My Sister, the Serial Killer

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.

It’s because she is beautiful, you know. That’s all it is. They don’t really care about the rest of it. She gets a pass at life.

I know better than to take life directions from someone without a moral compass.

It takes a whole lot longer to dispose of a body than to dispose of a soul, especially if you don’t want to leave any evidence of foul play.

She does not cry for me,” he says, his voice hardening. “She cries for her lost youth, her missed opportunities and her limited options. She does not cry for me, she cries for herself.

Is there anything more beautiful than a man with a voice like an ocean?

Love is not a weed, It cannot grow where it please…

That’s how it has always been. Ayoola would break a glass, and I would receive the blame for giving her the drink. Ayoola would fail a class, and I would be blamed for not coaching her. Ayoola would take an apple and leave the store without paying for it, and I would be blamed for letting her get hungry.

I am more haunted by her actions than she is.

We are nothing if not thorough in our deception of others.

I wonder what the chances are that the death of a person in the company of a serial killer would come about by chance.

There is music blasting from Ayoola's room, she's listening to Whitney Housten's I Wanna Dance With Somebody. It would be more appropriate to play Brymo or Lorde, something solemn or yearning, rather than the musical equivalent of a pack of M&Ms

He looked like a man who could survive a couple of flesh wounds, but then so had Achilles and Caesar.

You can’t sit on the fence forever.

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.

Love. What a novel concept.” He closes his eyes.

The more he talks, the more I realize that I am a maga—a fool who has been taken advantage of.

Maybe she is reaching out because she has sent another man to his grave prematurely. Or maybe she wants to know if I can buy eggs on the way home. Either way, I’m not picking up.

If hospitals had a flag it would be white—the universal sign for surrender.

we are hardwired to protect and remain loyal to the people we love.

I dare you to find a flaw in her beauty; or to bring forth a woman who can stand beside her without wilting.

Ayoola summons me with these words—Korede, I killed him.

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.

You know, men are very fickle. Give them what they want and they will do anything for you. Keep your hair long and glossy or invest in good weaves; cook for him and send the food to his home and his office. Stroke his ego in front of his friends and treat them well for his sake. Kneel down for his parents and call them on important days. Do these things and he will put a ring on your finger, fast fast.” My mother nods sagely.

Two packets of pocket tissue, one 30-centiliter bottle of water, one first aid kit, one packet of wipes, one wallet, one tube of hand cream, one lip balm, one phone, one tampon, one rape whistle. Basically, the essentials for every woman.

You never knew with men, they wanted what they wanted when they wanted it.

Ayoola, on the other hand - well, it’ll be interesting to see whether she can do anything more strenuous than putting bread in the toaster.

My stomach grumbles; the heart may be broken but the flesh needs to eat.

What led me to confide in a body that still had breath left in it?

When I look at my mother, I am looking at my future self, though I could not be any less like her if I tried. She is beached on the sofa in the downstairs living room, reading a Mills & Boon novel—a tale of the type of love she has never known.