بخش 5

It’s Ayoola’s birthday. I allow her to begin posting again on her social media pages. Updates about Femi have dwindled. Social media has forgotten his name.

“Open my present first!” insists Mum. Ayoola obliges. It is tradition in our house that on a person’s birthday, you open gifts from your family first thing in the morning. It took me a long time to figure out what to give her. I haven’t exactly been in a giving mood.

Mum’s gift is a dining set, for when Ayoola gets married. “I know Tade will ask soon,” she announces.

“Ask what?” Ayoola replies, distracted by my present. I bought her a new sewing machine. She beams at me, but I can’t smile back. Mum’s words are turning my stomach.

“Ask for your hand in marriage!” Ayoola screws up her nose at the prediction. “It’s time you, the both of you, start thinking about settling down.” “ ’Cause marriage worked so well for you…”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” I mutter. My mum eyes me but she did not hear me, so she is forced to let it go. Ayoola gets up to change for her party, and I continue blowing up balloons. We picked gray and white, out of respect for Femi.

Earlier, I read a poem of his on his blog—

The African sun shines brightly.

Burning on our backs;

on our scalps,

on our minds—

Our anger has no cause, except if

the sun was a cause.

Our frustrations have no root, except if

the sun was a root.

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. 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.

“You look nice,” he tells me. I suppose complimenting my appearance is supposed to be an olive branch. It shouldn’t affect me. I’ve stayed out of his way, I’ve kept my head down. I don’t want his casual compliment to touch me; but I feel a lightness inside me. I squeeze the muscles of my face to keep a smile from bursting through. “Look, Korede, I’m sor—” “Hey.” The “hey” comes from behind me, and I turn around to see Ayoola. She is wearing a fitted maxi dress so close to the color and shade of her skin that in the dim lighting she looks almost naked, with gold earrings, gold heels and the bracelet Tade gave her to top it off. I can detect a smattering of light gold bronzer on her skin.

Tade walks past me and kisses her gently on the lips. Love or not, they are a very attractive couple; on the outside, at least. He hands her a gift and I slide closer so I can see what it is. It’s a small box, but too long and narrow to be a ring. Tade looks my way, and I make like a bee and act busy. I head back to the center of the party and start picking up paper plates again.

I see flashes of Tade and Ayoola throughout the night—laughing together by the punch bowl, kissing on the stairs, feeding each other cake on the dance floor, until I can take it no longer. I grab a shawl from a drawer and head out of the house. It’s still warm, but I wrap my arms around myself under the fabric. I need to talk to someone, anyone; someone besides Muhtar. I considered therapy once, but Hollywood has revealed that therapists have a duty to break confidence if the life of the patient or someone else is at stake. I have a feeling that if I were to talk about Ayoola, that confidence would be broken in five minutes. Isn’t there an option where no one dies and Ayoola doesn’t have to be incarcerated? Perhaps I could see a therapist and just leave the murders out of it. I could fill plenty of sessions just talking about Tade and Ayoola and how seeing them together turns me inside out.

“Do you like him?” she had asked me. No, Ayoola. I love him.

HEAD NURSE

As soon as I walk into the hospital, I head to Dr. Akigbe’s office, as per his email request. As usual, his email was abrupt, mysterious, designed to keep the receiver on their toes. I knock.

“Come in!” His voice is like a hammer against the door.

At the moment Dr. Akigbe, St. Peter’s oldest and most senior doctor, is staring at his computer screen, scrolling down with his mouse. He doesn’t say anything to me, so I sit down of my own accord and wait. He stops scrolling and raises his head.

“Do you know when this hospital was founded?”

“Nineteen seventy-one, sir.” I lean back in my seat and sigh. Is it really possible that he called me here to lecture me on the hospital’s history?

“Excellent, excellent. I wasn’t here then, of course. I’m not that old!” He laughs at his own joke. He is, of course, that old. He just happened to be working elsewhere at the time. I clear my throat, in hopes of deterring him from beginning a story I have heard a thousand times before. He stands up, revealing his full six-foot-three frame and stretches. I know what he is doing. He’s going to bring out the photo album. He will show me pictures of the hospital in its earliest days and of the three founders he can never stop talking about.

“Sir, I have to, Ta…Dr. Otumu wants me to assist with a PET scan.”

“Right, right.” He is still scanning the bookshelf for the album.

“I’m the only nurse on the floor trained to assist with a PET scan, sir,” I say pointedly. Perhaps it is too much to hope my words will hurry him, but whatever he wants to say to me, I’d rather not wait an hour to hear it. To my surprise, he spins around and beams at me.

“And that is why I called you here!”

“Sir?”

“I have been watching you for some time.” He demonstrates this with his forefinger and middle finger directed at his eyes, and then at me. “And I like what I see. You are meticulous and you are passionate about this hospital. Frankly, you remind me of me!” He laughs again. It sounds like a dog barking.

“Thank you, sir.” His words warm me on the inside, and I smile at him. I was just doing my job, but it is gratifying to have my efforts acknowledged.

“Needless to say, you were a shoe-in for the position of head nurse!” Head nurse. It’s certainly a role that suits me. After all, I have been doing the work of a head nurse for some time now. Tade mentioned that I was being considered for the role and I think of the celebratory dinner he promised we would have. That’s and void now, I guess. I don’t have Tade’s friendship and Femi is probably swelling to three times his size, but I am now the head nurse of St. Peter’s Hospital. It has a nice ring to it.

“I’m honored, sir.”

COMA

When I head to the reception desk, Chichi is still hovering. Perhaps there is a man at home she is loath to return to. She is talking animatedly to a group of staff members who are barely listening. I catch the words “miracle” and “coma.” “What’s going on?” I ask.

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Your best friend is awake!”

“Awake? Who? Yinka?”

“No. Mr. Yautai! He is awake!”

I’m running before I even think to answer. I leave Chichi standing by the nurses’ station and hurry to the third floor. I would rather have heard the news from Dr. Akigbe, so I could have asked the pertinent neurological questions, but considering that he spied yet another opportunity to lecture on the hospital’s history, it is no surprise that he failed to mention it. Or perhaps he didn’t mention it because it is not true at all, and Chichi misunderstood… Muhtar’s family is crowded around his bed, so I don’t immediately see him. His wife, whose slender frame is carved in my memory, and a tall man who I guess is his brother, have their backs to me. They are not touching, but their bodies are leaning toward each other as if pulled together by some force. Perhaps they have been comforting each other one time too often.

Facing the door, and now me, are his children. His two sons stand rod straight—one crying silently—while his daughter holds her newborn in her arms, angling the baby so her father can see. It is this gesture that finally forces me to face the reality of his consciousness. Muhtar has rejoined the land of the living.

I back away from the family reunion, but then I hear his voice. “She is beautiful.” I have never heard his voice before. When I met him, he was already in the coma and I had imagined his voice to be rich and heavy. In reality, he hasn’t spoken in months, so his voice is high-pitched, weak, almost a whisper.

I turn and bump into Tade.

“Whoa,” he says. He stumbles backward and catches himself.

“Hey,” I say, distracted, my mind still back in Muhtar’s room. Tade looks over my shoulder at the scene.

“So, Mr. Muhtar is awake?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” I manage.

“I’m sure it is thanks to you.”

“Me ke?”

“You kept the guy going. He was never forgotten, never neglected.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

“Maybe not, but you can’t anticipate what stimuli the brain will respond to.” “Yes.”

“Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” I wait, but he makes no mention of his promise that we would celebrate the promotion.

I sidestep him and continue down the corridor.

—

Just as I return to reception, there is a scream. The waiting patients look around themselves in surprise, while Yinka and I run toward the sound. It’s coming from room 105. Yinka flings open the door and we burst in to find Assibi and Gimpe locked together. Gimpe has Assibi in a headlock and Assibi is clawing at Gimpe’s breasts. They freeze when they see us. Yinka begins to laugh.

“Ye!” she cries after the laughter is gone from her.

“Thank you, Yinka,” I say pointedly.

She stands there, still grinning.

“Thank you,” I say again. The last thing I need is Yinka adding fuel to an already raging flame.

“What?”

“I can handle it from here.”

For a moment I think she’s going to argue, but then she shrugs. “Fine,” she mutters. She takes one more look at Assibi and Gimpe, smirks, then flounces from the room. I clear my throat.

“You stand over there, you stand over there.” When they have taken their places far away from each other, I remind them that this is a hospital and not a bar by the side of the road.

“I should have you both fired.”

“No, ma.”

“Please, ma.”

“Explain to me what was so serious that you had to fight physically.” They don’t respond. “I’m waiting.” “It’s Gimpe. She has been trying to steal my boyfriend.”

“Oh?”

“Mohammed is not your boyfriend!” Mohammed? Seriously? Perhaps I should have left Yinka to handle this. Now that I think of it, she probably guessed what was going on.

Mohammed is a terrible cleaner with poor personal hygiene and yet he has somehow gotten these two women to fall for him, creating drama inside the hospital. He should really be fired. I would not miss him.

“I don’t care whose boyfriend Mohammed is. You people can eye each other from afar or burn each other’s houses down, but when you enter this hospital, you will behave in a professional manner or risk your jobs. Do you understand?” They mumble something that sounds like mmmshhh shingle hghate bchich.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Excellent. Please get back to work.”

When I return to reception, I find Yinka leaning back, eyes closed, mouth open.

“Yinka!” I slam a clipboard down on the countertop, startling her awake. “If I catch you sleeping again, I will write you up.” “Who died and made you head nurse?”

“Actually,” mutters Bunmi, “they promoted her this morning.”

“What?”

“There will be a meeting about it later in the day,” I add.

Yinka doesn’t speak.

THE GAME

It’s raining, the sort of rain that wrecks umbrellas and renders a raincoat useless. We are stuck in the house—Ayoola, Tade and I. I try to avoid them, but Ayoola collars me as I walk through the living room.

“Let’s play a game!”

Tade and I sigh.

“Count me out,” I say.

“Why don’t we play, just the two of us?” Tade suggests to Ayoola. I ignore the stab to my heart.

“No. It’s a three-or-more-person game. It has to be all of us or none of us.” “We can play checkers, or chess?”

“No. I want to play Cluedo.”

If I were Tade, I’d tell her to stuff the Cluedo up her entitled be—

“I’ll go get it.” She jumps up and leaves Tade and me in the room together. I don’t want to look at him, so I stare out the window at the washed-out scenery. The streets in the estate are empty, everyone has taken refuge indoors. In the Western world you can walk or dance in the rain, but here, the rain will drown you.

“I may have been a bit harsh the other day,” he says. He waits for me to respond, but I can think of nothing to say. “I’ve been told sisters can be very…mean to one another.” “Who told you that?”

“Ayoola.”

I want to laugh, but it comes out like a squeak.

“She really looks up to you, you know.” I finally look at him. I look into his innocent light brown doe eyes and I wonder if I was ever like that, if I ever had that kind of innocence.

SEVENTEEN

Ayoola was seventeen the first time and scared out of her wits. She called me and I could barely make sense of her words.

“You what?”

“I…the knife…it’s…there’s blood everywhere…” Her teeth were chattering as though she were cold. I tried to control my rising panic.

“Ayoola, slow down. Take a deep breath. Where are you bleeding?”

“I…I’m not…Somto. It’s Somto.”

“You were attacked?”

“I…”

“Where are you? I’ll call—”

“No! Come alone.”

“Ayoola, where are you?”

“Will you come alone?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“I won’t tell you, unless you promise to come alone.” So I promised.

When I got to the apartment Somto was already dead. His trousers were around his ankles and the shock on his face mirrored mine.

“You…you did this?”

Back then I was too scared to hang about and clean, so we torched the room. I never even considered putting Ayoola at the mercy of the police. Why take the risk that her cry of self-defense might go unheard?

Somto had a studio apartment to himself that overlooked the water—the very water that led into the third mainland bridge lagoon. We took the diesel he was keeping for his generator, poured it over his body, lit a match and fled. The other tenants ran out of the block quickly when the fire alarm went off, so there was no collateral damage. Somto was a smoker; it was all the proof the university needed.

Murderer—Ayoola; Place—Studio Apartment; Weapon—Knife.

MANEATER

Ayoola wins Cluedo, but only because I am forced to keep explaining the rules to Tade to prevent him from falling into the traps she is so adept at setting.

I had convinced myself that if Tade could win here…then maybe…

“You’re a pro at this,” he tells her, squeezing her thigh. “Hey, I’m hungry. I wouldn’t mind some of that cake. Do you have any left?” “Ask Korede na.”

“Oh. Korede bakes too?”

She raises her eyebrows and glances at me. I meet her eyes and wait.

“You think I bake?”

“Yes…I had your pineapple upside-down cake.”

“Did Korede tell you I baked that?”

He frowns. “Yes…Wait, no…It was your mum.”

She smiles at him, as if sorry that he was deceived.

“I can’t bake to save my life,” she states plainly. “Korede made apple crumble this morning, would you like that?” “Oh. Okay, sure.”

Ayoola calls for the house girl and tells her to bring the apple crumble with custard and side plates. Five minutes later, she is dishing out hefty portions. I push mine away, feeling nauseous. Tade takes a bite of his, closes his eyes and smiles. “Korede, this is heavenly.” AWAKE

I haven’t gone to Muhtar’s room since he came out of his coma. It’s the end of that era. I can no longer talk to him with impunity and I was not the nurse allocated to attend to him in the first place.

“Korede.”

“Hmmm.”

“The patient in room 313 would like to see you.”

“Muhtar? Why?”

Chichi shrugs. “Better go and ask him.”

I consider ignoring the summons, but he’ll soon be walking around the floor as part of his physiotherapy, so I know it is only a matter of time before I see him. I knock on his door.

“Come in.”

He is sitting up in bed with a book in his hands, which he sets down beside him. He looks at me expectantly. There are heavy rings around his eyes, but his pupils are focused and sharp. He seems to have aged since he woke up.

“I’m Nurse Korede.” His eyes widen.

“You’re the one.”

“The one?”

“The one who visited me.”

“Oh, they told you?”

“Who?”

“The nurses.”

“The nurses? No, no. I remember.”

“You remember what?” The room is cold; my hands are tingling, their temperature dropping.

“I remember your voice. You talking to me.”

My skin is dark, but I am certain all the blood has rushed to my feet, rendering me ghostlike. What happened to all that research that established the unlikelihood that comatose patients were aware of their surroundings? Yes, Tade had been convinced that my visits were doing some good, but I had never thought Muhtar could actually hear me.

“You remember me talking to you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what I said?”

MARKET

When I was ten, my mum lost me in the market.

MEMORY

Muhtar frowns, knitting together his brows, and then he shrugs.

“It’s very patchy.”

“What do you remember?”

“Would you like to sit down?” He gestures at a seat and I oblige. I need to keep him talking. I told this man almost every secret I had, convinced that he would take those secrets to the grave, but now he is giving me a shy smile and trying to meet my eye.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” I ask, but I don’t recognize my voice.

“Visit me. You don’t know me, and I get the impression the visits from my family had dwindled to almost nothing.” “It was tough for them, seeing you like that.”

“You don’t have to make excuses for them.” We are both silent after that, not sure what to say. “I have a granddaughter now.” “Congratulations.”

“The father says she isn’t his.”

“Oh. Curious.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Good. Marriage isn’t what they say it is.”

“You were saying you remembered something?”

“Yes. It’s amazing, isn’t it? You think the whole body is in hibernation, but the brain is still working, still garnering information. Really fascinating.” Muhtar is far more talkative than I thought he would be and he gestures quite wildly when he talks. I can imagine him in front of a roomful of youths, lecturing them on things they couldn’t care less about, but going at it with passion and gusto.

“So, you remember a lot, then?”

“No. Not a lot. I know you like popcorn with syrup. You said I should try it sometime.” My breath catches in my throat. No one else here would know that except Tade, and Tade isn’t one to play tricks.

“Is that all?” I ask quietly.

“You seem nervous. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I have some water here, if you…”

“Really, I’m okay. Is there anything else?”

He appraises me, cocking his head. “Oh yes, I recall you saying that your sister is a serial killer.” MADNESS

What led me to confide in a body that still had breath left in it?

An unwanted thought enters my mind—a means to an end. I squash the thought, meet his gaze and laugh. “Who did I say she killed?” “I don’t quite remember that.”

“Well, it’s to be expected. Coma patients usually have a hard time separating their dream world from the real world.” He nods. “I was thinking the same thing.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, though, or perhaps my fear is making me read too much into his tone of voice. He is still staring at me, trying to make sense of things. I have to remain professional.

“Have you been experiencing any headaches?”

“No…I haven’t.”

“Good. Finding it hard to sleep?”

“Sometimes…”

“Hmmm…Well, if you begin to suffer hallucinations…”

“Hallucinations?!”

“Don’t be alarmed, just let the doctor know.”

He looks alarmed, and I feel a little guilty. I stand up.

“Rest, and if you need anything, press the button beside you.”

“Would you mind staying a bit longer? You have a pleasant voice.”

His face is narrow and stiff. His eyes are the most expressive thing about him. I stand, pushing the chair back in its corner and his eyes follow me as I move around straightening things that are already in their place. They put me on edge.

“Sorry, sir, I have to return to work.”

“Aren’t you working by being here?”

“I’m not the nurse designated to care for you.” I force a smile and pretend to glance at his notes, and then head to the door. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Mr. Yautai,” I say, and leave the room.

Three hours later, Bunmi informs me that Muhtar has requested me as his nurse. Yinka, who is his nurse, shrugs, not caring one chit.

“He has creepy eyes anyway.”

“To whom did he make the request?” I ask.

“Dr. ‘Put the Patient First.’ ” Dr. Akigbe. The chance that Dr. Akigbe will allow Muhtar’s request is very, very high. He loves to grant patient requests that require nothing from him.

I sink into the chair at the reception desk and consider my options, but none of them are ideal. I imagine writing his name in the notebook. I wonder if this is how it is for Ayoola—one minute she is giddy with happiness and good cheer, and the next minute her mind is filled with murderous intent.

ASLEEP

I dream of Femi. Not the inanimate Femi. The Femi whose smile was plastered all over Instagram and whose poetry is memorialized in my mind. I have been trying to understand how he became a victim.

He was arrogant, there’s no doubt about it. But handsome, talented men usually are. His tone on his blog was abrupt and cynical and he didn’t appear to suffer fools lightly. But as though at war with himself, his poetry was playful and romantic. He was…complex. The sort of man who shouldn’t have fallen under Ayoola’s spell.

In my dream, he leans back in his chair and asks me what I’m going to do.

“Do about what?”

“She’s not going to stop, you know.”

“She was defending herself.”

“You don’t really believe that,” he chides, shaking his head feebly.

He stands up and starts to walk away from me. I follow him, because what else can I do? I want to wake up, but I also want to see where Femi will take me. It turns out, he wants to visit the place where he died. We stare at his body, the utter helplessness of it all. Beside him, on the floor, is the knife she carries with her and spills blood with. She had hidden it before I got there, but in my dream I see it as clear as day.

He asks me if he could have done anything differently.

“You could have seen her for what she was.”

ICE CREAM

Her name is Peju.

She is hovering outside our compound and makes her move the moment I pull out of the gate. I don’t immediately recognize her, but I stick my head out of the window to see what she wants.

“What did you do to him?”

“Sorry?”

“Femi. What did you do to Femi?” I realize then who she is. I have seen her, too many times to count, on Instagram. She is the one who has been posting about Femi, the one who called Ayoola out on Snapchat. She has lost a lot of weight and her pretty eyes are red. I try to remain impassive.

“I can’t help you.”

“Can’t? Or won’t? I just want to know what happened to him.” I attempt to drive on, but she opens my door. “The worst thing is not knowing.” Her voice breaks.

I turn off the engine and climb out of the car. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Some people are saying he probably up and left the country, but he wouldn’t do that, and he wouldn’t worry us like this…If we knew…” I feel a strong urge to confess to her, to tell her what happened to her brother so that she won’t have to go through life wondering. I think up the words in my head— Sorry, my sister stabbed him in the back and I masterminded throwing his body in the water. I think of how it would sound. I think of what would happen after.

“Look, I’m really—”

“Peju?”

Peju’s head snaps up to see my sister coming down the drive.

“What are you doing here?” Ayoola asks.

“You’re the one who saw him last. I know there is something you’re not saying. Tell me what happened to my brother.” Ayoola is wearing dungarees—she is the only person I know who can still pull those off—and she is licking ice cream, probably from the parlor around the corner. She pauses the licking, not because she is moved by Peju’s words, but because she is aware that it is proper to pause whatever one is doing when in the presence of someone who is grieving. I spent three hours explaining that particular etiquette to her one Sunday afternoon.

“You think he is…dead?” asks Ayoola in a low soft voice.

Peju starts weeping. It is as though Ayoola’s question knocks down a dam that she has been doing her best to keep up. Her cries are deep and loud. She gulps in air and her body shudders. Ayoola takes another lick of the ice cream and then she pulls Peju into an embrace with her free arm. She rubs Peju’s back as she cries.

“It’ll be alright. It’ll be alright in the end,” Ayoola murmurs to her.

Does it matter who Peju is getting comfort from? What’s done is done. So what if it is only her brother’s killer who can talk candidly about the possibility of his death? Peju needed to be released from the crushing burden of hope that Femi could still be alive and Ayoola was the only one willing to do it.

Ayoola continues to pat Peju on her back as she stares resignedly at the ice cream, the one she can no longer lick, as it drip drips onto the road.

SECRET

“Korede, can I talk to you for a sec?”

I nod and follow Tade into his office. As soon as the door is shut, he beams at me. My face flushes and I cannot help but smile back.

He looks particularly good today—he has recently had his hair cut. He is usually quite conservative with his hair, trimming it down almost to the scalp, but he has been growing it out recently, and now he has a short back and sides with the middle left an inch high. It suits him.

“I want to show you something, but you have to promise to keep it a secret.” “Okay…”

“Promise.”

“I promise I’ll keep it a secret.”

He hums as he goes to his drawer and fishes something out. It is a box. A ring box.

“Who?” I squeak. As if there was ever any doubt who the ring is for. And who it isn’t for.

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

The ring is a two-carat princess cut diamond with a precious-stone setting. You would have to be blind not to like it.

“You want to propose to Ayoola,” I state, so we are all on the same page.

“Yes. Do you think she’ll say yes?”

Finally, a question I don’t know the answer to. I blink back hot tears and I clear my throat. “Isn’t this too soon?” “When you know, you know. You’ll understand one day, Korede, when you’re in love.” I surprise myself by laughing. It starts off as a gasp, then a giggle, then uncontrollable tear-jerking laughter. Tade is staring at me, but I can’t stop. When I finally calm down, he asks, “What’s so funny?” “Tade…what do you like about my sister?”

“Everything.”

“But if you had to be specific.”

“Well…she is…she is really special.”

“Okay…but what makes her special?”

“She is just so…I mean, she is beautiful and perfect. I’ve never wanted to be with someone this much.” I rub my forehead with my fingers. He fails to point out the fact that she laughs at the silliest things and never holds a grudge. He hasn’t mentioned how quick she is to cheat at games or that she can hemstitch a skirt without even looking at her fingers. He doesn’t know her best features or her…darkest secrets. And he doesn’t seem to care.

“Put your ring away, Tade.”

“What?”

“This is all…” I perch on his desk and try to find the words. “This is all just fun and games to her.” He sighs, and shakes his head. “People change, Korede. I know she cheated on me, and all that, but that’s ‘cause she hasn’t known real love. And that’s what I can give her.” “She will hurt you.” I go to put my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs me off.

“I can handle…”

How can a man be so obtuse? The frustration I feel is like a gas bubble in my chest, and I cannot control the need to burp.

“No. I mean it—she will hurt you. Physically! She has hurt people—guys—before.” I try to illustrate my point with my hands, strangling thin air.

There is a moment of silence while he considers what I’ve said and I consider the fact that I said it. I drop my hands. I should stop talking now. I have told him as much as I can. He’s on his own from here.

“Is it because you don’t have someone?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Why don’t you want Ayoola to move forward in life? It’s like you want her to depend on you for the rest of her days.” He shakes his head in disappointment and I have to check every urge to scream. I dig my nails into my palm. I’ve never held Ayoola back; if anything, I’ve given her a future.

“I don’t…”

“It’s like you don’t want her to be happy.”

“She’s killed before!” I shout, regretting the words as soon as I have uttered them. Tade shakes his head again, marveling at how low I am willing to stoop.

“She told me about the guy who died. Said you blame her for it.” I’m tempted to ask him which guy he is referring to, but I can see this is a battle that I cannot win. I lost before I even knew it had started. Ayoola may not be here, but Tade is like a puppet, speaking her words.

“Look.” His voice softens as he changes tack. “She really wants your approval, and all she gets from you is judgment and disdain. She lost someone she loved and all you do is make her feel responsible. I would never have thought you could be so cruel. I thought I knew you, Korede.” “No. You know nothing about me, or the woman you are about to propose to. And by the way, Ayoola would never wear a ring less than three carats.” He stares at me as though I’m speaking another language, the ring box still clutched in his hand. What a waste of time this all was.

I glance at him over my shoulder as I open the door. “Just watch your back.” She had warned me: He isn’t deep. All he wants is a pretty face.