“Of course. I called the emergency operator. But they didn’t get there in time.”
My eyes focus on the diamond comb sitting in her hair. The trip has been good to her. The Dubai air seems to have brightened her skin and she is wearing designer clothing from top to toe. Gboyega certainly wasn’t stingy with his money.
“That’s a shame.” I search for a feeling greater than pity for this “family” man who died, but even that is sparse. I had never met Femi, but his fate affected me in a way this news does not.
“Yes. I’ll miss him,” she replies, absentmindedly. “Wait, I got you something.” She dives into her handbag and begins rummaging, when the doorbell rings. She looks up expectantly and smirks. Surely, it can’t be—but, you know, life. Tade walks through the door and she flings herself into his arms. He hugs her tight, burying his head in her hair.
“You naughty girl,” he tells her and they kiss. Passionately.
I walk away quickly before he has a chance to realize that there is a third person in the room. I’d hate to have to swap banalities with him. I lock myself in my room, sit on my bed cross-legged and stare into space.
Time passes. I hear a knock on my door.
“Ma, are you coming down to eat?” asks the house girl as she rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet.
“Who is at the dining table?”
“Mummy, sister Ayoola and Mr. Tade.”
“Who sent you to call me?”
“I came myself, ma.” No, of course they wouldn’t think of me. My mum and Ayoola will be reveling in Tade’s attention and Tade will…who cares what he will. I smile at the only person who seems to care if I have nourishment or not. From behind her small frame, laughter wafts toward me.
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”
She shuts the door behind her as she leaves, shutting out the sound of happiness. At least Ayoola won’t be in my space for a while. I use this opportunity to Google Gboyega’s name. Sure enough, I find an article about his tragic passing—
NIGERIAN DIES ON DUBAI BUSINESS TRIP
A Nigerian businessman died in Dubai after reportedly falling victim to a drug overdose.
The Foreign Office confirmed that Gboyega Tejudumi—who had been staying in the notorious Royal resort—died after having taken ill in his room.
Despite the efforts of the emergency services, he was pronounced dead at the scene.
There was no one else involved in the accident, according to the police…
I wonder how Ayoola convinced the police to keep her name out of the news. I wonder at the differences between a food poisoning and a drug overdose. I wonder what the chances are that the death of a person in the company of a serial killer would come about by chance.
Or perhaps the real question is, how confident am I that Ayoola only uses her knife?
I open other articles about Gboyega’s death; I take in other lies. Ayoola never strikes unless provoked. But if she had a hand in Gboyega’s death, if she was responsible, then why did she do it? Gboyega seemed infatuated. He was a cheat, but other than that he appeared harmless.
I think of Tade downstairs, smiling his signature smile and staring at Ayoola as though butter could not melt in her mouth. I couldn’t bear to look into Tade’s eyes, if he wasn’t looking back at me. But haven’t I done all I can to separate them? All I have to show for my trouble is judgment and scorn.
I switch off my laptop.
I write Gboyega’s name in the notebook.
BIRTH
According to family lore, the first time I laid eyes on Ayoola I thought she was a doll. Mum cradled her before me and I stood on my toes, pulling Mum’s arm down closer to get a better look. She was tiny, barely taking up space in the hammock Mum had created with her arms. Her eyes were shut and took up half her face. She had a button nose and lips that were permanently pursed. I touched her hair; it was soft and curly.
“Is she mine?”
Mum laughed, her body shaking, which stirred Ayoola awake. She gurgled. I stumbled backward in surprise and fell on my backside.
“Mummy, it talked! The doll talked!”
“She is not a doll, Korede. She is a baby, your baby sister. You’re a big sister now, Korede. And big sisters look after little sisters.”
BIRTHDAY
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.