“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.
FRIEND
As I approach the reception desk, Yinka looks up from her phone.
“Oh good, it’s you. I was afraid I would have to come and find you.”
“What do you want?”
“Excuse you…I don’t want anything, but coma guy has been asking for you nonstop.”
“His name is Muhtar.”
“Whatever.” Yinka leans back and resumes playing Candy Crush. I turn on my heel and make my way to room 313.
He is sucking on an àgbálùmọ̀, sitting in one of the armchairs. Another nurse must have set him up there for a change of scenery. He smiles when I walk in.
“Hello!”
“Hi.”
“Please sit, sit.”
“I can’t really stay long.” I’m not in the mood for chatting, my conversation with Tade is still ringing in my ears.
“Sit.”
I sit. He looks much better. His hair has been cut, and he appears to have put on a bit of weight. His color looks better, too. I tell him as much.
“Thank you. It’s a wonder what being conscious can do for one’s health!” He laughs at himself, then stops. “Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine. What can I help you with, Mr. Yautai?”
“Please, there’s no need for formalities. Call me Muhtar.”
“Okay…”
He stands up and grabs a paper bag off the coffee table; he hands it to me. Popcorn with syrup drizzled all over it. It looks delicious.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to. It’s the least I can do to thank you.”
The hospital does not allow us to accept gifts from patients, but I do not want to offend him by rejecting his attempt at gratitude. I thank him, take the bag and set it to one side.
“I’ve been thinking some more about my memories, and some things are a little clearer to me,” he begins.
Honestly, I am too tired for this. I can take only so much in a day. Perhaps he will remember everything I told him, including where the bodies are, and it will all be over.
“Let’s say for argument’s sake that one knew someone who had committed a gross crime. Someone dear to one. What would one do?” He pauses.
I sit back in my chair and appraise him. I must choose my words wisely, since I have carelessly given this man the tools he needs to have my sister and me thrown into jail, and I have no idea what his angle is. “One would be duty bound to report it.”
“One would be, yes, but most of us wouldn’t, would we?”
“Wouldn’t we?”
“No, because we are hardwired to protect and remain loyal to the people we love. Besides, no one is innocent in this world. Why, go up to your maternity ward! All those smiling parents and their newborns? Murderers and victims. Every one of them. ‘The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we really are: a subtle kind of murder.’ ”
“That’s quite…” I can’t complete the sentence. The words trouble me.
“It’s a quote by Jim Morrison. I cannot lay claim to such wisdom.” He continues to suck on the àgbálùmọ̀. He is quiet, waiting for me to speak.
“Are you going to tell anyone about…this?”
“I doubt the words of a coma patient hold much water out there.” He gestures with his thumb to the door that separates us from the world outside.
Neither of us says anything. I focus on slowing down my heart rate. Without my permission, tears run down my face. Muhtar keeps mum. He allows me the time to appreciate that there is someone who knows what I’m dealing with, that there is someone on my side.
“Muhtar, you know enough to have us put away forever. Why do you keep this secret?” I ask him as I wipe my face dry.
He sucks on another àgbálùmọ̀ and winces at the sharpness of the flavor.
“Your sister, I do not know. I hear from your colleagues that she is very lovely, but I have not seen her for myself and so do not care about her. You, I know.” He points to me. “You, I care about.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you. I woke up because of you—your voice calling to me. I still hear you in my dreams…”
He is waxing lyrical. It feels like I’m in another dream.
“I’m afraid,” I say in the barest of whispers.
“Of what?”
“The guy she is with now…she might…”
“So, save him.”
FATHER
The day before the day it all ended was a Sunday. The sun was merciless.
All the air conditioners in the house were on full blast, but I could still feel the warmth from outside. Sweat was beading on my forehead. I sat under one of the air conditioners in the upstairs sitting room with no intention of moving. That is, until Ayoola came scrambling up the stairs and found me.
“Dad has a guest!”
We leaned over the balcony to spy on the man. The agbádá he wore kept slipping down his arms, so he was constantly pushing it back up again. It was a rich blue and so large that it was near impossible to tell if there was a slim man or a fat man within the yards of fabric. Ayoola pantomimed pushing her own sleeves back up and we sniggered. We were not afraid of our father when he had guests—he was always on his best behavior. We could laugh and play with little fear of retribution. The guest looked up at us and smiled. His face is forever etched in my mind—it was a square, black, much blacker than I am, with teeth so white he had to have kept his dentist on speed dial. I imagined him getting ṣàkì stuck between his back molars and then immediately demanding to be wheeled in for orthodontic surgery. The thought tickled me and I shared it with Ayoola, who laughed out loud. It caught my father’s attention.