Click here to Download My Sister, the Serial Killer PDF Book by Oyinkan Braithwaite having PDF Size 3 MB and No of Pages 178.
I scribble the name down. We are in my bedroom. Ayoola is sitting crosslegged on my sofa, her head resting on the back of the cushion. While she took a bath, I set the dress she had been wearing on fire. Now she wears a rose-colored T-shirt and smells of baby powder. “And his surname?”
My Sister, the Serial Killer PDF Book by Oyinkan Braithwaite
|Name of Book||My Sister, the Serial Killer|
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|No of Pages||178|
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She frowns, pressing her lips together, and then she shakes her head, as though trying to shake the name back into the forefront of her brain. It doesn’t come. She shrugs. I should have taken his wallet. I close the notebook. It is small, smaller than the palm of my hand. I watched a video once where the man said that carrying around a notebook and penning one happy moment each day had changed his life.
That is why I bought the notebook. On the first page, I wrote, I saw a white owl through my bedroom window. The notebook has been mostly empty since. “It’s not my fault, you know.” But I don’t know. I don’t know what she is referring to. Does she mean the inability to recall his surname? Or his death? “Tell me what happened.”
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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?
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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 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. My Sister, the Serial Killer PDF Book
Yinka is really starting to piss me off. The sad thing is that her questions are neither the most obnoxious I have received in my lifetime nor the most uncommon. After all, Ayoola is short—her only flaw, if you consider that to be a flaw—whereas I am almost six feet tall; Ayoola’s skin is a color that sits comfortably between cream and caramel and I am the color of a Brazil nut, before it is peeled.
She is made wholly of curves and I am composed only of hard edges. “Have you informed Dr. Imo that the X-ray is ready?” I snap. “No, I—” “Then I suggest you do that.” I walk away from her before she has a chance to finish her excuse. Assibi is making the beds on the second floor and Mohammed is flirting with Gimpe right in front of me.
They’re standing close to each other, his hand pressed on the wall as he leans toward her. He will have to wipe that spot down. Neither of them see me—his back is to me, and her eyes are cast down, lapping up the honeyed compliments he must be paying her. Can’t she smell him? Perhaps she can’t; Gimpe also gives off a rank smell. My Sister, the Serial Killer PDF Book
It is the smell of sweat, of unwashed hair, of cleaning products, of decomposed bodies under a bridge… “Nurse Korede!” I blink. The couple has vanished. Apparently I’ve been standing in the shadows for a while, lost in thought. Bunmi is looking at me quizzically. I wonder how many times she has called me. She is hard to read. There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot going on in her frontal lobe.
people come to commiserate with us and to wish us well. A woman approaches me; she hugs me and will not let go. She starts to whisper: “Your father was a great man. He would always call me to check up on me and he helped with my school funds…” I am tempted to inform her that he had several girlfriends in various universities across Lagos.
We had long since lost count. He once told me you had to feed the cow before you slaughtered it; it was the way of life. I respond with a simple, “Yes, he paid for a lot of fees.” When you have money, university girls are to men what plankton is to a whale. She smiles at me, thanks me and goes on her way. My Sister, the Serial Killer PDF Book
The reception is what you would expect—a couple of people we know, surrounded by people we don’t remember but at whom we smile all the same. When I have some time to myself, I go outside and place another call to the police station to ask when they will return my car. Again, they give me the brush-off.
If there was anything to be found, they will have found it by now, but the man on the other end of the line does not appreciate my logic. I return in time to see Aunty Taiwo on the dance floor proving that she knows the latest steps to the latest hits. Ayoola is sitting in the middle of three guys, all of them competing for her attention.
Tade has already left, and these guys are hoping to replace him for good. He had tried to be supportive, to stay by her side throughout, as a man should; but Ayoola was far too busy flitting this way and that, soaking in the spotlight. If he were mine, I wouldn’t leave his side. I tear my eyes away from her and sip my Chapman. My Sister, the Serial Killer PDF Book Download
I leave an anonymous message on the blog, suggesting that his poems be collected and made into an anthology. I hope his sister or a friend comes across the message. Ayoola and I don’t really have friends in the traditional sense of the word. I think you have to accept someone into your confidence, and vice versa, to be able to call them a friend.
She has minions, and I have Muhtar. The minions begin to flood in around 4 p.m.; the house girl lets them in, and I direct them to the food piled on the living room table. Someone puts on music, and people nibble at the snacks. But all I can think about is whether or not Tade will use this as an opportunity to try to secure Ayoola forever.
If I thought she loved him, I think I could be happy for them. I could, I think. But she doesn’t love him and for some reason he is blind to that fact; or he doesn’t care. It’s 5 p.m. and Ayoola hasn’t come down yet. I’m wearing the quintessential black dress. It’s short and has a flared skirt. Ayoola said she would be wearing black too, but I am pretty sure she has changed her mind at least a dozen times by now. My Sister, the Serial Killer PDF Book Download
I resist the urge to go and check on her, even when I am asked for the hundredth time where she is. I hate house parties. People forget the etiquette they would apply if they visited your house on a normal day. They leave their paper plates on any and every surface; they spill drinks and walk away; they dip their hands in snack bowls, take some and put some back; they look for places to make out.
I pick up a set of paper cups that someone has left on a footstool and put it in a garbage bag. I’m just about to fetch some surface cleaner when the doorbell rings: Tade. He looks…he is wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that hugs his body, and a gray blazer. I can’t help but stare at him.
I bandage her wound with the knife still in it. If I took it out, I’d risk nicking an artery or organ. I grab my phone and call the reception desk at the hospital. Chichi picks up, and I silently thank God that Yinka’s not on night shifts this week. I explain to her that I’ll be coming with my sister who has been stabbed and I ask her to call in Dr. Akigbe. “I’ll carry her,” Tade says. My Sister, the Serial Killer PDF Book Free
I don’t want him touching her, but he is stronger than I am. “Fine.” He scoops her up and brings her down the stairs and out onto the drive. She rests her head against his chest as though they were somehow still lovers. Perhaps she cannot yet understand the gravity of what has taken place here. I open the rear door of my car and he lays her in the back.
I jump in the driver’s seat. He tells me he will follow us in his car, and since I can’t do anything to stop him, I nod. It’s 4 a.m., so traffic is sparse and there are no police officers in sight. I take full advantage of this, driving 130 kilometers an hour on one-way roads. We get to the hospital in twenty minutes. Chichi and a trauma team meet us at the entrance.
“What happened?” Chichi asks, while two porters slide my little sister out onto a gurney. She’s no longer conscious. “What did you mean when you told him that your sister had killed before?” My interviewers are well spoken and well educated. But this comes as no real surprise. Tade is a talented doctor at a prestigious hospital, Ayoola a beautiful woman from a “good” background. My Sister, the Serial Killer PDF Book Free
The case screams “high profile.” My hands are resting one atop the other on my lap. I would have preferred to place them on the table, but the table is grimy. There is a faint smile on my lips because I am humoring them and they should know that I am humoring them—but it is not enough of a smile to suggest that I find the circumstances at all humorous.
My mind is clear. “A man died of food poisoning on a trip with my sister. I was angry that she went with him, because he was married. I believed their actions led to his death.” 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. My Sister, the Serial Killer PDF Book Free
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.