Page 7 of Death of the Author

Zelu kept her back to Uzo so her sister couldn’t see her quickly wipe away the tear. “Won’t be the first or last time,” Zelu muttered.

“You have no respect, Zelu,” Tolu said, sitting back down. But he was smiling.

“Always trying to be a badass,” Chinyere said.

“Foolish, though,” Arinze said.

Zelu only kissed her teeth, watching as the masquerade continued its dance for her sister and new brother-in-law, and then for the bride’s and groom’s parents.Fucking spirit, Zelu thought.

“Where’s the bar?” Shawn asked, standing behind his chair, totally uninterested in any of the conversation.

Chinyere suddenly got up. “I’ll go with you.” Arinze looked at her with a frown but said nothing.

“Cool. You want anything, Bola?” he asked.

“If there’s champagne, get me that,” she replied, excited.

“Me too,” Zelu said.

“And me,” Uzo added.

Shawn chuckled. “You all are so...” He shook his head. “Let’s go, Chinyere.”

Zelu felt for Chinyere ’s husband. They all knew what was coming. And by the time the reception had really gotten started, it wasn’t just Tolu and his wife on the dance floor getting down to the thumping beat of dancehall, it was an eye-catching, bootylicious Bola... and a very drunk Chinyere as well. Chinyere took it further than dancing as she wined her body, twerked her backside, and rubbed up against any man dancing too close to her, including her sister’s new husband. Chinyere was usually wound very tightly. She drank only at weddings, and the alcohol freed her of all she imposed on herself. In moments like these, Chinyere was a hurricane no one could stop, so no one bothered to try. Everyone just weathered her. Zelu wished her sister would give herself permission to be free more often.

Zelu, on the other hand, just wanted to go to bed, her belly way too full of jollof rice, pepper soup, fried chicken, and samplings from a variety of other heavy African and Caribbean dishes. She’d also had several glasses of champagne, missed the bouquet because she hadn’t tried, taken a thousand photos with Amarachi and her other siblings, sung old Yoruba songs with the elders, and gotten into a heated argument with Shawn about why she believed one of America’s worst yet quietest problems was white guilt. And there was all the catching-up gossip. She didn’t have to do much to hear it.She was sitting beside her mother, watching people on the dance floor, when she overheard one such conversation by chance. Omoshalewa was talking to a cousin from home, and Zelu was only half listening. Her mother had been in high spirits the entire night, so proud of yet another of her “princesses” being married off and becoming a “queen.”

“Eh, Funmilayo! Where is she? Is she here?” her mother asked.

Her mother’s cousin Richard stepped closer before he responded, and that’s what caught Zelu’s attention. People in her family were always so secretive, so she’d learned early how to notice when a secret was about to be revealed. “You haven’t heard?” Richard said.

“Heard what?” her mother asked. “Where is she?”

“Not here.”

“Why? I know my daughter invited her and her husband.”

“When is the last time you heard from Funmilayo?” Richard asked.

Her mother paused, thinking. “I don’t know. It’s been a while. I tried calling her; I think she was in Lagos. Left messages. Maybe a few months ago.”

Richard nodded. “Her husband died. It was sudden.”

“What!?”

“They were living in that house, eh, you know. Her husband lost his job at the plant. She’s been avoiding everyone since.”

“Oh, no!”

“They buried him very quickly. But people there, they still want to act like village people. You see Funmilayo now, she looks like a woman of the dirt. She shaved all her hair away, looks malnourished, walks around in a daze.Chey!”

Zelu’s mother stared at her cousin in disbelief. Zelu shook her head and wheeled away to get more champagne. She. Was. Tired. And then she spotted the guy she’d seen before. And again he looked deeply into her eyes, and she looked deeply into his. Short, slim, and light-skinned, with high cheekbones and knowing eyes, he appeared to be in his midtwenties, and judging from the leopard-print collar-vest thing he wore over his suit jacket, he was from Jackie’s side of the family. Zelu and the guy met halfway between theirrespective tables. He knelt down to her level, which wasn’t hard for him, and grinned. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You look like your sister.”

She laughed, impressed by his nuance. On any other day, this statement would have been odd because she actually didn’t look much like Amarachi, but today was her sister’s wedding day, which meant her sister was the most beautiful woman in the room... and he’d just said Zelu looked like her.

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