2019/10: My Sister the Serial Killer -- Oyinkan Braithwaite

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. [loc. 304]

Korede works as a nurse, whispering her secrets to a coma patient in the hospital. Her little sister Ayoola is a dress designer and Instagram star. Ayoola is also a killer: Korede cleans up after her.

They do not talk about their father, who is dead. But when Ayoola goes on dates, she carries a knife that she 'inherited' from him.

Ayoola's relationships don't last long, and Korede doesn't date at all.

"Ayoola looks like a Bratz doll and I resemble a voodoo figurine," says Korede. She is helplessly jealous of and exasperated by Ayoola -- especially when Ayoola's attentions turn to the handsome doctor whom Korede dreams of marrying -- but also immensely, tragically, dangerously protective.

The action of the novel takes place in Lagos (though Ayoola -- of course Ayoola) does get an off-screen trip to Dubai, with a married man). The city is brought to life in little details: rain that breaks umbrellas, corrupt police, the constant gnat-bite irritation of sexual harrassment, the smells of cooking food. It's nice to read a crime novel where the victims aren't women (unless you count Korede and Ayoola as victims, which in some respects they are). And their sharp spiky relationship, smoothed by Ayoola's manipulations and Korede's pragmatism, has at its core genuine love. Ayoola is immature, may be a bit of a sociopath and is certainly bad at picking suitable men to date: Korede is prone to fantasy, does not stop to examine her own prejudices, and is complicit in her sister's crimes. But they look after one another, and that's an unbreakable bond.

I should observe that My Sister, the Serial Killer is also very funny. Korede's deadpan narration and the intrusion of mundane reality -- if your last boyfriend has vanished, how long should you wait to post on Instagram about a bouquet received from a new beau? -- occasionally made me laugh out loud.

In terms of sisterly complicity, I was oddly reminded of Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived in the Castle. But here there is no Uncle Julian, no Jonas: the sisters are alone against the world. And they are winning.