Page 12 of Death of the Author

Back at her parents’ home, she poked at the plant she’d brought with her. It was dry and sad, but it had survived in her apartment and it had survived the fifteen-minute trip here. It never grew or died; it just was. But it never looked healthy at all. Always a struggle. “Why can’t I ever bring myself to get rid of you, miserable creature?” she muttered, pouring a bit of water into its pot. She could practically hear the plant chuckling.

“Come and eat!” came a voice from the kitchen. Her mother called her for dinner every evening, whether she was hungry or not. After months of being back home, Zelu had begun to hate this routine. But she hated cooking for herself even more, and she knew having someone do this for her was a massive luxury. Still, it made her feel that much more useless.

She rolled into the kitchen. Her mother turned from the counter and held out a plate weighed down with more jollof rice, spiced drumsticks, and fried plantain than she could possibly eat in one sitting. “Thanks, Mom,” she muttered as she took it.

“You’re welcome,” her mother said, grabbing her own plate and settling down at the dinner table. “How’s the job hunt going?”

Zelu scooped a spoonful of rice into her mouth. “No time for that.”

Her mother frowned. “You have nothing but time.”

“No, I’ve got writing to do.”

“That doesn’t pay your bills, Zelu. You need money.”

Now Zelu was frowning. “Mom—”

“If it doesn’t make money, it’s not important,” her father said, entering the kitchen. The soccer game on TV must have just finished.

“It might, eventually,” Zelu muttered.

“Writers don’t make money,” her father said. “Doctors, lawyers, and engineers do. Since you can’t be any of those, be a professor. That at least puts your MFA to work. I can respect that.”

Zelu rolled her eyes. “Ugh, Dad.”

“And I’ll have something to tell the Ondo group,” her mother added.

“Come on, Mom. There’s nothing I couldeverdo that would please those judgy ladies.”

Her mother quickly turned away to hide her smile. Zelu was right.

“You weren’t raised to starve,” her father said, sitting in the chair beside her mother’s.

“True,” Zelu muttered, pushing herself back from the table. “Can you wrap up my food, actually? I’ll eat it in an hour. I’m going to fill out a few applications first.”

“Sure, Zelu,” her mother said, standing up to take away her plate.

“You’re not hungry?” her father asked, looking a little disappointed.

Zelu squinted at him. Did he genuinely not realize what had ruined her appetite? Sadly, she knew the answer was no.

“Hang on,” she said. “I wanted to ask you something.”

She wheeled down to her bedroom and grabbed the wilted plant. She brought it back to the kitchen and held it out to him. “Can you help this?”

Her father took the pot from her and examined it closely, picking up the drooping leaves. Then his face lifted into a smile. “Ah, this depressed English ivy you’ve been slowly killing. Just needs some fresh soil and plant food.” Her father loved plants, and plants loved him. Zelu grinned to herself.

Once in her room, she shut the door. She went to her laptop, thinking of the excuse she’d just made about filling out job applications. But she knew what she was going to do. She typed in her latest password,Groke(a character she loved for her icy, lonely mysteriousness)... and for the next five hours, she dove back into the dramatic world of steel, wires, plastic, processors, oil, tribes, and destiny.

5

Interview

Father

Zelu always liked stories, and I take credit for that. I’ve been telling my children stories since they were babies, long before Zelu’s accident. Sometimes I’d sit them all down in the living room in sight of my ikenga. Or if it was a full moon, I’d have them sit on the grass outside. Even in the winter. Well, we would not sit if there was snow on the ground. We’d stand. I didn’t allow them to bring their cell phones when I was telling stories. Some of them would complain, but my children were always complaining. It was par for the course. But Zelu? No, she never complained. She was always the first one out there, ready to listen.

That girl loved stories. If anyone had one to tell, she was there, ready to drink it. I was the same way when I was growing up. I loved where stories took me. How they made me feel. How they made everyone around me feel. Stories contain our existence; they are like gods. And the fact that we create them from living, experiencing, listening, thinking, feeling, giving—they remind me of what’s great about being alive.

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