My Sister, the Serial Killer by oyinkan braithwaite

Author:oyinkan braithwaite
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 2018-11-19T16:00:00+00:00

FATHER

He often came home late. But I remember this night, because he wasn’t alone. There was a yellow woman on his arm. We came out of my room because Mum was screaming, and there they were on the landing. My mother was wearing a camisole and her wrapper, her usual nightwear.

She never raised her voice to him. But that night, she was like a banshee; her fro was free of its bands and restraints, adding to the illusion of madness. She was Medusa and they were statues before her. She went to wrench the woman off his arm.

“ Ẹ gbà mí o! Ṣ ’o fẹ́ b’alé mi jẹ́? Ṣ ’o fẹ́ yí mi lọ́rí ni? Olúwa k’ ọjú sí mi!” She wasn’t even screaming at her husband—it was the interloper whom she was mad at. I remember hissing at my mother, even though there were tears in my eyes. I remember thinking how silly she looked, so worked up as he stood tall and impassive before her.

He looked at his wife with indifference. “If you don’t shut up now, I will deal with you,” he informed her firmly.

Beside me, Ayoola held her breath. He always carried out his threats. But this time my mother was oblivious, she was embroiled in a tug of war with the woman, who, though she looked like an adult to me then, I now know couldn’t have been older than twenty. I understand now, too, that though my mother must have been aware of his indiscretions, having them take place in her home was more than she could bear.

“Free me!” the girl cried, trying to retrieve her wrist from my mother’s ferocious grip.

Moments later he pulled our mother off her feet by her hair and slammed her against the wall. Then he struck her face. Ayoola whimpered and clutched me. The “woman” laughed.

“See, my boyfriend will not let you touch me.”

My mother slid down the wall to the ground. They stepped over her and proceeded to his bedroom. We waited till the coast was clear and then ran to help her. She was inconsolable. She wanted to be left there to cry. She howled. I had to shake her.

“Mummy, please, let’s go upstairs.”

The three of us slept in my room that night.

The next morning, the banana-colored girl was gone and we sat around the table for breakfast, silent except for my father, who spoke loudly about the day ahead and congratulated his “perfect wife” on her excellent cooking. He wasn’t sucking up, he had simply moved past the incident.

It wasn’t long after that that Mother began to rely on Ambien.

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