“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.
BLOOD
They come the next day and take the car—my silver Ford Focus. The three of us stand on the doorstep, arms crossed, and watch them drive it away. My car is taken to a police station, in an area I never frequent, to be rigorously examined for evidence of a crime I did not commit, while Ayoola’s Fiesta sits pretty in our compound. My eyes settle on her white hatchback. It has the shiny look of a newly washed vehicle. It has not been tainted with blood.
I turn to Ayoola.
“I’m using your car to go to work.”
Ayoola frowns. “But what if I need to go somewhere during the day?”
“You can take an Uber.”
“Korede,” Mum begins carefully, “why don’t you drive my car?”
“I don’t feel like driving stick. Ayoola’s car is fine.”
I walk back into the house and head up to my room, before either of them has a chance to respond. My hands are cold, so I rub them on my jeans.
I cleaned that car. I cleaned it within an inch of its life. If they find a dot of blood, it will be because they bled while they were searching. Ayoola knocks on my door and comes in. I pay no mind to her presence and pick up the broom to sweep my floor.
“Are you angry with me?”
“No.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“I just don’t like being without a ride, is all.”
“And it’s my fault.”
“No. It’s Femi’s fault for bleeding all over my boot.”
She sighs and sits down on my bed, ignoring my “go away” face.
“You’re not the only one suffering, you know. You act like you are carrying this big thing all by yourself, but I worry too.”
“Do you? ’Cause the other day, you were singing ‘I Believe I Can Fly.’ ”
Ayoola shrugs. “It’s a good song.”
I try not to scream. More and more, she reminds me of him. He could do a bad thing and behave like a model citizen right after. As though the bad thing had never happened. Is it in the blood? But his blood is my blood and my blood is hers.
FATHER
Ayoola and I are wearing aṣọ ẹbí. It is customary to wear matching ankara outfits for these types of functions. She chose the color—it is a rich purple ensemble. He hated the color purple, which makes her selection perfect. She also designed both our pieces—mine is a mermaid dress, flattering to my tall frame, and hers clings to her every curve. We both wear sunglasses to disguise the fact that our eyes are dry.
My mother weeps in church, bent double; her sobs are so loud and powerful, they rattle her body. I wonder what she is focusing on to bring about tears—her own frailty? Or maybe she is simply recalling what he did to her, to us.
I scan the aisles, and I see Tade searching for a place to sit.
“You invited him?” I hiss.
“I told him about it. He invited himself.”
“Shit.”
“What’s the problem? You said I should be nice to him.”
“I said you should clear things up. I didn’t say you should bring him into this further.” My mother pinches me and I keep my mouth shut, but my body is shaking. Someone lays a kind hand on my shoulder, thinking me overcome with emotion. I am; just not the kind they think.
“Let us close our eyes and remember this man, because the years he spent with us were a gift from God.” The voice of the priest is low, solemn. It is easy for him to say these things because he did not know the man. No one really knew him.
I close my eyes and mutter words of gratitude to whatever forces keep his soul captive. Ayoola searches for my hand and I take it.
* * *
—
After the service, 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.
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.
MAGA
“Aunty, a man is here for you.”
Ayoola is watching a movie on her laptop in my room. She could be watching it in her room, but she always seems to find her way to mine. She lifts her head to look at the house girl. I sit up immediately. It must be the police. My hands are cold.