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My Sister, the Serial Killer: A Novel
WINNER OF THE LA TIMES BOOK PRIZE FOR MYSTERY/THRILLER • "A taut and darkly funny contemporary noir that moves at lightning speed, it's the wittiest and most fun murder party you've ever been invited to." -MARIE CLAIRE
Korede's sister Ayoola is many things: the favorite child, the beautiful one, possibly sociopathic. And now Ayoola's third boyfriend in a row is dead, stabbed through the heart with Ayoola's knife.
Korede's practicality is the sisters' saving grace. She knows the best solutions for cleaning blood (bleach, bleach, and more bleach), the best way to move a body (wrap it in sheets like a mummy), and she keeps Ayoola from posting pictures to Instagram when she should be mourning her "missing" boyfriend. Not that she gets any credit.
Korede has long been in love with a kind, handsome doctor at the hospital where she works. She dreams of the day when he will realize that she's exactly what he needs. But when he asks Korede for Ayoola's phone number, she must reckon with what her sister has become and how far she's willing to go to protect her.
Korede's sister Ayoola is many things: the favorite child, the beautiful one, possibly sociopathic. And now Ayoola's third boyfriend in a row is dead, stabbed through the heart with Ayoola's knife.
Korede's practicality is the sisters' saving grace. She knows the best solutions for cleaning blood (bleach, bleach, and more bleach), the best way to move a body (wrap it in sheets like a mummy), and she keeps Ayoola from posting pictures to Instagram when she should be mourning her "missing" boyfriend. Not that she gets any credit.
Korede has long been in love with a kind, handsome doctor at the hospital where she works. She dreams of the day when he will realize that she's exactly what he needs. But when he asks Korede for Ayoola's phone number, she must reckon with what her sister has become and how far she's willing to go to protect her.
Editorial Reviews
BOOKER PRIZE NOMINEE • WINNER OF THE LA TIMES BOOK PRIZE FOR MYSTERY/THRILLER • FINALIST FOR THE WOMEN'S PRIZE
"A taut, rapidly paced thriller that pleasurably subverts serial killer and sisterhood tropes for a guaranteed fun afternoon." -HUFFINGTON POST
"It's Lagos noir-pulpy, peppery and sinister, served up in a comic deadpan…This book is, above all, built to move, to hurtle forward-and it does so, dizzyingly. There's a seditious pleasure in its momentum. At a time when there are such wholesome and dull claims on fiction-on its duty to ennoble or train us in empathy-there's a relief in encountering a novel faithful to art's first imperative: to catch and keep our attention… This scorpion-tailed little thriller leaves a response, and a sting, you will remember." -NEW YORK TIMES
"Campy and delightfully naughty…A taut and darkly funny contemporary noir that moves at lightning speed, it's the wittiest and most fun murder party you've ever been invited to." -SAM IRBY, MARIE CLAIRE
"Braithwaite's writing pulses with the fast, slick heartbeat of a YA thriller, cut through by a dry noir wit. That aridity is startling, a trait we might expect from someone older, more jaded-a Cusk, an Offill. But Braithwaite finds in young womanhood a reason to be bitter. At the center of these women's lives is a knot of pain, and when it springs apart, it bloodies the world." -NEW REPUBLIC
"This riveting, brutally hilarious, ultra-dark novel is an explosive debut by Oyinkan Braithwaite, and heralds an exciting new literary voice… Delicious." -NYLON
"You can't help flying through the pages.." -BUZZFEED
"Feverishly hot." -PAULA HAWKINS, author of GIRL ON THE TRAIN
"Lethally elegant." -LUKE JENNINGS, author of KILLING...
"A taut, rapidly paced thriller that pleasurably subverts serial killer and sisterhood tropes for a guaranteed fun afternoon." -HUFFINGTON POST
"It's Lagos noir-pulpy, peppery and sinister, served up in a comic deadpan…This book is, above all, built to move, to hurtle forward-and it does so, dizzyingly. There's a seditious pleasure in its momentum. At a time when there are such wholesome and dull claims on fiction-on its duty to ennoble or train us in empathy-there's a relief in encountering a novel faithful to art's first imperative: to catch and keep our attention… This scorpion-tailed little thriller leaves a response, and a sting, you will remember." -NEW YORK TIMES
"Campy and delightfully naughty…A taut and darkly funny contemporary noir that moves at lightning speed, it's the wittiest and most fun murder party you've ever been invited to." -SAM IRBY, MARIE CLAIRE
"Braithwaite's writing pulses with the fast, slick heartbeat of a YA thriller, cut through by a dry noir wit. That aridity is startling, a trait we might expect from someone older, more jaded-a Cusk, an Offill. But Braithwaite finds in young womanhood a reason to be bitter. At the center of these women's lives is a knot of pain, and when it springs apart, it bloodies the world." -NEW REPUBLIC
"This riveting, brutally hilarious, ultra-dark novel is an explosive debut by Oyinkan Braithwaite, and heralds an exciting new literary voice… Delicious." -NYLON
"You can't help flying through the pages.." -BUZZFEED
"Feverishly hot." -PAULA HAWKINS, author of GIRL ON THE TRAIN
"Lethally elegant." -LUKE JENNINGS, author of KILLING...
Readers Top Reviews
Mr GKay SmillieMu
The blurb of this book reads as a dream. Comic, tense, about serial killer sisters and lets face it serial killers are so hot right now. I dont remember it being particularly funny, certainly not laugh out loud. The tension was minimal and there are basically no murders in the pages. The near lack of action leads you building up to the last pages thinking its all happening now, its all coming to a head and the action is about to happen when it just ends. It just bloody ends. Its not a cliffhanger its not a twist, theres no resolution it just stops. I wouldnt accept such a mild ending at the end of an episode of Coronation Street. It’s built to be a corker and was in all just disappointing
FictionLoverMr GK
I heard about the author from a post on a writers’ group and d/l a sample of My Sister, the Serial Killer. I was hooked from the outset and bought the book. Oyinkan Braithwaite (OB) has subverted and refashioned ‘crime’ and produced a near-perfect noir except for a couple of important things – and I will come to those later - but they should not stop you from getting a copy pronto, taking the phone off the hook (as people used to say) and refusing to speak to anyone unless the house is burning down. Yes, it is that good. The voice of the book is Korede’s, elder sister to Ayoola, the former a hospital nurse, tall, angular and not pretty (as she tells us), the latter an exquisitely beautiful wild child, utterly devastating, self centred and lacking any right-wrong moral sense. There is a mother but the father is ten years dead, though he looms back into Korede’s present; he was a domestic tyrant of absolutely the worst kind. I don’t do spoilers but it suffices that the title announces the novel for what it is, but how it unfolds shows the young author to be a very bright star in the sky. The chapters are many and short, some a single paragraph, a page, max four – we should call them ‘scenes’. Each is headed by a word, usually one word, which signals the intent of the scene. The story has two locations: home for the family, a compound in Lagos in a large house, and the hospital where Korede works and where she moons and swoons over a handsome doctor who barely acknowledges her. OB’s writing has that wonderful thing where I felt transported to this part of West Africa. When Ayoola waltzes in one day at her sister’s place of work to ‘Take you to lunch’ (no, it is a kind of spying), the handsome doctor sees the sister and the amorous fireworks start. Korede also has a confessor, a patient in a coma whom she visits, sits with and pours out her sister’s doings. Of course, there is a consequence to this that you can probably guess. This is also a book with Nigerian culture stitched into it. People routinely, it seems tell lies, use astonishing verbal and mental juggling to turn black into white and guilt into innocence, the dexterity and virtuosity of which makes Donald Trump look like a beginner - and corruption is everywhere. Also the marriage plotting and scheming of the sisters’ mother is not a million miles from Jewish mothers in NYC. There is a fearsome patriarchy and where women are treated badly: make that very badly. There are Nigerian words, some in the alphabet I am using, others in a strange mix of letters with accent markings that are probably Yoruba – and I would have liked an end of book glossary – there is appreciable cooking and, well, I wanted to know what they were eating. It is a terrific read. OB suffered terrible writer’s block (see article, The Guardian, 15 Jan) and wrote MSTSK in a kind of desperat...
D. BeecherFiction
The hype around this book was 100% justified. This is a masterclass in tension, creating it, relaxing it a little and then pulling it tight again. It is likely to be shelved in crime, but I feel that structurally it owes a lot to horror. I had to read it in bites, which is unusual for me, but I was having these “I can’t watch.” moments where I had to take a break and get my emotional equilibrium back before I returned to the characters. There is a freshness to the piece. There is nothing obvious about the plot. The characters are well rounded and treated with respect. The Sisterly relationship is just perfect. There are some interesting choices in chapter length which I think work well and the style is suitably economical and spare for a piece of Noir. It is what I call genre+ where a writer takes genre structures and uses them as a springboard for something that bit elevated. I loved Korede and loved the way she was drawn down into a moral quagmire by Braithwaite. All the external motivations and internal motivations lead inexorably to a satisfying conclusion. Where I have my only note of criticism, I think the ending could have been written into a little more. I like it, I just think it needed to be expanded a little more. This is the perfect book to be turned into a movie, and Working Title have already bought the option. I just hope they do it justice because this could be such a good movie.
Ms.TiptressD. Bee
At first, I was apprehensive. But this was good! I liked the character.. absolutely loved Korede. Her sister was a great compliment to her. They were different yet so relatable. I know what it means to do anything for your sister. It was hard to hate her even though she was a serial killer. It was fun watching the relationship. It's no mystery you know who did it. But I was still so interested in what would happen next. I absolutely loved that cultural factors were attended to. This stuff happens everywhere. You should read it if you like funny, yet morbid, sister relationships, and toxic families.
BingereaderMs.Tip
I have to confess, when I first saw this book come out a few years ago, I was on the fence if I wanted to read it. I must have read the synopsis of another Sister book, there were a few that year, and added it to this cover on accident because not reading this book 2 years ago was a mistake. I'm giving this book 4 stars and here's why.... but before I go into what I liked about this book, let me quickly tell you what it's about. 2 sisters live in Nigeria. Korede is the older sister and Ayoola the youngest. The two girls come from a well to do family where the father has died years past and the girls and mother are trying to carry on. Korede is a soon to be Head Nurse at the local hospital and Ayoola is a fashion designer and Youtube influencer. It doesn't say their ages but I would guess that they are close in age maybe 2-3 years different and that in the present they are around 24 and 26/27. It says in the book that the father died 10 years ago and that right before he died he was trying to sell his daughter at 14 to a Chief of another village. It was a great business opportunity. In the present and where the story begins, Ayoola needs Korede to come quickly because she has killed another man. Korede has been cleaning up her sisters "messes" since she was 17. She fears this will be her new norm and Korede will forever be the one to clean up all the blood while her sister continues to be a serial killer. As the story unfolds you continue to flip flop on who the reliable source is. Is Ayoola a serial killer who has a thirst for murder or is she reliving her terrible childhood and has to kill to purge the pain. Is she a sociopath? Is Korede innocent in all of this? Why does she continue to help her sister? Is blood thicker than water? This story felt like a very modern re-telling of We Have Always Lived in the Castle. When family members know exactly what has happened during the "accident", but never spills the beans, but also is constantly wanting to. This story felt very real. There are the rare sisters that lose love for their siblings. But in most cases I think, sisters would do ANYTHING for one another. When Ayoola was first born Korede claimed her. "She is MINE!" Korede said. As they grew, Korede was her protector. Going so far as holding Ayoola's hand while she was being punished and hit. Korede or trying to shelter her from a pre-arranged "wedding" or possessing from a man Chief? So of course when Ayoola calls frantic about another murder...Korede is quick to help, begrudgingly even. It's like, "why do you always have to ruin my evening with your murders?" This story is so great because it gets it right. Korede love hates her sister and when push comes to shove....well she's family. Oyinkan did such a good job with making me HATE Ayoola. She's so arrogant and manipulative. She has no real empathy. She...
Short Excerpt Teaser
Words
Ayoola summons me with these words-Korede, I killed him.
I had hoped I would never hear those words again.
Bleach
I bet you didn't know that bleach masks the smell of blood. Most people use bleach indiscriminately, assuming it is a catchall product, never taking the time to read the list of ingredients on the back, never taking the time to return to the recently wiped surface to take a closer look. 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.
It is clear that the room we are in has been remodeled recently. It has that never-been-used look, especially now that I've spent close to three hours cleaning up. The hardest part was getting to the blood that had seeped in between the shower and the caulking. It's an easy part to forget.
There's nothing placed on any of the surfaces; his shower gel, toothbrush and toothpaste are all stored in the cabinet above the sink. Then there's the shower mat-a black smiley face on a yellow rectangle in an otherwise white room.
Ayoola is perched on the toilet seat, her knees raised and her arms wrapped around them. The blood on her dress has dried and there is no risk that it will drip on the white, now glossy floors. Her dreadlocks are piled atop her head, so they don't sweep the ground. She keeps looking up at me with her big brown eyes, afraid that I am angry, that I will soon get off my hands and knees to lecture her.
I am not angry. If I am anything, I am tired. The sweat from my brow drips onto the floor and I use the blue sponge to wipe it away.
I was about to eat when she called me. I had laid everything out on the tray in preparation-the fork was to the left of the plate, the knife to the right. I folded the napkin into the shape of a crown and placed it at the center of the plate. The movie was paused at the beginning credits and the oven timer had just rung, when my phone began to vibrate violently on my table.
By the time I get home, the food will be cold.
I stand up and rinse the gloves in the sink, but I don't remove them. Ayoola is looking at my reflection in the mirror.
"We need to move the body," I tell her.
"Are you angry at me?"
Perhaps a normal person would be angry, but what I feel now is a pressing need to dispose of the body. When I got here, we carried him to the boot of my car, so that I was free to scrub and mop without having to countenance his cold stare.
"Get your bag," I reply.
We return to the car and he is still in the boot, waiting for us.
The third mainland bridge gets little to no traffic at this time of night, and since there are no lamplights, it's almost pitch black, but if you look beyond the bridge you can see the lights of the city. We take him to where we took the last one-over the bridge and into the water. At least he won't be lonely.
Some of the blood has seeped into the lining of the boot. Ayoola offers to clean it, out of guilt, but I take my homemade mixture of one spoon of ammonia to two cups of water from her and pour it over the stain. I don't know whether or not they have the tech for a thorough crime scene investigation in Lagos, but Ayoola could never clean up as efficiently as I can.
The Notebook
"Who was he?"
"Femi."
I scribble the name down. We are in my bedroom. Ayoola is sitting cross-legged on my sofa, her head resting on the back of the cushion. While she took a bath, I set the dress she had been wearing on fire. Now she wears a rose-colored T‑shirt and smells of baby powder.
"And his surname?"
She frowns, pressing her lips together, and then she shakes her head, as though trying to shake the name back into the forefront of her brain. It doesn't come. She shrugs. I should have taken his wallet.
I close the notebook. It is small, smaller than the palm of my hand. I watched a TEDx video once where the man said that carrying around a notebook and penning one happy moment each day had changed his life. That is why I bought the notebook. On the first page, I wrote, I saw a white owl through my bedroom window. The notebook has been mostly empty since.
"It's not my fault, you know." But I don't know. I don't know what she is referring to. Does she mean the inability to recall his surname? Or his death?
"Tell me what happened."
The Poem
Femi wrote her a poem.
(...
Ayoola summons me with these words-Korede, I killed him.
I had hoped I would never hear those words again.
Bleach
I bet you didn't know that bleach masks the smell of blood. Most people use bleach indiscriminately, assuming it is a catchall product, never taking the time to read the list of ingredients on the back, never taking the time to return to the recently wiped surface to take a closer look. 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.
It is clear that the room we are in has been remodeled recently. It has that never-been-used look, especially now that I've spent close to three hours cleaning up. The hardest part was getting to the blood that had seeped in between the shower and the caulking. It's an easy part to forget.
There's nothing placed on any of the surfaces; his shower gel, toothbrush and toothpaste are all stored in the cabinet above the sink. Then there's the shower mat-a black smiley face on a yellow rectangle in an otherwise white room.
Ayoola is perched on the toilet seat, her knees raised and her arms wrapped around them. The blood on her dress has dried and there is no risk that it will drip on the white, now glossy floors. Her dreadlocks are piled atop her head, so they don't sweep the ground. She keeps looking up at me with her big brown eyes, afraid that I am angry, that I will soon get off my hands and knees to lecture her.
I am not angry. If I am anything, I am tired. The sweat from my brow drips onto the floor and I use the blue sponge to wipe it away.
I was about to eat when she called me. I had laid everything out on the tray in preparation-the fork was to the left of the plate, the knife to the right. I folded the napkin into the shape of a crown and placed it at the center of the plate. The movie was paused at the beginning credits and the oven timer had just rung, when my phone began to vibrate violently on my table.
By the time I get home, the food will be cold.
I stand up and rinse the gloves in the sink, but I don't remove them. Ayoola is looking at my reflection in the mirror.
"We need to move the body," I tell her.
"Are you angry at me?"
Perhaps a normal person would be angry, but what I feel now is a pressing need to dispose of the body. When I got here, we carried him to the boot of my car, so that I was free to scrub and mop without having to countenance his cold stare.
"Get your bag," I reply.
We return to the car and he is still in the boot, waiting for us.
The third mainland bridge gets little to no traffic at this time of night, and since there are no lamplights, it's almost pitch black, but if you look beyond the bridge you can see the lights of the city. We take him to where we took the last one-over the bridge and into the water. At least he won't be lonely.
Some of the blood has seeped into the lining of the boot. Ayoola offers to clean it, out of guilt, but I take my homemade mixture of one spoon of ammonia to two cups of water from her and pour it over the stain. I don't know whether or not they have the tech for a thorough crime scene investigation in Lagos, but Ayoola could never clean up as efficiently as I can.
The Notebook
"Who was he?"
"Femi."
I scribble the name down. We are in my bedroom. Ayoola is sitting cross-legged on my sofa, her head resting on the back of the cushion. While she took a bath, I set the dress she had been wearing on fire. Now she wears a rose-colored T‑shirt and smells of baby powder.
"And his surname?"
She frowns, pressing her lips together, and then she shakes her head, as though trying to shake the name back into the forefront of her brain. It doesn't come. She shrugs. I should have taken his wallet.
I close the notebook. It is small, smaller than the palm of my hand. I watched a TEDx video once where the man said that carrying around a notebook and penning one happy moment each day had changed his life. That is why I bought the notebook. On the first page, I wrote, I saw a white owl through my bedroom window. The notebook has been mostly empty since.
"It's not my fault, you know." But I don't know. I don't know what she is referring to. Does she mean the inability to recall his surname? Or his death?
"Tell me what happened."
The Poem
Femi wrote her a poem.
(...
