My Sister, the Serial Killer - oyinkan braithwaite Page 0,27

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.

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