Page 4 of Death of the Author

“Um... everything all right?”

As Brittany spoke, Zelu gazed out the window, over the hills covered with lush trees and bushes. In the opposite direction, just behind the hotel, was the ocean. Zelu giggled, because it was all she could do to not smash her phone on the windowsill and potentially mess up her sister’s big day. There was a ringing in her ears, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out this woman’s fucking voice spewing bile all the way from the United fucking States.

It was surreal, but not surprising. Adjuncting was a shit job that treatedyou like shit. Her creative writing students always deeply annoyed her, but this semester had been especially brutal. She’d come to every class with a false smile plastered on her face and fantasies of smacking each of them upside the head with a copy ofInfinite Jest—the hardcover, of course. This semester, she had a class full of creative writing PhD students who’d all convinced themselves and one another that the best type of storytelling was plotless, self-indulgent, and full of whiny characters who lived mostly in their minds.

Four days ago, she’d come to class full of rage because the student whose “story” they were workshopping that day had written twenty-five pages in which none of the sentences related to one another. There was no system or logic to the sentences. Nothing. Just gibberish. Like a robot attempting to be creative and getting the very concept of what that means all wrong. And she’d had to read it closely enough to give this student proper feedback. On top of this, the student was an entitled white boy who had been questioning her authority since the beginning of the semester, far more than anyone else. Oh, she detested him already, but this story was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

After her students had each gone around the room and said what they thought (“This is really ambitious,” “I felt stretched by this piece,” “It’s brilliant! I wish I’d written it!,” etc.), Zelu had tried her best to give him useful feedback. But when she finally just asked him what he believed the story meant, he’d said, “Why don’tyoutellme? What I think of my own work doesn’t matter. The reader decides what it’s about, right? Isn’t that what you said ‘death of the author’ meant?” Then he’d smiled a very annoying and smug smile.

This motherfucker, Zelu thought. She’d paused, trying to collect herself, tostopherself. But she couldn’t. Not at that point. And so she’d told him what she thought his story meant. Since he’d asked. “This is twenty-five pages of self-indulgent drivel. You’ve just wasted your reader’s time. Throw this away, and when you’re ready to stop fucking around and actuallytella story, start over and have some confidence in the power of storytelling.You’ve only had the privilege of torturing your readers with this because this is a class and we allhaveto read what you’ve given us.”

Silence.

Students exchanging glances. Wide eyes. Pursed yet buttoned lips. Fidgeting. More silence.

Then this student, who had looked at her with such ire and arrogance all semester, who had even refused to participate in one of her writing exercises because he thought it “below” him, had burst into sloppy tears. Now, days later, while she was out of the country, the entire class had shown up at the department head’s office to complain about this “traumatic” incident and how “insensitive,” “toxic,” “verbally violent,” “unprofessional,” “problematic,” and “rude” Zelu was as a person.

All this Brittany told her now on the phone. She also mentioned that these students had complained about how twice this semester Zelu had ended class early so she could work on her own novel. Zelu had been a dumbass and thought that telling them the reason would get her empathy. They were all aspiring authors, right? They’d understand.

Then Brittany told her she was fired, effective immediately.

“Does my being faculty for five years count for anything?”

“Faculty, but adjunct. And do I need to bring out your files? We’ve held on to you despite so many complaints—”

“Because I’m a good writer who is good at teaching; you all benefit!” she snapped. “And that’salsomade clear in my files.”

“Be that as it may, Zelu, the department has decided—”

“Ah, fuck you.” She hung up. “Asshole. And when did students become such entitled snitches, anyway?!”

“Everything all right?” Chinyere asked from the other side of the room.

Zelu looked over her shoulder. “I’m cool. Just university stuff.” She wheeled to the door. “I’m gonna go to the... I’ll be right back. Need some air.”

The hallway smelled sweet with incense. The wallpaper was a bright pattern of fuchsia flowers and vibrant olive leaves, and the lush, dark greencarpet was a bitch to wheel across. Regardless, getting away from the others made her feel a little better. She squinted, wiped away her tears, and flared her nostrils. Holding up a fist as if to threaten someone, she took in a deep incense-scented breath.

“Okay,” she whispered, clenching and unclenching her fists. “Fucking fuckery.” She wheeled down the hall.

This was her first time in Trinidad and Tobago, but it was definitely not going to be her last. And this beach hotel, with its old, bright orange colonial-style exterior would stay on her list. It was small and cheap enough that Amarachi and her fiancé could afford to rent it out completely for three days. Zelu was about to exit the front doors when she heard raised voices coming from a room to her right. She smiled. Raised voices among Nigerians were usually not a bad thing. Her suspicions were verified when she heard laughter woven through the shouting.

She peeked inside the ajar door. Inside was a conference room, and it seemed that just about all the men attending the wedding were in here, from the teenaged to the elderly, Nigerian to South African, Igbos and Yorubas to Zulus. They were all crowded around her sister’s fiancé, Jackie, who was standing next to his father, her father, and several of the elders. They stood before a table. The oldest-looking elder was a tall, thin man with dark skin wearing a richly embroidered white kaftan and pants. He held a handful of straws. Jackie’s father took two of the straws and put them on the table, and everyone in the room exclaimed.

“Ah! Now the pot isadequate,” Zelu’s father shouted, “but not full!”

The men laughed.

Jackie’s father huddled with the elders, and they whispered and waved their hands and stamped their feet. When they turned back to her father, one of the elders handed Jackie’s father several more straws. The sound of everyone exclaiming “Ooh” rippled through the room. Her father clapped his hands, pleased as punch. Zelu chuckled wryly. Whether it was bags of palm wine, yams, cattle, or symbolic straws, the deciding of the bride price and the joy men took in doing the deciding was yetmorebullshit.

“African men,” Zelu muttered, rolling her eyes. She wheeled outside and was thankful when she hit the concrete of the front area. Smooth. And she was glad she wasn’t wearing any makeup because it was hot and humid out here. She went to the side of the building, where the ceremony area was set up. The center-aisle chairs were connected with woven flowers and Ankara cloth, leading toward the platform where Amarachi and Jackie would take their vows. Some of the guests were already seated and waiting.

Behind the ceremony area, the ocean stretched dark and blue into the horizon. She paused, listening to the rhythmic crash of waves in the distance. “Magnificent friend,” she whispered. “One of the world’s greatest storytellers.” She wheeled backward, mashing the foot of a man she didn’t realize was right behind her.

“Aye!” he hissed.

She didn’t have to turn around to know who he was. Uncle Vincent always wore that distinctive woody-spicy smell that she kind of loved, Tom Ford Tobacco Oud. “Oh, sorry, Uncle Vincent!”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he said, waving her off. He pointed to where the chairs were set up. “That’s where it’s going to be?”

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