“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 5555
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.
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My Sister, the Serial Killer Page 14
