بخش 3

MASCARA

My hand isn’t steady. You need steady hands when you are applying makeup, but I am not used to it. There never seemed to be much point in masking my imperfections. It’s as futile as using air freshener when you leave the toilet—it just inevitably ends up smelling like perfumed shit.

A YouTube video is streaming on the laptop beside me and I try to copy in my dressing-table mirror what the girl is doing, but our actions don’t seem to be corresponding. Still I persevere. I pick up the mascara and brush my lashes. They clump together. I try to separate them and end up inking my fingers. When I blink, traces of black gunk are left on the foundation around my eyes. It took me a while to do the foundation and I don’t want it to smudge, so I just add more.

I examine my handiwork in the mirror. I look different, but whether I look better…I don’t know. I look different.

The things that will go into my handbag are laid out on my dressing table.

Two packets of pocket tissue, one 30-centiliter bottle of water, one first aid kit, one packet of wipes, one wallet, one tube of hand cream, one lip balm, one phone, one tampon, one rape whistle.

Basically, the essentials for every woman. I arrange the items in my shoulder bag and walk out of my bedroom, carefully shutting the door behind me. My mother and sister are still asleep, but I can hear the skittish movements of the house girl in the kitchen. I head down to meet her and she gives me my usual glass of orange, lime, pineapple and ginger juice. There is nothing like fruit juice to wake up your body.

When the clock strikes 5, I leave the house and negotiate the early-morning rush. I am at the hospital by 5:30. It is so quiet at this time of day that one is tempted to speak in whispers. I drop my bag behind the reception desk and pull down the incident book from the shelf to see if anything worthy of note took place during the night. One of the doors behind me squeaks open and soon Chichi is by my side.

It is the end of Chichi’s shift, but she lingers. “Ah ah, are you wearing makeup?” “Yes.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“I just decided to—”

“Wonders will never end, you even put plenty foundation!”

I resist the urge to grab the wipes out of my bag and remove every trace of makeup from my face right then and there.

“Abi, have you found boyfriend?”

“What?”

“You can tell me, I’m your friend.” I can’t tell her. Chichi will spread the news before I have finished telling it. And we are not friends. She smiles, hoping to put me at ease, but the expression does not sit comfortably on her face. Her forehead and cheeks are caked in a too-light concealer to hide her aggressive pimples (though she left puberty behind long before I was born), and her bright red lipstick has seeped into the cracks in her lips. I would be more at ease if the Joker were to smile at me.

Tade arrives at 9 a.m. He hasn’t slipped on his doctor’s coat yet and I can make out the muscles beneath his shirt. I try not to stare at them. I try not to dwell on the fact that they remind me of Femi’s. The first thing he asks is, “How is Ayoola?” He used to ask how I was. I tell him she is fine. He peers at my face curiously.

“I didn’t know you wore makeup.”

“I don’t really, I just thought I’d try something different…What do you think?” He frowns as he considers my handiwork.

“I think I prefer you without it. You have nice skin, you know. Really smooth.” He has noticed my skin…!

At the first opportunity, I sidle off to the toilet to remove the makeup, but freeze when I see Yinka pursing her lips at one of the mirrors over the bank of sinks. I take a couple of silent steps backward, but she turns her head in my direction and raises her eyebrow.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I’m leaving.”

“But you just came in…”

She narrows her eyes, instantly suspicious, as she draws closer to me. The moment she realizes I have makeup on, she sneers.

“My, my, how the ‘au natural’ have fallen.”

“It was just an experiment.”

“An experiment in the winning of Dr. Tade’s heart?”

“No! Of course not!”

“I’m playing with you. We both know Ayoola and Tade are meant to be. They look gorgeous together.” “Yes. Exactly.”

Yinka smiles at me, but her smile is mocking. She sweeps past me as she leaves the toilet and I let go of the breath I’ve been holding. I rush to the sink and take a wipe from my bag, rubbing at my skin. When I’ve got the worst of it off, I splash my face with handfuls of water, rinsing away any traces of makeup and tears.

ORCHIDS

A bouquet of violently bright orchids is delivered to our house. For Ayoola. She leans forward and picks out the card that is tucked between the stems. She smiles.

“It is from Tade.”

Is this how he sees her? As an exotic beauty? I console myself with the knowledge that even the most beautiful flowers wither and die.

She takes out her phone and begins to type a message, narrating her text out loud—“I. Really. Prefer. Roses.” I should stop her, I really should. Tade is a man who puts a lot of thought into everything he does. I can see him in a flower shop, examining bouquet after bouquet, asking questions about varietals and feeding needs, making a well-informed choice. I select a vase from our collection and place the flowers on our center table. The walls are a solemn cream and the flowers light up the living room. “Send.” He will be taken aback by her text, disappointed and hurt. But perhaps he will understand that she is not the one for him and he will finally back off.

At noon, a spectacular 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 ẹ

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 head against the glass coffee table as he fell to the floor. His blood was brighter than the dark color we saw on TV. I got up warily and Ayoola came out from behind the couch, where she’d been taking cover. We stood over him. For the first time, we were taller. We watched the life seep out of him. Eventually, I woke my mother up from her Ambien-induced sleep and told her it was over.

—

It has been ten years now and we are expected to celebrate him, to throw an anniversary party in honor of his life. If we do not we will end up fielding difficult questions, and we are nothing if not thorough in our deception of others.

“We could have something in the house?” Mum suggests to the awkward planning committee gathered in the living room.

Aunty Taiwo shakes her head. “No, too small. My brother deserves a grand celebration.” I am sure they are celebrating him in hell. Ayoola rolls her eyes and chews her gum, adding nothing to the conversation. Every once in a while, Aunty Taiwo sends a worried glance her way.

“Where do you want to do it, aunty?” I ask with icy politeness.

“There is a venue in Lekki that’s really nice.” She names the place, and I suck in my breath. The amount she has offered to contribute wouldn’t even cover half the cost of a venue like that. She expects, of course, that we will dip into the funds he left and she can flex, show off to her friends and drink lots of champagne. He doesn’t deserve a single naira, but my mother wants to keep up appearances and so she agrees. With the negotiations over with, Aunty Taiwo leans back against the sofa and smiles at us. “So are the two of you seeing anyone?” “Ayoola is dating a doctor!” Mum announces.

“Ah, wonderful. You people are getting old o and the competition is tight. Girls are not joking. Some of them are even taking men away from their wives!” Aunty Taiwo is one such woman—married to a former governor who was already married when she met him. She is a curious woman, visiting us whenever she flies over from Dubai, seemingly impervious to our dislike of her. She never had any children and she has told us, time without number, that she considers us her surrogate daughters. We consider ourselves no such thing.

“Help me tell them o. It’s like they just want to stay in this house forever.” “You know, men are very fickle. Give them what they want and they will do anything for you. Keep your hair long and glossy or invest in good weaves; cook for him and send the food to his home and his office. Stroke his ego in front of his friends and treat them well for his sake. Kneel down for his parents and call them on important days. Do these things and he will put a ring on your finger, fast fast.” My mother nods sagely. “Very good advice.”

Of course, neither of us is listening. Ayoola has never needed help in the men department, and I know better than to take life directions from someone without a moral compass.

BRACELET

Tade comes to pick her up, Friday at seven. He is on time, but, of course, Ayoola is not. In fact, she has not even showered yet—she is stretched out on her bed laughing at videos of auto-tuned cats.

“Tade is here.”

“He is early.”

“It’s past seven.”

“Oh!”

But she doesn’t move an inch. I go back downstairs to tell Tade she is getting ready.

“No problem, there’s no rush.”

My mum is sitting opposite him, beaming from ear to ear, and I join her on the sofa.

“You were saying?”

“Yes, I am passionate about real estate. My cousin and I are building a block of flats in Ibeju-Lekki. It’ll take another three months or so to conclude the construction, but we already have takers for five of the flats!” “That’s amazing!” she cries, as she calculates his worth. “Korede, offer our guest something.” “What would you like? Cake? Biscuits? Wine? Tea?”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out of your way…”

“Just bring everything, Korede.” So I get up and go to the kitchen, where the house girl is watching Tinsel. She jumps up when she sees me and assists in ransacking the larder. When I return with the goodies, Ayoola still has not appeared.

“This is delicious,” Tade exclaims after taking his first bite of the cake. “Who made this?” “Ayoola,” my mum says quickly, shooting me a warning look. It is a stupid lie. It is a pineapple upside-down cake, sweet and soft, and Ayoola couldn’t fry an egg to save her life. She rarely enters the kitchen, except to forage for snacks or under duress.

“Wow,” he says, chewing happily. He is delighted by the news.

I see her first because I am facing the stairs. He follows my eyeline and twists his body around to see. I hear him suck in his breath. Ayoola is paused there, allowing herself to be admired. She is wearing the flapper dress she was sketching a few weeks ago. The gold beads blend wonderfully with her skin. Her dreads have been plaited into one long braid draped over her right shoulder and her heels are so high, a lesser woman would have already fallen down the stairs.

Tade stands up slowly and walks to meet her at the foot of the staircase. He brings out a long velvet box from his inner suit pocket.

“You look beautiful…This is for you.”

Ayoola takes the gift and opens it. She smiles, lifting the gold bracelet so Mum and I can see.

TIME

FemiDurandIsMissing has been sidelined by NaijaJollofvsKenyanJollof. People may be drawn to the macabre, but never for very long, and so news of Femi’s disappearance has been trumped by conversations about which country’s jollof rice is better. Besides, he was almost thirty, not a child. I read the comments. Some people say he probably got fed up and left Lagos. Some suggest that perhaps he killed himself.

In an effort to keep people caring about Femi, his sister has started posting poetry from his blog—www.wildthoughts.com. I can’t help but read them. He was very talented.

I found the quiet

In your arms;

The nothing that I search for

Daily.

You are empty

And I am full.

Fully drowning.

I wonder if this poem was about her. If he knew—

“What are you looking at?”

I slam the lid of my laptop closed. Ayoola is framed in the doorway of my bedroom. I narrow my eyes at her.

“Tell me what happened with Femi again,” I ask her.

“Why?”

“Just humor me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s upsetting to think about.”

“You said he was aggressive toward you.”

“Yes.”

“As in, he grabbed you?”

“Yes.”

“And you tried to run?”

“Yes.”

“But…there was a stab wound in his back.”

She sighs. “Look, I was afraid and then I kinda saw red. I don’t know.” “Why were you afraid?”

“He was threatening me, threatening to, like, hit me and stuff. He had me cornered.” “But why? Why was he so angry?”

“I don’t…I don’t remember. I think he saw some messages from a guy on my phone or something and he just flipped.” “So he cornered you, how did you get to the knife? It was in your bag, wasn’t it?” She pauses. “I…I don’t know…it was all a blur. I’d take it back if I could. I’d take it all back.” THE PATIENT

“I want to believe her. I want to believe it was self-defense…I mean the first time, I was furious. I was convinced Somto deserved it. And he had been so…slimy—always licking his lips, always touching her. I caught him scratching himself down there once, you know.” Muhtar doesn’t stir. I imagine he tells me that scratching your balls is not a crime.

“No, of course not. But it’s in character, I mean his whole…just sliminess and overall dirtiness made it easy to believe the things she accused him of. Even Peter was…dodgy. Said he did ‘business’ and always answered your questions with one of his own.” I lean back, and close my eyes. “Everyone hates that. But Femi…he was different…” Muhtar wonders how different he could have been. After all, it sounds as if he was obsessed with Ayoola’s looks, just like Peter and Somto.

“Everyone is obsessed with her looks, Muhtar…”

He tells me he isn’t, and I laugh. “You’ve never even seen her.”

The door suddenly opens and I jump out of the chair. Tade walks into the room.

“I thought I’d find you here.” He looks down at Muhtar’s unconscious body. “You really care about this patient, don’t you?” “His family doesn’t visit him as much as they used to.”

“Yes, it’s sad. But it’s the way of things, I guess. Apparently he was a professor.” “Is.”

“What?”

“Is. You said ‘was.’ Past tense. He isn’t dead. Not yet, anyway.”

“Oh! Yes. My bad. Sorry.”

“You said you were looking for me?”

“I…I haven’t heard from Ayoola.” I sit back down in the chair. “I’ve called several times. She isn’t picking up.” I have to admit, I am a little embarrassed. I haven’t told Muhtar about Ayoola and Tade and I feel his pity strongly. I find myself blushing.

“She isn’t great at returning calls.”

“I know that. But this is different. I haven’t spoken to her in two weeks…Can you talk to her for me? Ask her what I’ve done wrong.” “I’d rather not get involved…”

“Please, for me.” He crouches and grabs my hand, drawing it to his heart and holding it there. “Please.” I should say no, but the warmth of his hands around mine makes me feel dizzy, and I find myself nodding.

“Thank you. I owe you one.”

With that, he leaves Muhtar and me to our devices. I feel too ridiculous to stay long.

CLEANER

Femi’s family sent a cleaner to his home, to ready it to be put on the market—to move on, I guess. But the cleaner discovered a bloody napkin down the back of the sofa. It’s all there on Snapchat, for the world to see that whatever happened to Femi, it did not happen of his own volition. The family is asking again for answers.

Ayoola tells me she may have sat there. She may have put the napkin on the seat to keep from staining the sofa. She may have forgotten about it… “It’s fine, if they ask me I’ll just tell them he had a nosebleed.” She is sitting in front of her dressing table tending to her dreadlocks and I am standing behind her, clenching and unclenching my fists.

“Ayoola, if you go to jail—”

“Only the guilty go to jail.”

“First of all, that’s not true. Second of all, you killed a man.”

“ Defending myself; the judge will understand that, right?” She pats her cheeks with blusher. Ayoola lives in a world where things must always go her way. It’s a law as certain as the law of gravity.

I leave her to her makeup and sit at the top of the staircase, my forehead resting on the wall. My head feels as though there is a storm brewing inside it. The wall should be cool, but it is a hot day, so there is no comfort to be had there.

When I’m anxious, I confide in Muhtar—but he is in the hospital, and there is no one to share my fears with here. I imagine for the millionth time how it would go if I were to tell my mother the truth: “Ma…”

“Hmmm.”

“I want to talk to you about Ayoola.”

“Are you people fighting again?”

“No, ma. I…there was an incident with erm Femi.”

“The boy who is missing?”

“Well, he isn’t missing. He is dead.”

“Hey!!!

BATHROOM

Alone in my room, I pace.

Femi’s parents have the money needed to rouse the curiosity and professionalism of the police. And now they have a focus for their fear and confusion. They will want answers.

For the first time in my adult existence, I wish he was here. He would know what to do. He would be in control, every step of the way. He wouldn’t allow his daughter’s grievous error to ruin his reputation—he would have had this whole matter swept under the rug weeks ago.

But then it is doubtful Ayoola would have engaged in these activities had he been alive. The only form of retribution she ever feared was the one that came from him.

I sit down on my bed and think through the night of Femi’s death. They fight, or something. Ayoola has her knife on her, since she carries it the way other women carry tampons. She stabs him, then leaves the bathroom to call me. She places the napkin on the sofa and sits on it. She waits for me. I arrive, we move the body. That is the moment we were most exposed. As far as I can tell, no one witnessed us moving the body, but I can’t be 100 percent certain.

There is nothing out of place in my room, nothing to organize or clean. My desk has my laptop on it and my charger is neatly wound up and secured with a cable tie. My sofa faces the bed, its seat free of clutter, unlike the one in Ayoola’s room that is basically drowning in dress patterns and different colored fabrics. My bed is turned down and the sheets are tightly tucked. My cupboard is shut, concealing clothes folded, hung and arranged according to color. But you can never clean a bathroom too many times, so I roll up my sleeves and head to the toilet. The cabinet under the sink is filled with everything required to tackle dirt and disease—gloves, bleach, disinfectant wipes, disinfectant spray, sponge, toilet bowl cleaner, all-purpose cleaner, multi-surface cleaner, bowl brush plunger and caddy, and odor-shield trash bags. I slip on the gloves and take out the multi-surface cleaner. I need some time to think.

QUESTIONS

They send the police over to question Ayoola. I guess Femi’s family is done playing nice. The officers come to our house, and my mother asks me to bring them refreshments.

Minutes later, the three of us—Ayoola, Mum and I—and the two policemen are seated at the table. They are eating cake and drinking Coke, showering us with crumbs as they ask their questions. The younger one is stuffing his mouth as though he has not eaten in days, despite the fact that the chair can barely contain his girth.

“So he invited you over to his house?”

“Yes.”

“And then your sister came?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Yes or no, ma.”

“Yes.”

I have asked her to keep her answers short and to the point, to avoid lying as much as she can, and to maintain eye contact.

—

When she informed me they were coming, I hustled Ayoola to our father’s study.

Empty of books and memorabilia, it was just a musty space with a table, an armchair and a rug. It was gloomy, so I pulled back a curtain—the bright light revealed dust motes floating all around us.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“We need to talk.”

“Here?” There were no distractions—no bed for Ayoola to lie on, no TV to draw her eyes and no material to fiddle with.

“Sit down.” She frowned but complied. “When did you see Femi last?”

“What?! You know when I—”

“Ayoola, we need to be ready for these questions.” Her eyes widened, and then she smiled. She leaned back.

“Don’t lean back, you don’t want to look too relaxed. An innocent person would still be tense. Why did you kill him?” She stopped smiling.

“Would they really ask that?”

“They may want to trip you up.”

“I didn’t kill him.” She looked me straight in the eye as she said it.

—

Yes, I remember now, I didn’t have to teach her to maintain eye contact. She was already a pro.

The younger policeman blushes. “How long had the two of you been dating, ma?” “A month.”

“That’s not very long.”

She says nothing, and I feel a sense of pride.

“But he wanted to break up with you?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“He—wanted—to—break—up—with—you? Abi, was it the other way around?”

I wonder if Ayoola was right, that in my anger I had overlooked the unlikelihood that a man would willingly leave her side. Even now, we all pale beside her. She is dressed simply in a gray blouse and navy trousers, she has applied nothing but eyebrow pencil to her face and she isn’t wearing jewelry—but it makes her look younger and fresher. When she gives the policemen an occasional smile she reveals her deep dimples.

I clear my throat and hope that Ayoola gets the message.

“Does it matter who wanted to end it?”

“Ma, if you wanted to end it, we need to know.”

She sighs, and wrings her hands.

“I cared about him, but he wasn’t really my type…” My sister is in the wrong profession. She should be in front of the camera, with the lights framing her innocence.

“What’s your type, ma?” asks the younger one.

“So your sister came to mediate the issue?” his senior quickly adds.

“Yes. She came to help.”

“And did she?”

“Did she what?”

“Did she help? Were you back together?”

“No…it was over.”

“So, you and your sister went out together and left him there.”

“Mmmm.”

“Yes or no?”

“She has answered you na,” interjects Mum. I feel another headache hovering. This is not the time for her mother-bear antics. She is puffed up now, having controlled herself for most of the interview. I imagine none of this makes sense to her. Ayoola gives her hand a gentle pat.

“It’s okay, Mum, they’re just doing their job. The answer is yes.”

“Thank you, ma. What was he doing when you left him?”

Ayoola bites her lips, looks up and to the right. “He followed us to the door and shut it behind us.” “He was angry?”

“No. Resigned.”

“Resigned, ma?”

She sighs. It is a masterful mix of weariness and sadness. We watch as she twirls a lock of hair around her finger. “I mean, he had accepted that things wouldn’t work out between us.” “Ms. Korede, do you agree with that assessment? Did Mr. Durand accept his fate?” I remember the body, half lying, half sitting on the bathroom floor, and the blood. I doubt he had time to come to terms with his fate, let alone accept it.

“I imagine he was unhappy. But there was nothing he could have done to change her mind.” “And then you both drove home?”

“Yes.”

“In the same car?”

“Yes.”

“In Ms. Korede’s car?” I dig my nails into my thighs and blink. Why are they so interested in my car? What could they possibly suspect? Did someone see us move the body? I attempt to slow my breathing without drawing attention to myself. No; no one saw us. If we had been seen carting around a body-shaped bundle, this interrogation would not be taking place in the comfort of our own home. These men didn’t really suspect us. They had probably been paid to interview us.

“Yes.”

“How did you get there, Ms. Ayoola?”

“I don’t like to drive, I took an Uber.”

They nod.

“Can we have a look at your car, Ms. Korede?”

“Why?” asks my mother. I should be moved that she feels the need to defend me, too; but instead I am furious at the fact that she suspects nothing, knows nothing. Why should her hands be clean, while mine become more and more stained?

“We just want to make sure we have covered all the bases.”

“Why should we go through all this? My girls have done nothing wrong!” My mother rises from her seat as she delivers her heartfelt, misguided defense. The older policeman frowns and stands up, scraping his chair across the marble floor, and then nudges his partner to follow suit. Perhaps I will let this play out. Wouldn’t the innocent be indignant?

“Ma, we will just have a quick look—”

“We have been accommodating enough. Please leave.”

“Ma, if we have to, we will return with the necessary paperwork.”

I want to speak, but the words won’t leave my mouth. I’m paralyzed—all I can think of is the blood that was in the boot.

“I said leave,” my mother stresses. She marches to the door, and they are forced to follow suit. They give Ayoola curt nods and leave the house. Mum slams the door behind them. “Can you believe those imbeciles?” Ayoola and I don’t answer. We are both reviewing our options.