Oyinkan Braithwaite

Yoruba people have a custom of naming twins Taiwo and Kehinde. Taiwo is the older twin, the one who comes out first. Kehinde, therefore, is the second-born twin. But Kehinde is also the older twin, because he says to Taiwo, “Go out first and test the world for me.”

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

I had hoped I would never hear those words again

Bleach will disinfect, but it’s not great for cleaning residue, so I use it only after I have first scrubbed the bathroom of all traces of life, and death.

Now she wears a rose-colored T-shirt and smells of baby powder.

Femi wrote her a poem

And he gave it to her written on a piece of paper, folded twice, reminiscent of our secondary school days, when kids would pass love notes to one another in the back row of classrooms

I met Muhtar’s wife once; she reminded me of Ayoola. It wasn’t that her looks were memorable, but she seemed completely oblivious to all but her own needs

ourselves conserving our energy by restricting our movements. Ayoola is draped across my bed in her pink lace bra and black lace thong. She is incapable of practical underwear. Her leg is dangling off one end, her arm dangling off the other. Hers is the body of a music video vixen, a scarlet woman, a succubus. It belies her angelic face. She sighs occasionally to let me know she is alive

I knew she was seeing someone, the signs were all there—her coy smiles, the late-night conversations. I should have paid closer attention. If I had met him, perhaps I would have seen this temper she claims he had. Perhaps I could have steered her away from him, and we would have been able to avoid this outcome

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