bvlgari watch on his wrist and the Ferragamo shoes on his feet. He looks at me.

  “Hello.”

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

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

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

  Ayoola laughs as if my comment were a joke, and she waves it away with a flick of her wrist.

  “Gboye, you should have called.”

  “I know how you like surprises, and I just got into town.” He leans over and they kiss again. I try not to gag. He hands her the flowers and she makes appropriate cooing sounds, even though the roses pale in comparison to the ones that Tade sent her. “Let me take you out.”

  “Okay, I’ll need to get changed. Korede, will you keep Gboye company?” She has already dashed back upstairs before I can say no. Still, I set out to ignore her request and follow her up.

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

  “And you’re married,” I reply.

  “What?”

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

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

  “Yeah. I’m sure she does.”

  “I care about her. I want her to have the best of everything,” he tells me. “I gave her the capital for her fashion business, you know, and paid for her course.”

  I’m surprised. She had told me that she paid for it herself—from the revenue from her YouTube videos. She had even piously lectured me for my lack of business sense. The more he talks, the more I realize that I am a maga—a fool who has been taken advantage of. Gboyega is not the problem, he is just another man, another person being used by Ayoola. If anything, he should be pitied. I want to tell him how much we have in common, though he boasts of the things he has done for her while I begin to resent the things that I have done. In solidarity, and to get him to be quiet, I offer him some cake.

  “Sure, I love cake. Do you have tea?”

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

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

  I give the house girl the necessary instructions and then cut through the kitchen and charge up the back stairs to interrogate Ayoola. She is applying eyeliner to her lower lids.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

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

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

  “I found a sponsor. Same difference.”

  “What about your…what about Tade?”

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, can you blame me for wanting a little excitement in my life? Tade can be so boring. And he is needy. Abeg, I need a break.”

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

  “Stop what?”

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

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

  I don’t do anything. I want to threaten her, to tell her that if she doesn’t listen to me, she will have to deal with the consequences of her actions by herself for once. I want to shout and scream, but I would be screaming at a wall. I storm off to my bedroom. Thirty minutes later, she leaves the house with Gboyega.

  She doesn’t return till 1 a.m.

  I don’t sleep till 1 a.m.

  FATHER

  He often came home late. But I remember this night, because he wasn’t alone. There was a yellow woman on his arm. We came out of my room because Mum was screaming, and there they were on the landing. My mother was wearing a camisole and her wrapper, her usual nightwear.

  She never raised her voice to him. But that night, she was like a banshee; her fro was free of its bands and restraints, adding to the illusion of madness. She was Medusa and they were statues before her. She went to wrench the woman off his arm.

  “Ẹ gbà mí o! Ṣ’o fẹ́ b’alé mi jẹ́? Ṣ’o fẹ́ yí mi lọ́rí ni? Olúwa k’ọjú sí mi!” She wasn’t even screaming at her husband—it was the interloper whom she was mad at. I remember hissing at my mother, even though there were tears in my eyes. I remember thinking how silly she looked, so worked up as he stood tall and impassive before her.

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

  Beside me, Ayoola held her breath. He always carried out his threats. But this time my mother was oblivious, she was embroiled in a tug of war with the woman, who, though she looked like an adult to me then, I now know couldn’t have been older than twenty. I understand now, too, that though my mother must have been aware of his indiscretions, having them take place in her home was more than she could bear.

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

  Moments later he pulled our mother off her feet by her hair and slammed her against the wall. Then he struck her face. Ayoola whimpered and clutched me. The “woman” laughed.

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

  My mother slid down the wall to the ground. They stepped over her and proceeded to his bedroom. We waited till the coast was clear and then ran to help her. She was inconsolable. She wanted to be left there to cry. She howled. I had to shake her.

  “Mummy, please, let’s go upstairs.”

  The three of us slept in my room that night.

  The next morning, the banana-colored girl was gone and we sat around the table for breakfast, silent except for my father, who spoke loudly about the day ahead and congratulated his “perfect wife” on her excellent cooking. He wasn’t sucking up, he had simply moved past the incident.

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

  RESEARCH

  I stare at Gboyega’s picture on Facebook. The man who stares back is a younger, slimmer version of him. I scroll through his pictures until I am satisfied that I know what kind of man he is. This is what I gather:

  One well-dressed wife and three tall boys: the first two are now schooling in England, while the third is still in secondary school here. They reside in a townhouse on Banana Island—one of the most expensive estates in Lagos. He works in oil and gas. His photos are mostly of holidays in France, the U.S., Dubai, etc. They are every bit the typical upper-middle-class Nigerian family.