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?