In streamlined, percussive prose, this novel subtly explores the culture of Lagos: the esteem for money and good looks, the oppressive heat, the social pressure, the pursuit of a good time. But Ayoola - oh, Ayoola! - is adored and admired, desired. Korede is the one people turn to for help and stability, the one you call if you need a big bottle of bleach and a scrubbing brush. Their physical appearance is a shorthand for how they’re regarded by others, a representation of their market value. ‘Ayoola’s skin is a color that sits comfortably between cream and caramel, and I am the color of a Brazil nut, before it is peeled she is made wholly of curves, and I am composed only of hard edges.’ Korede is her dark-mirror opposite: angular, responsible, less confident. She’s flirty and curvy and bubbly with a devil-may-care attitude (which you might expect from a serial killer). So who are they? Ayoola, our killer, is the exact opposite of her sister. It just happens to be exploring this universal theme via a nuanced relationship between the two sisters. Instead, it’s an astute and moving (and darkly funny) investigation of what we’ll do for the people we love.
I had hoped I would never hear those words again.īut buckle up! This smart, snappy, fast-paced literary thriller is not really a serial-killer story, nor is it a crime novel. This is the entirety of the first chapter, and it’s a thrilling and irresistible beginning: Ayoola summons me with these words - Korede, I killed him. The setup is right there in the title: one sister kills her boyfriends when they become problematic, and the other (long-suffering) sister bails her out over and over again.
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