my sister, the serial killer | oyinkan braithwaite
The prose was so clean with its crisp rhythm and clear text. Far from lacking beauty in its simplicity, it allowed the poignancy to shine through even more for being so gorgeously unadorned. It makes sense that the murders were not described by gory messes, but by meticulous cleanup. (I am also encouraged by how quickly a third act can wrap up and still be satisfying!)
notes:
Ayoola’s loveliness is a phenomenon that took my mother by surprise. She was so thankful that she forgot to keep trying for a boy.
Ayoola stands up and kisses her on the cheek. “Now, don’t you look elegant?” she says. No sooner is it said than it becomes true–our mother swells with pride, raises her chin and sets her shoulders. She could pass for a dowager now at the very least. “Let me take a picture of you?” Ayoola asks, pulling out her phone.
The little girl sniffs, and wipes away her mucus with the back of her hand. She waddles toward him. When she is older, she will remember him as her first love. She will think of how perfect his crooked nose was, and how soulful his eyes. But even if she forgets his face, his voice will stay with her in her dreams.
“Well, we don’t always get what we want.” She swivels in her chair, and continues her work. I should walk out, but instead I pick up the rest of her clothes and fold them one by one, clamping down on my anger and self-pity.
It has been ten years now and we are expected to celebrate him, to throw an anniversary party in honor of his life. If we do not we will end up fielding difficult questions, and we are nothing if not thorough in our deception of others.
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.
Muhtar’s family is crowded around his bed, so I don’t immediately see him. His wife, whose slender frame is carved in my memory, and a tall man who I guess is his brother, have their backs to me. They are not touching, but their bodies are leaning toward each other as if pulled together by some force. Perhaps they have been comforting each other one time too often.
“Why did you want me to remain here?” I ask.
“For your strength,” he replies.
janet change 