Your Girlfriend, The Serial Killer. It was 12:45 am, darkness was slowly bleeding into daylight, you sat inside an uncompleted building, and she lay there with you. It was a cold night, but you had already brought a sweatshirt for her while you wore one yourself.
“Tomiwa, we should leave,” You said to her.
“Why? I love it here,” she said with child-like innocence.
“fff! Tomiwa, what if the police find you and I here.”
“If the police find us here, will you tell them anything? Will you protect me?” she asked you.
“Now is not the time to talk about it, alright? Just stand up and let’s leave.”
“Do you think something is wrong with me? Do you think I’m insane?” she asked you softly, still retaining the child-like innocence in her voice and facial expression. It made her face beautiful and fill you with pure compassion and genuine love for her. There was a moment of silence, and then you said: “No! you’re not”.
You brought a bottle of alcohol and made her wash her hands. She removed her bloodstained cloth and handed it over to you. She put on a new cloth and rinsed her scissors with the alcohol. You put her bloodstained cloth inside a polythene bag and the polythene bag inside your own bag. She rinsed her hands with water after carefully washing them with alcohol. She packed her disentangled hair in a ponytail and smoothened her face. This was the mature woman you fell in love with, not the child-like one that loves to draw love shapes on human bodies, you thought.
“I’ll walk you to that T-junction; I parked my car there. You should drive yourself home,” you said to her. She didn’t say anything; she only nodded her head. Under cover of darkness, both of you walked to where your car was parked, and you handed 1her QQyour key.
“Will you always love me?” she asked as she entered the car. You nodded your head like an agama lizard; you knew you would always love her, and you hadn’t been in your right senses since the day you fell for her. Your friends called you mumu (a doofus) and woman wrapper, but you don’t care. They didn’t even know about her atrocities; if they knew, they’d take you to a church for exorcism or talk the shit out of you. But, they didn’t know, you didn’t tell anyone.
You met Tomiwa at the university; she was cool and reserved. Her beauty was mature, and that was what attracted you to her. You like modest girls and cool girls. You want girls that are hard to catch, not ones feigning ‘hard to catch’, real hard-to-catch girls. And Tomiwa was one, a real hard-to-catch girl.
Somehow as the guy you are, you sef no small, you managed to make friends with her. As your friendship deepened, she told you she didn’t want to be caught and would love to friend-zone you. But you were headstrong; what you wanted was a relationship. When you were friends, she told you she had murdered someone before, but you thought she was joking; you thought it was a ploy to keep you off.
With a sweet mouth, a cute face, and the little money you have, you made Tomiwa fall for you. She fell for you when you were both in your final years at the university.
You graduated, got your medical job, and started dating her. One day while you were at her house, she told you that she had killed two people before; you laughed it off but became serious when she went to bring scissors with a bright ribbon from her room. She threatened to cut off your prick if you laughed about it again, and she made a move to cut it off that day; you pleaded for an eternity before she backed off.
She told you about the two people she had killed; the first was an older man she claimed wanted to rape her, and the second was a sex worker whom she just really felt like killing. If love were a person, he would be a blind madman, and you, that you’re a person and a born mumu (a doofus). What she told you didn’t make you back off from her; instead, you clung to her like a child to his mother.
You thought you could help her reason, you thought you could bring her to her sense, and you thought you could make her normal. You were still thinking when she made her third kill. This time it was a wealthy middle-aged man; she came to your house that day and confessed to you that she’d killed someone again. She said it with an innocent face as if she were the victim and not the assailant; she told you she wanted to stop but couldn’t bring herself to stop. She cried in your arms and told you she hated being a murderer. You felt for her and consoled her; you thought she was possessed by a demon and she needed an exorcism.
You made her follow you to a prophet and told him your girl needed deliverance. The prophet told you she would need to stay at the church till the following morning. She agreed, and you agreed too.
The next morning before daybreak, she came knocking at your door.
“You ain’t supposed to be home yet,” you said to her. Her face was sober and carried that child-like innocence you’d come to like and hate. You had a guess but didn’t want to jump to a conclusion. The news came that morning.
“Prophet BabaJide Ayodele was found murdered this morning, and his assailant had drawn a love shape on his chest with what seems to be a dagger. Are we dealing with a serial killer here?” The newscaster had read. You knew it; your doubts have been confirmed. “Why?” You asked her, and she told you the prophet had tried to touch her.
“He was fake,” she said
Then for four months, nothing happened. She did no harm to anyone, and she became a little open. You started thinking of proposing and settling with her. Love has eaten half of your brain; you can’t even think well without thinking of her. Your mother has been disturbing you; she wants to buy Aso Ebi and do a wedding for her child, and you told her to chill. You went to buy a ring and bought a ‘correct’ silver ring worth 250,000.
And here you are, cleaning her up after another kill. Your plan was to propose the next day. She called you at 12 am and told you she was close to your house and needed you to come to see her where she was. She told you to go with clothes, ethanol, a polythene bag, water, and your bag. You wondered what she needed them for, but you came with them all the same. Boom! You realized she had done it again, somewhere close to your house. “Again? Why? Why Tomiwa?” You’d asked, and she had burst into tears. She was uncontrollable; you left her to cry for a while before consoling her and making her rest her head on your lap. At the same time, you sat, and she lay on the sandy floor of the uncompleted building.
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She must have called the police herself, or how else would they know? You wondered why she didn’t clean up by herself and why she had made you clean her up.
You found your way home under the cover of darkness, you couldn’t sleep, and you kept tossing on your bed. You wondered why she had killed this victim of hers. Yet, you still can’t stop loving her, love has planted its seed inside you, and it has germinated and grown to the length of an iroko tree. The following day you burnt her bloodstained clothes to ashes; you packed the ashes and dumped them into a river.
Coincidentally, you reached work that morning, and the dead body of her last victim was brought to the hospital where you worked for post-mortem. Again, you saw the body; this time, she didn’t draw a love shape alone; she drew it with a spear piercing through it. She drew it on his chest with scissors; she crafted it perfectly like an artist. During the post-mortem, your colleagues found a small piece of paper under the victim’s tongue. It was rolled open, and inside it read: NEXT VICTIM: YOUR NAME.
Your colleagues all turned to look at you.
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