My Sister, the Serial Killer

by Oyinkan Braithwaite

  If his life is so blandly formulaic, I can see why he would be intrigued by Ayoola’s unattainability and spontaneity. His captions go on and on about how wonderful his wife is, and how lucky he is to have her, and I wonder if his wife knows that her husband seeks out other women. She is good-looking in her own right. Even though she has birthed three sons and has left her youth behind, she has maintained a trim figure. Her face is expertly made up and her outfits flatter her and do justice to the money he must spend on her upkeep.

  I have been calling Ayoola nonstop for half a day, trying to figure out where the hell she is. She left the house early in the morning and informed my mum that she was traveling. She didn’t bother to tell me. Tade has been calling me just as much and I haven’t answered. What am I to say? I have no idea where she is or what she is doing. Ayoola keeps her own counsel—until she needs me. The house girl brings me a glass of cold juice while I continue my research. It is burning hot outside, so I am spending my day off in the shadows of the house.

  Gboyega’s wife is not active on Facebook, but I find her on Instagram. Her posts about her husband and children are endless, broken up only by pictures of food and the occasional opinion on President Buhari’s regime. Today’s post is an old picture of herself and her husband on their wedding day. She is looking at the camera, laughing, and he is looking lovingly at her. The caption says:

  #MCM Oko mi, heart of my heart and father of my children. I thank God for the day you laid eyes on me. I did not know then you were afraid to speak to me, but I am glad you overcame that fear. I cannot imagine what my life would have been like without you. Thank you for being the man of my dreams. Happy anniversary bae. #bae #mceveryday #throwbackthursday #loveisreal #blessed #grateful

  CAR

  The police return my car to me—at the hospital. There is nothing subtle about their black uniforms and rifles. My fingernails dig into my palms.

  “You couldn’t have returned this to my house?” I hiss at them. From the corner of my eye, I see Chichi sidling closer.

  “You better thank God we dey return am at all.” He hands me a receipt. A torn piece of paper that has my license plate number, the date it was returned to me and the amount of 5,000 naira on it.

  “What is this for?”

  “Logistical and transportation costs.” It is the younger one from the interview at our house; the one who was stumbling over himself for Ayoola’s sake. His demeanor is not so clumsy now. I can tell he is ready for me to make a scene. Armed and ready. For a second, I wish Ayoola were beside me.

  “Excuse me?!” They cannot be serious.

  Chichi has almost reached my side. I cannot prolong this conversation. It occurs to me that they chose to drop it at my workplace for this exact reason. At home, I would have had all the power. I could simply demand that they leave my compound. Here, I am at their mercy.

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

  I bite my lip. Angering them is not in my best interests; I need them to leave before they attract more attention. Every eye on either side of the hospital doors is on me, my car and these two geniuses.

  I look at my car. It is dirty, covered in dust. And I can see a food container on the backseat. I can only imagine what the boot will look like. They have soiled my entire vehicle with their filthy hands, and no amount of cleaning will remove the memory of them.

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

  “Did you find anything?”

  “No,” admits the older man. “Your car dey clean.” I knew I had done a thorough job. I knew it would be clean. But hearing him say the words makes me want to weep with relief.

  “Good morning, Officers!” Why is Chichi still here? Her shift ended thirty minutes ago. They return her cheerful good morning with a hearty one of their own. “Well done o,” she tells them. “I see you brought my colleague’s car back.”

  “Yes. Even though we are very busy people,” the younger policeman stresses. He is leaning on my car, his fat hand on my bonnet.

  “Well done. Well done. We are grateful. She had to be managing her sister’s car since.” I hand over the money, they hand over my key. Chichi pretends she hasn’t seen the exchange.

  “Yes, thank you.” It hurts to say this. It hurts to smile. “I understand you are both very busy. Don’t let me keep you.” They grunt and walk away. They will probably end up hailing an okada to take them back to their station. Beside me, Chichi is practically vibrating.

  “Nawa o. What happened?”

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

  “Why did they take your car na? I noticed since that you did not have your car, but I thought maybe it was with the mechanic or something. But I did not think the police had it!” She tries to whisper “police” and fails.

  As we walk through the doors, so does Mrs. Rotinu. Tade is not in yet, so she will have to wait. Chichi grabs my hand and drags me into the X-ray room.

  “So what happened?”

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

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

  “You know these police. Always working hard.”

  HEART

  Tade looks like shit. His shirt is rumpled, he needs to shave and his tie is askew. No singing or whistling has escaped his lips in days. This is the power Ayoola has, and when I see Tade’s suffering, I cannot help but be in awe of it.

  “There is another guy,” he tells me.

  “There is?!” I’m overacting, my voice comes out as a squeak. Not that he notices. His head is down. He is half sitting on his desk, with his hands on either side, gripping it tightly, so I can make out the flexing and extending, the working together, the rippling of his body.

  I drop the file I brought for him on the desk and reach out to touch him. His shirt is white. Not the sparkling white of the shirts Femi must have owned or of my nurses’ uniform, but the white of a distracted bachelor. I could help Tade bleach his whites, if he would let me. I let my hand rest on his back and rub it. Does he find the gesture comforting? Eventually, he sighs.

  “You’re so easy to talk to, Korede.”

  I can smell his cologne mixed with his sweat. The heat outside is seeping into the room and smothering the air from the AC.

  “I like talking to you,” I tell him. He raises his head and looks at me. We are only a step or two apart. Close enough to kiss. Are his lips as soft as they appear? He gives me a gentle smile, and I smile back.

  “I like talking to you too. I wish…”

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

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

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

  I feel him stiffen.

  “What?” His voice is soft, but there is something beneath it that wasn’t there before. Irritation? “Why would you say that about your sister?”

  “Tade, she hasn’t exactly been…”

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

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

  “I’m always on her side. It’s just that…she has many sides. Not all of them as pretty as the one that you see…”

  “This is you being on her side, is it? She told me that you treat her like she is a monster, and I didn’t believe her.”

  His words strike like arrows. He was my friend. Mine. He sought my counsel and my company. But now he looks at me as though I were a stranger and I hate him for it. Ayoola did what she always does in the company of men, but what is his excuse? I wrap my arms around my stomach, and turn my face from him so he can’t see how m
y lips are trembling.

  “I take it you believe her now?”

  “I’m sure she is just grateful somebody does! It’s no wonder she is always looking for attention from…men.” He can barely say the last word, can barely think of Ayoola in the arms of another.

  I laugh. I cannot help it. Ayoola has won so completely. She has traveled to Dubai with Gboyega (an update I got via text) and left Tade heartbroken, but somehow I am the witch.

  I bet she forgot to mention that she has been instrumental in the death of at least three men. I take a deep breath so as not to say anything I’ll regret. Ayoola is inconsiderate and selfish and reckless, but her welfare is and always has been my responsibility.

  From the corner of my eye, I see that sheets from the file are askance. He must have shifted them when he got up from the desk. I use a finger to pull the file toward me and I pick it up, tapping it against the surface to line the papers up. Where is the merit in telling the truth? He doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t want to believe anything that comes out of my mouth. He just wants her.

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

  Why won’t he shut up? The file is quaking in my hands now and I can feel a migraine forming in a corner of my skull. He shakes his head at me. “You’re her older sister. You should act like it. All I’ve seen you do is push her away.” Because of you…But I say nothing. I’ve lost the urge to defend myself.

  Was he always prone to lecturing this way? I drop the file on his table and walk past him quickly. I think I hear him call my name as I twist the doorknob, but it is drowned out by the sound of pounding in my head.

  THE PATIENT

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

  “It’s because she is beautiful, you know. That’s all it is. They don’t really care about the rest of it. She gets a pass at life.” Muhtar allows me to rant. “Can you imagine, he said I don’t support her, I don’t love her…She let him think that. She told him that. After everything…”

  I choke on my words, unable to finish them. Our silence is interrupted only by the rhythmic beeping of the monitor. I take several steadying breaths and check his chart. He is due for another bout of physiotherapy soon, so while I’m there I might as well take him through his exercises. His body is compliant as I move his limbs this way and that. My mind replays the scene with Tade over and over, cutting parts out, zooming in on others.

  Love is not a weed,

  It cannot grow where it please…

  Words, from yet another of Femi’s poems, come to me uninvited. I wonder what he would think of all of this. He hadn’t been with Ayoola long. He would have figured her out given enough time. He was perceptive.

  My stomach grumbles; the heart may be broken but the flesh needs to eat. I finish rolling Muhtar’s ankles, smooth down his bedsheets and leave his room. Mohammed is mopping the floors of the corridor. The water he is using looks yellow and he hums to himself.

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

  “Yes, ma.”

  ANGEL OF DEATH

  “How was your trip?”

  “It was fine…except…he died.”

  The glass I was drinking juice from slips out of my grip and shatters on the kitchen floor. Ayoola is standing in the doorway. She has been home all of ten minutes and I already feel as if my world is turning upside down.

  “He…he died?”

  “Yes. Food poisoning,” she answers, shaking her dreadlocks. She has relocked them and placed beads on the ends, so as she moves they knock against each other and make a rattling sound. Her wrists are adorned with big gold bangles. Poison is not her style, and part of me wants to believe that this is a coincidence. “I called the police. They informed his family.”

  I crouch down to pick up some of the larger shards of glass. I think of the man’s smiling wife on Instagram. Would she have the presence of mind to request an autopsy?

  “We were in the room together and he suddenly starts to sweat and hold his throat. Then he starts to froth at the mouth. It was so scary.” But her eyes are on fire, she is telling me a tale she thinks is fascinating. I don’t want to talk to her, but she seems determined to share the details.

  “Did you try to get him help?” I recall us, standing over our father, watching him die, and I know she did not try to get Gboyega help. She watched him. Maybe she didn’t poison him, but she stood aside and let nature take its course.

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

  My eyes focus on the diamond comb sitting in her hair. The trip has been good to her. The Dubai air seems to have brightened her skin and she is wearing designer clothing from top to toe. Gboyega certainly wasn’t stingy with his money.

  “That’s a shame.” I search for a feeling greater than pity for this “family” man who died, but even that is sparse. I had never met Femi, but his fate affected me in a way this news does not.

  “Yes. I’ll miss him,” she replies, absentmindedly. “Wait, I got you something.” She dives into her handbag and begins rummaging, when the doorbell rings. She looks up expectantly and smirks. Surely, it can’t be—but, you know, life. Tade walks through the door and she flings herself into his arms. He hugs her tight, burying his head in her hair.

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

  I walk away quickly before he has a chance to realize that there is a third person in the room. I’d hate to have to swap banalities with him. I lock myself in my room, sit on my bed cross-legged and stare into space.

  Time passes. I hear a knock on my door.

  “Ma, are you coming down to eat?” asks the house girl as she rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet.

  “Who is at the dining table?”

  “Mummy, sister Ayoola and Mr. Tade.”

  “Who sent you to call me?”

  “I came myself, ma.” No, of course they wouldn’t think of me. My mum and Ayoola will be reveling in Tade’s attention and Tade will…who cares what he will. I smile at the only person who seems to care if I have nourishment or not. From behind her small frame, laughter wafts toward me.

  “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

  She shuts the door behind her as she leaves, shutting out the sound of happiness. At least Ayoola won’t be in my space for a while. I use this opportunity to Google Gboyega’s name. Sure enough, I find an article about his tragic passing—

  NIGERIAN DIES ON DUBAI BUSINESS TRIP

  A Nigerian businessman died in Dubai after reportedly falling victim to a drug overdose.

  The Foreign Office confirmed that Gboyega Tejudumi—who had been staying in the notorious Royal resort—died after having taken ill in his room.

  Despite the efforts of the emergency services, he was pronounced dead at the scene.

  There was no one else involved in the accident, according to the police…

  I wonder how Ayoola convinced the police to keep her name out of the news. I wonder at the differences between a food poisoning and a drug overdose. I wonder what the chances are that the death of a person in the company of a serial killer would come about by chance.

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

  I open other articles about Gboyega’s death; I take in other lies. Ayoola never strikes unless provoked. But if she had a hand in Gboyega’s death, if she was responsible, then why did she do it? Gboyega seemed infatuated. He was a cheat, but other than that he appeared harmless.

  I think of Tade downstairs, smiling his signature smile and staring at Ayoola as though butter could not melt in her mouth. I couldn’t bear to look into Tade’s eyes, if he wasn’t looking back at me. But
haven’t I done all I can to separate them? All I have to show for my trouble is judgment and scorn.

  I switch off my laptop.

  I write Gboyega’s name in the notebook.

  BIRTH

  According to family lore, the first time I laid eyes on Ayoola I thought she was a doll. Mum cradled her before me and I stood on my toes, pulling Mum’s arm down closer to get a better look. She was tiny, barely taking up space in the hammock Mum had created with her arms. Her eyes were shut and took up half her face. She had a button nose and lips that were permanently pursed. I touched her hair; it was soft and curly.

  “Is she mine?”

  Mum laughed, her body shaking, which stirred Ayoola awake. She gurgled. I stumbled backward in surprise and fell on my backside.

  “Mummy, it talked! The doll talked!”

  “She is not a doll, Korede. She is a baby, your baby sister. You’re a big sister now, Korede. And big sisters look after little sisters.”

  BIRTHDAY

  It’s Ayoola’s birthday. I allow her to begin posting again on her social media pages. Updates about Femi have dwindled. Social media has forgotten his name.

  “Open my present first!” insists Mum. Ayoola obliges. It is tradition in our house that on a person’s birthday, you open gifts from your family first thing in the morning. It took me a long time to figure out what to give her. I haven’t exactly been in a giving mood.

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

  “Ask what?” Ayoola replies, distracted by my present. I bought her a new sewing machine. She beams at me, but I can’t smile back. Mum’s words are turning my stomach.

  “Ask for your hand in marriage!” Ayoola screws up her nose at the prediction. “It’s time you, the both of you, start thinking about settling down.”