My Sister, the Serial Killer

by Oyinkan Braithwaite

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, talent
ed 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.”

  ICE CREAM

  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.