Page 25 of Death of the Author

Zelu was tough, but she was also deeply sensitive. Maybe that’s why she was always retreating—always disconnecting from us. The family was hard on her. Okay, fine,Iwas hard on her. I dunno, she just brought that out in me. I wanted her to be good and behave so I wouldn’t worry. I don’t know why she had to be so delicate and reactionary. I mean, comeon. She had to gothis far? She had to do something this extreme? So beyond her capabilities?

A snake should not try to be a lizard, right? My sister has always had a problem with reality. That’s what family is for. Family grounds you. But I will say...

I wish I’d have shut up more often with her. Let her talk more. Let her spill. Let her just be her weird, impulsive self. She’s always had more to give than what she says, and speaking, no,writingmay have been the only way for her to give it. I’ve readRusted Robotsseveral times now, and each time, I see more and more of my sister behind each word.

11

Early Reviews

Zelu met Delroy in a supermarket. He was Jamaican American, quite short, laughed easily, and when he wasn’t at work (he was a veterinarian at a meatpacking plant, a job he hated), he spent a lot of time at the gym, and it showed. They’d gotten together last night, and it had been fun. Her body had responded enthusiastically to him, and after some hours, both of them were so dehydrated that they’d finished his two-liter bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade. If she remembered anything about him, it would be the wordmoist.

As she rolled down the ramp of the autonomous car, she was amused with herself. Her arms were sore, she was still thirsty, and she needed a full night’s sleep. She used her phone to turn off the house alarm and hoped the announcement that it was disarming wouldn’t wake up her parents. She paused and glanced at the brightening sky. The sun was just coming up. She stretched her lower back and looked over her clothes. Jeans and a gold-and-green patterned Ankara top (a recent purchase, now that she could afford it). She looked more than decent, even if she was getting home at an indecent time. She went inside.

The house was quiet. She managed to make it to her room unbothered, but when she closed the door and moved toward her bed, she paused and softly gasped. There was a box sitting on top of her comforter. Unopened. Sizable. Her publisher’s logo was printed on it. She wheeled to it and leaned over to touch it. She gave it a push. It didn’t budge. It was heavy.

She grabbed a pen from her desk and used it like a letter opener on the box. She pulled up one of the flaps. “Oh... yes!” She whooped, giggled, and slapped the side of the box. Then slowly, with great ceremony, with care, with love, she lifted out an early final copy ofRusted Robots. The book was a little less than two months away from on-sale day now, and it looked incredible. Ankara’s illustrated robot face gazed up at her with green Ankara-patterned eyes. At the top left of Ankara’s face was a glossy blue circle—the meaning would become clear once people read the book. She ran her fingers over it; the dot was slightly raised, so the interruption was noticeable. Below, the book’s title was etched in a bold, sprawling font that had been designed specifically for the series.

“Perfect,” she whispered, running her fingers over her name. She fished her phone out of her pocket and held the book out to take a photo of it, making sure her freshly painted green nails were pressed to the cover just so. Then she downloaded the photo to her laptop and used an image-editing app to perfect it, smoothing out a small chip on her thumbnail and a tiny crease at the top right of the book cover. Then she posted it.

It took mere seconds for the Likes to start pouring in. The follower count on all her social media accounts had been skyrocketing since her book deal and the subsequent interviews and early trade reviews. Now when she looked at those numbers, she felt a bit stunned. Had she really reached a hundred thousand followers?

She’d always been active on social media, getting into heated arguments with Nigerians in Nigeria over issues of politics, gender, and disability. People liked to hear her spout off, so her numbers had been in the thousands. But what was happening now was on a whole different level. And the most beautiful thing was that people werelisteningto her now more than ever.

She could postanythingand get hundreds of Likes, reposts, comments. When she’d hit fifty thousand, she’d tested it out by posting the most cliché phrase she could think of: “All that glitters is not gold.” That was it. No context, no follow-up. Just those bland, unexplained words. It was Liked more than two thousand times and received nearly two hundred comments:

You are so right, Zelu!

No truer words.

I’m sure that paycheck you got for the book was.

You always speak my mind. That’s why I love you.

As soon as the photo of her novel posted on Instagram, the phenomenon kicked in. She paused, watching the Likes, comments, and shares roll in for a few minutes. So much excitement for the book. Every heart that flashed across her screen warmed her.

She left her phone to take a shower and get ready for sleep. Once she’d laid herself on her bed, she checked her phone again. In half an hour, the number of Likes was already above three thousand. And her follower count had jumped by two thousand, too!

“What the...” She scrolled through her notifications and guffawed loudly. “Oh! Woooow! This is bananas!” A megafamous singer had just shared her post, triggering another wave of likes.

A Yebo notification popped up.

You have a popular post on Instagram. Would you like to filter your engagement?

“Most definitely not,” she muttered, clicking it away. She posted the same photo on the rest of her social accounts, delighted as her phone started to go bonkers. After a few more minutes, the rate of the notification alerts still hadn’t died down. Eventually she silenced them and tossed her phone aside so she could pick up her copy of the book again. She stroked the coverlovingly, then cracked it open. Filled with the glorious positivity from her social media, Zelu gazed at the words she’d written. They practically glowed.

Her publisher sent hundreds of advance copies of the book to influencers, media outlets, and author peers in what they called a “big-mouth mailing.” The response surprised even her agent.Never seen anything like it!he wrote to her.

Rusted Robotswas featured in dozens of roundups by the country’s top newspapers and magazines. Readers’ reaction videos began to post on social, their faces puffy with fresh tears as they praised the final chapters. Articles were published online discussing the novel’s relevance to the ongoing conversation around AI. People talked about the fact that a novel that focused so much on body or lack of body had been written by a paraplegic woman.

And it wasn’t just the United States that was abuzz. In Nigeria, critics praised how Zelu had captured the beauty of the country, penning a fictional future Lagos that actually felt real. A Nigerian newspaper had even written an article calling her “the debut writer who is starting a cultural renaissance.”

Zelu drank it all up. Finally, this was what it felt like to beseen.All her life she’d tried to make herself known. Now she’d spoken, and so many had listened.

“You deserve it all,” Msizi said, turning the book over in his hands. He was in the United States for the week, and they had met up at Yassa, his favorite restaurant in Chicago. The place was like a shrine, full of African statues and masks. Some were less than a foot tall; others were carved from wood into humanoid shapes so huge they reached the ceiling. This place had partially inspired one of Zelu’s favorite settings inRusted Robots.

“I don’t know about that,” Zelu said. “But yeah, it feels good. The book isn’t even out yet.”

“What about your family? What do they think?”

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