بخش 7

2: PETER

“Korede, he’s dead.”

“What?”

“He’s…”

“What the hell? What are you saying? He’s…you…you…”

She burst into tears.

“Please. Please. Help me.”

THEATER

This is the first time I will be entering Tade’s home. I imagined this moment in several different ways, but never like this. I bang on the door and then I bang again, not caring who hears or sees as long as the door is opened in time.

I hear the click of the door and step back. Tade stands there, sweat rolling off his face and neck, in spite of the blast of air conditioning that hits me. I push past him and look around. I see his living room, his kitchen, stairs. I don’t see Ayoola.

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs,” he whispers. I run up the stairs, calling out to Ayoola, but she does not reply. She can’t be dead. She can’t be. Life without her…And if she is gone, it is my fault for saying more than I should have. I knew that this could only ever be the case—to save him, I’ve sacrificed her.

“Turn left,” he says from close behind me. I open the door. My hand is shaking. I am in his bedroom—the king-sized bed takes up a third of the room, and on the other side of it I hear a low moan.

For a moment I am too scared to react. She is slumped on the floor, much the same way that Femi was, pressing her hand to her side. I can see the blood spilling through her fingers, but the knife—her knife—is still in her. She looks at me and gives me a weak smile.

“The irony,” she says. I rush to her side.

“She…she…tried to kill me.”

I ignore him and use the scissors in my first aid kit to cut off the bottom half of my shirt, after the bandages prove too paltry to do the job. I wanted to call an ambulance, but I couldn’t risk Tade talking to anyone till I got to her.

“I didn’t take out the knife,” she tells me.

“Good girl.”

I use my jacket as a pillow and help her lie down. She moans again and it feels as though someone were squeezing my heart. I take medical gloves out of the kit and slip them on.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“Ayoola, tell me what happened.” I don’t really want to know what happened, but I need her to keep talking.

“He…he…hit me—” she begins as I cut her dress open.

“I did not hit her!” cries Tade—the first man able to defend himself against Ayoola’s accusations.

“…then I tried to stop him and he stabbed me.”

“She came at me with a knife! Out of nowhere! Shit!”

“Shut up!” I tell him. “You’re not the one lying here bleeding out, are you?” 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. 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 happened?” she insists.

“She got stabbed.”

“By who?”

Dr. Akigbe materializes as we are halfway through the corridor. He checks Ayoola’s pulse and then barks orders at the nurses. As my sister is wheeled away, he ushers me into a side room.

“Can’t I go in with her?”

“Korede, you’re going to have to wait outside.”

“But—”

“You know the rules. And you’ve done all you can do for the moment. You requested me, so trust me.” He sweeps out of the room and into the surgical theater. I walk into the hallway just as Tade runs up, breathless.

“Is she in theater?”

I don’t respond. He reaches out to touch me. “Don’t.” He drops his hand.

“You know I didn’t mean to do it, right? We were both struggling with it and I…” I turn my back on him and head to the water dispenser. He follows me. “You said yourself that she’s dangerous.” I’m quiet. There isn’t anything to say anymore. “Did you tell anyone what happened?” he asks in a quiet voice.

“No,” I say, pouring a cup of water. I’m surprised at how steady my hand is. “And you’re not going to either.” “What?”

“If you say anything about any of this, I will tell them that you attacked her. And who do you think they will believe. You or Ayoola?” “You know I’m innocent. You know I was defending myself.”

“I know I walked in and my sister had a knife in her side. That’s all I know.” “She tried to kill me! You can’t…” He blinks at me, as though seeing me for the first time. “You’re worse than she is.” “Excuse me?”

“There’s something wrong with her…but you? What’s your excuse?” He walks away from me then in disgust.

I sit in the corridor outside the operating theater and wait for news.

WOUND

Dr. Akigbe comes out of the room and smiles at me. I breathe out.

“Can I see her?”

“She is sleeping. We are going to take her to a room upstairs. Once she is settled, you can pop in.” They put Ayoola in room 315, two doors away from Muhtar, who has never seen my sister but knows more about her than I ever intended.

She looks innocent, vulnerable. Her chest rises and falls gently. Someone has laid her dreads carefully beside her on the bed.

“Who did this to her?” It is Yinka. She looks upset.

“I’m just glad she is okay.”

“Whoever did this should be killed!” Her face has contorted into a mixture of fury and contempt. “If it wasn’t for you, she probably would have died!” “I…I…”

“Ayoola!” My mum rushes in, her heart in her mouth. “My baby!” She leans over the bed and lowers her cheek to her unconscious daughter’s mouth—to feel her breath, like she used to do sometimes when Ayoola was still a baby. When she straightens, she is crying. She stumbles into me, and I put my arms around her. Yinka excuses herself.

“Korede, what happened? Who did this?”

“She called me. I came to get her from where she was. She had the knife in her.” “Where did you pick her up from?”

Ayoola moans and we both turn to look at her, but she is still sleeping and she quickly settles back into the task of breathing in and out.

“I’m sure Ayoola will be able to tell us both what took place when she gets up.” “But where did you find her? Why won’t you tell me?” I wonder what Tade is doing, what he is thinking and what his next move will be. I will Ayoola to wake, so that we can agree on whatever story needs to be told. Anything but the truth.

“She was at Tade’s house…I believe he found her there, like that.”

“Tade? Was there a break-in? Could…could Tade have done it?”

“I don’t know, Mum.” I suddenly feel exhausted. “We’ll ask Ayoola when she wakes.” Mum frowns, but says nothing. All we can do now is wait.

FENCE

The hospital room is tidy, mostly because I have been setting it to rights for the past thirty minutes. The teddy bears I brought from home are arranged at the foot of the bed, according to color—yellow, brown, black. Ayoola’s phone is fully charged, so the charger has been wrapped around itself and placed in her bag—which I took the liberty of also rearranging. Her bag was a mess—used tissue, receipts, cookie crumbs, notes from Dubai and candy that had been sucked and rewrapped. I take a pen and write down the things I have thrown away, in case she asks.

“Korede?”

I pause what I’m doing and look at Ayoola, whose big bright eyes are looking at me.

“Hey…you’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Like hell.”

I stand up and fetch her a cup of water. I hold it to her lips and she drinks.

“Better?”

“A little…where’s Mum?”

“She went home to have a shower. She should be back soon.”

Ayoola nods, and then closes her eyes. She is asleep again within the minute.

The next time Ayoola wakes, she is more alert. She looks around, taking in her surroundings. I don’t believe she has ever been in a hospital room before. She never has anything worse than the common cold, and everyone close to her has died before they reached the hospital.

“It’s so boring…”

“Would you like someone to paint graffiti on the walls for you, o great one?” “No, not graffiti… art.” I laugh, and she laughs with me. There is a knock on the door, but before we say a word, the door opens.

It’s the police. A different pair from the ones who questioned us about Femi. One of them is a woman. They make a beeline for Ayoola, and I block them.

“Excuse me, can I help you?”

“We understand that she was stabbed.”

“Yes?”

“We just want to ask a few questions, find out who it was,” replies the woman, looking over my shoulder while I try to hustle them out.

“It was Tade,” says Ayoola. Just like that. It was Tade. She doesn’t pause or hesitate. They could have asked her what the weather was and she wouldn’t have sounded more relaxed. The floor is unsteady beneath me and I grab onto a chair and sit down.

“And who is this Tade?”

“He is a doctor here,” my mum adds, materializing as though from thin air. She looks at me strangely, probably trying to understand why I look like I am about to throw up. I should have talked to Ayoola as soon as she woke up the first time.

“Can you tell us what happened?”

“He proposed to me and I said I wasn’t interested and he lost it. He attacked me.” “How did your sister get to you?”

“He left the room and I called her.” They glance at me, but they don’t ask me any questions, which is good because I doubt that I would be very coherent.

“Thank you, ma’am. We’ll be back.”

They run out, no doubt to locate Tade.

“Ayoola, what are you doing?”

“What do you mean what is she doing? That man stabbed your sister!”

Ayoola nods fervently, as outraged as our mother.

“Ayoola, listen to me. You will ruin that man’s life.”

“It’s him or me, Korede.”

“Ayoola…”

“You can’t sit on the fence forever.”

SCREEN

The next time I see Muhtar’s wife, she is leaning against the wall of the corridor. Her shoulders are trembling, but no sound escapes her lips. Did no one tell her it is painful to cry silently?

She senses she is not alone; her shoulders still and she looks up. Her eyes narrow and her lips twist into a sneer, but she does not wipe the snot that is trailing from her nose to her lip. I find myself taking a few steps backward. Grief can be contagious and I have enough problems of my own.

She hitches up her dress and pushes past me in a flurry of lace and a fog of Jimmy Choo L’Eau. She’s careful to catch me with the sharp point of her bony shoulder. I wonder where her brother-in-law is and why he is not by her side. I try not to breathe in the pungent smell of perfume and sadness as I head into room 313.

Muhtar is seated on his bed, with the remote control pointed at the TV. He puts it down when he sees me and flashes me a warm smile, though his eyes are tired.

“I saw your wife on the way here.”

“Oh?”

“She was crying.”

“Oh.”

I wait for him to add something more, but he chooses to pick up the remote control and continue flicking through channels. He does not seem surprised or disturbed by what I’ve told him. Or particularly interested. I may as well have told him that I saw a wall gecko on the way to work.

“Did you ever love her?”

“Once upon a time…”

“Perhaps she still loves you.”

“She does not cry for me,” he says, his voice hardening. “She cries for her lost youth, her missed opportunities and her limited options. She does not cry for me, she cries for herself.” He settles on a channel—NTA. It’s like watching television from the nineties—the reporter has a green-gray tint and the transmission flickers and jumps. We both stare at the screen, at the danfo buses zooming past and the passersby craning their necks to take a look at what is being filmed. He’s muted the sound, so I have no idea what is happening.

“I heard about what happened to your sister.”

“News travels fast around here.”

“I’m sorry.”

I smile at him. “I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

“She tried to hurt someone again.”

I don’t say anything—but then he didn’t phrase it as a question. On the TV, the woman has now stopped to interview a passerby and his eyes continually flit between her and the camera, as though he is unsure whom he should be making his case to.

“You can do it, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Free yourself. Tell the truth.”

I can feel his gaze on me now. The TV has started to blur. I blink, blink again and swallow. No words come out. The truth. The truth is that my sister was hurt on my watch because of something I said, and I regret it.

He senses my discomfort and changes the subject. “They are discharging me tomorrow.” I turn to meet his eyes. He wasn’t going to be here forever. He isn’t a chair or a bed or a stethoscope; he is a patient, and patients leave—alive or dead. And yet, I feel something akin to surprise, akin to fear.

“Oh?”

“I do not want to lose touch,” he tells me.

It is funny, the only times I ever touched Muhtar was when he was sleeping or at the gate between life and death, when it was necessary to move his body for him. Now he turns his head back to face the screen on his own.

“Maybe you can give me your number and I can WhatsApp you?”

I cannot think of what to say. Does Muhtar exist outside these walls? Who is he? Besides a man who knows my deepest secrets. And Ayoola’s. He has a strangely European nose, this keeper of confidences. It is sharp and long. I wonder what his own secrets are. But then I do not even know what his hobbies are, what his shackles are, where he rested his head at night before he was carried into the hospital on a stretcher.

“Or I can give you my number and you can call anytime you need to talk.” I nod. I am not sure he sees the nod. His eyes are still fixed to the screen. I decide to leave. When I get to the door, I turn around. “Perhaps your wife still loves you.” He sighs. “You cannot take back words, once they’ve been spoken.”

“What words?”

“I divorce you. I divorce you. I divorce you.”

SISTER

Ayoola is lying on her bed, angling her body to show Snapchat her injury. I wait for her to finish, and she eventually pulls her shirt back down over her stitches, puts her phone to one side and grins at me. Even now, she looks blameless. She is wearing cotton shorts and a white camisole and is holding on to one of the plush bears on her bed.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

On the bedside table is an open box of candy, a get-well-soon gift. She plucks out a lollipop, unwraps it and sticks it in her mouth, sucking on it thoughtfully.

“Between Tade and me?”

“Yeah.”

She sucks some more.

“He said you broke my ring. Said you were accusing me of all sorts and that maybe you had something to do with my ex going missing…” “What…what…did you say?”

“I told him he was crazy. But he said you were really jealous of me and had some kind of…umm…latent anger…that what if”—she pauses for dramatic effect—“what if you had gone back, after we left, you know, to talk to Femi…” “He thinks I killed Femi?!” I grab Ayoola’s arm, even though she is not to blame this time. How could he think I was capable of that?

“Weird, right? I didn’t even tell him about Femi. Only Gboye. Maybe he saw it on Insta. Anyway, it’s like he wanted to report you or something…So I did what I had to do.” She shrugs. “Or at least I tried.” She grabs a bear, buries her head in it and is quiet.

“And then?”

“Then when I was on the ground, he was all like, oh my gooooosh, Korede was telling the truth. What did you tell him, Ko-re-de?” She did this for me and ended up hurt because I betrayed her. I feel dizzy. I don’t want to admit that I chose a man’s welfare over hers. I don’t want to confess to letting him come between us, when she clearly chose me over him. “I…I told him you were dangerous.” She sighs and asks, “What do you think will happen now?”

“There will be an investigation of sorts.”

“Will they believe his story?

“I don’t know…it’s his word against yours.”

“Against ours, Korede. It’s his word against ours.”

FATHER

Yoruba people have a custom of naming twins Taiwo and Kehinde. Taiwo is the older twin, the one who comes out first. Kehinde, therefore, is the second-born twin. But Kehinde is also the older twin, because he says to Taiwo, “Go out first and test the world for me.” This is certainly how Father considered his position as the second twin. And Aunty Taiwo agreed—she did everything he told her to and held an unquestioning trust in everything he did. Which is how—doing what she was told, unquestioningly—she found herself in the house with us the Monday before our father died, shouting at me to let go of Ayoola.

“No!” I screamed, pulling Ayoola even closer to me. My father was not around and, though I knew I would pay for my obstinacy later, later was a while away. His absence now gave me courage, and the promise of his return made me determined.

“Your father will hear of this,” Aunty Taiwo threatened. But I couldn’t have cared less. I had already begun to develop plans in my head for Ayoola’s and my escape. Ayoola held on to me tighter, even as I promised I would not let her go.

“Please,” Mother moaned from one of the corners in the room. “She is too young.” “She should not have been flirting with her father’s guest, then.”

My mouth dropped open in disbelief. What lies had my father been telling? And why did he insist that Ayoola go to meet the chief man in his home, alone? I must have uttered the question out loud because Aunty Taiwo replied, “She will not be alone; I will be there.” As though that were any kind of reassurance. “Ayoola, it is important that you do this for your father,” she said in a wheedling voice. “This business opportunity is very critical. He will buy you whatever phone you want, when he gets the contract. Isn’t that exciting?!” “Don’t make me go,” Ayoola cried.

“You are not going anywhere,” I told her.

“Ayoola,” Aunty Taiwo coaxed, “you are not a child anymore. You have started menstruating. Many girls would be excited about this. This man will give you anything you want. Anything.” “Anything?” Ayoola asked between sniffs. I slapped her to bring her back to her senses. But I understood. Half of her fear was because I was afraid. She did not really know what they were demanding from her. Granted, she was fourteen, but fourteen then was younger than fourteen now.

This was my father’s last gift to us. This arrangement he had made with another man. But he had also passed on his strength to me, and I decided he was not getting his way, not this time. Ayoola was my responsibility and mine alone.

I grabbed the cane from its pedestal and waved it before me. “Aunty, if you come near us, I will beat you with this cane and I will not stop until he comes home.” She was about to call my bluff. She was taller than I, heavier than I—but she looked into my eyes and took a few steps backward. Emboldened, I took a swipe at her. She retreated farther. I let go of Ayoola and chased Aunty Taiwo out of the house, brandishing the cane. When I returned, Ayoola was shaking.

“He will kill us,” she sobbed.

“Not if we kill him first.”

TRUTH

“Dr. Otumu states that he acted in self-defense and that you can verify this. He says, and I quote: ‘She warned me that Ayoola had killed before.’ Ms. Abebe, has your sister killed before?” “No.”

“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. 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.” “What of her ex-boyfriend?”

“Tade?”

“Femi; the one who went missing.”

I lean forward; my eyes light up. “Has he come back? Has he said something?” “No.”

I frown, lean back and lower my eyes. If I could, I would squeeze out a tear, but I have never been able to cry on cue.

“So why do you think she has anything to do with that?”

“We suspect that—”

“A hundred suspicions don’t make proof. She is five-two. What the hell do you think she did with him, if she hurt him?” My lips are firm, my eyes disbelieving. I shake my head slightly for good measure.

“So you believe she may have hurt him?”

“No. My sister is the sweetest person you’ll ever meet. Have you met her?” They shift uncomfortably. They have met her. They have looked into her eyes and fantasized about her. They are all the same.

“What do you think happened that day?”

“All I know is that he stabbed her, and that she was unarmed.”

“He said she brought the knife with her.”

“Why would she do that? How could she know he would attack her?”

“The knife is missing. Nurse Chichi states that she logged it in after it was removed during surgery. You would have known where it was kept.” “All the nurses know…and all the doctors.”

“How long have you known Dr. Otumu?”

“Not very long.”

“Have you known him to be violent?” When I was picking my outfit, I chose a light gray skirt suit. It is solemn, feminine, and a subtle reminder that the police and I are not from the same social class.

“No.”

“So you admit that this is out of character for him…”

“I believe I just said I’ve not known him very long.”

GONE

Muhtar has gone home to begin his life anew. Room 313 is empty. I sit there anyway, in the spot I usually sat when Muhtar was still in the realm between life and death. I picture him on the bed and I feel an intense sense of loss, more so than the one I feel for Tade, who is also gone.

They had his license revoked, and he has to spend a few months in jail for assault. It could have been much worse, but many attested to the fact that he was kind and had never displayed a whit of violence. Still, there was no denying the fact that he stabbed Ayoola. And for that, society demanded that he pay.

I haven’t seen him since the day it happened. He was placed on suspension as soon as she accused him, so I don’t know what he is thinking or feeling. But I don’t much care. She was right. You have to choose a side, and my lot was cast long ago. She will always have me and I will always have her; no one else matters.

Muhtar gave me his number. He wrote it on a piece of paper that I put in the pocket of my uniform.

I still toy with the idea of telling Ayoola that there is someone out there, free and unconstrained, who knows her secret. That at any point, the things we’ve done could become public record. But I don’t think I will.

The linen used for Muhtar’s bed has not been changed. I can tell. I can still smell him in the room—that freshly showered smell he sported in those days of consciousness. I close my eyes for a bit, and allow my mind to wander.

A short while later, I pick up the room phone and dial the number for the fourth floor.

“Please call Mohammed down here, room 313.”

“Mohammed is gone, ma.”

“Oh…yes, of course. Send Assibi.”

5

0809 743 5555

I have keyed in his number three times and I have cleared the screen three times. The paper where his number is written is not as smooth as it once was.

But I am already beginning to forget what his voice sounds like.

There is a knock on my door.

“Come in.”

The house girl opens the door a crack and sticks her head in. “Ma, Mummy says I should call you. There is a guest downstairs.” “Who is it?”

“It’s a man.”

I dismiss her, realizing she can’t tell me more than that.

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. 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.

They are in the living room—my mum, Ayoola and the man. All three of them look up at me as I approach.

“This is my sister, Korede.”

The man smiles. I smile back.