My Sister, the Serial Killer - oyinkan braithwaite Page 0,18
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 a ṣọ 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