My Sister, the Serial Killer - oyinkan braithwaite Page 0,3

many leather sofas in reception. She has one entirely to herself, and she has used the excess space to settle her handbag and makeup bag next to her. The patients look up as I head toward them, hoping it is now their turn. Mrs. Rotinu is powdering her face, but she pauses as I approach her.

“Is the doctor ready to see me now?” she asks. I nod and she stands, clicking the powder case shut. I gesture for her to follow, but she stops me with a hand on my shoulder: “I know the way.”

Mrs. Rotinu has diabetes—type 2; in other words, if she eats right, loses some weight, and takes her insulin on time, there is no reason for us to see her as often as we do. And yet here she is, half skipping to Tade’s office. I understand, though. He has the ability to look at you and make you feel like you are the only thing that matters for as long as you have his attention. He doesn’t look away, his eyes don’t glaze over, and he is generous with his smile.

I redirect my steps to the reception desk and slam my clipboard on it, hard enough to wake Yinka, who has found a way to sleep with her eyes open. Bunmi frowns at me because she is on the phone booking in a patient.

“What the hell, Korede? Don’t wake me up unless there’s a fire.”

“This is a hospital, not a bed and breakfast.”

She mutters “Bitch” as I walk away, but I ignore her. Something else has caught my attention. I let the air out through my teeth and go to find Mohammed. I sent him to the third floor an hour ago, and sure enough, he is still there, leaning on his mop and flirting with Assibi, she of the long, permed hair and startlingly thick eyelashes, another cleaner. She makes a run for it as soon as she sees me coming down the corridor. Mohammed turns to face me.

“Ma, I was just—”

“I don’t care. Did you wipe the windows in reception with hot water and one-quarter distilled vinegar, like I asked you to?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Okay…show me the vinegar.” He shifts from foot to foot, staring at the floor and trying to figure out how to weave his way out of the lie he has just told. It comes as no surprise to me that he can’t clean windows—I can smell him from ten feet away, and it is a rank, stale odor. Unfortunately, the way a person smells is not grounds for dismissal.

“I no see where I go buy am from.”

I give him directions to the local store, and he slouches off to the staircase, leaving his bucket in the middle of the hallway. I summon him back to clean up after himself.

When I return to the ground floor, Yinka is asleep again—her eyes staring into nothing, much the way Femi’s did. I blink the image from my mind and turn to Bunmi.

“Is Mrs. Rotinu done?”

“No,” Bunmi replies. I sigh. There are other people in the waiting room. And all the doctors seem to be occupied with talkative people. If I had my way, each patient would have a fixed consultation time.

THE PATIENT

The patient in room 313 is Muhtar Yautai.

He is lying on the bed, his feet dangling over the end. He has daddy longlegs limbs, and the torso to which they are attached is quite long too. He was thin when he got here, but has gotten thinner still. If he does not wake soon, he will waste away.

I lift the chair from beside the table in the corner of the room and set it down a few inches from his bed. I sit on it, resting my head in my hands. I can feel a headache coming on. I came to talk to him about Ayoola, but it is Tade whom I cannot seem to get out of my mind.

“I…I wish…”

There is a comforting beep every few seconds from the machine monitoring his heart. Muhtar doesn’t stir. He has been in this comatose state for five months—he was in a car accident with his brother, who was behind the wheel. All the brother got for his efforts was whiplash.

I met Muhtar’s wife once; she reminded me of Ayoola. It wasn’t that her looks were memorable, but she seemed completely oblivious to all but her own needs.

“Isn’t it expensive to keep him in a coma like this?” she had asked me.

“Do you want to