My Sister, the Serial Killer - oyinkan braithwaite Page 0,43

Mother was clinging to Father’s shirt, but he brushed her off. She was never able to stop him.

I took a bold step forward and took Ayoola’s hand in my own. History had shown me that if you came within reach of the cane, the cane would not distinguish between victim and observer, but I had a feeling Ayoola would not survive the confrontation without me.

“So, I am sending you to school to sleep around, abi?”

You hear the sound of a cane before you feel it. It whips the air. She cried out, and I shut my eyes.

“I am paying all that money for you to be a prostitute?! Answer me na!”

“No, sir.” We didn’t call him Daddy. We never had. He was not a daddy, at least not in the way the word “daddy” denotes. One could hardly consider him a father. He was the law in our home.

“You think you are all that, abi? I will teach you who is all that!” He struck her again. This time, the cane grazed me, too. I sucked in my breath.

“You think this boy cares about you? He just wants what is between your legs. And when he is done he will move on.”

Pain has a way of sharpening your senses. I can still hear his heavy breathing. He was not a fit man. He quickly tired during a beating, but he had a strong will and a stronger desire to instill discipline. I can still remember the smell of our fear—acidic, metallic, sharper even than the smell of vomit.

He continued to give his sermon as he wielded his weapon. Ayoola’s skin was light enough that you could see that it was turning red. Because I was not the target, the cane would only occasionally catch me, on my shoulder or ear or the side of my face, but even so, the pain was hard to bear. I could feel Ayoola’s grip on my hand weakening. Her cries had turned into a low whimper. I needed to act. “If you beat her any more, she will scar and people will ask questions!”

His hand stilled. If there was one thing in the world he actually cared about, it was his reputation. He seemed momentarily uncertain of what to do next, but then he wiped the sweat off his brow and returned the cane to its resting place. Ayoola sank to the floor beside me.

Not long after, when we were back at school, Ola approached me during break to deliver his thoughts about my father.

“Your dad is really cool,” he told me. “I wish my dad was like him.”

As for Ayoola, she never spoke to Ola again.

WIFE

“If you don’t like these shoes, I have more in storage. I can send you pictures.” Bunmi and I look down at the avalanche of shoes that Chichi has poured onto the floor behind the nurses’ station. Her shift has been over for at least thirty minutes. She has changed her clothes, and apparently her profession, too—she’s gone from nurse to saleswoman. She bends over, shuffling through the shoes on the floor to find the ones we just have to buy. She bends over so far that we see her ass crack appear above her jeans. I avert my eyes.

I was minding my own business, scheduling in a patient, when she stuck a pair of black pumps under my nose. I had waved her away, but she insisted that I come and check out her merchandise. The thing is, all the shoes she is selling look cheap, the type that fall apart after a month. She hasn’t even bothered to polish them and now they are lying on the floor. I force a smile onto my face.

“You know, they haven’t paid salaries yet…”

“And I just bought a couple new shoes…” Bunmi joins in.

Chichi squares her shoulders and wiggles a pair of diamante heels at us. “You can never have too many shoes. My prices are very reasonable.”

She is just about to launch into a sales pitch for a pair of nine-inch wedges when Yinka runs to us and slams her palms down on the counter. She may not be my favorite person in the world, but I am grateful for the interruption.

“There is drama in the coma man’s room o!”

“Drama ke?” Chichi forgets her shoes and rests her elbow on my shoulder as she leans forward. I resist the urge to swipe her arm away.

“Eh, I was going to see my patient and I heard shouting coming from