Page 80 of Death of the Author

“Just know that he said that for a very specific reason,” their mother had said when Chinyere asked for details. “And know that we were all very lucky.”

The reason their mother wanted Amarachi to stay behind was obvious. The burial in Nigeria would require their mother to endure a gauntlet of traditions that would be hard for American-born Nigerians to tolerate. Amarachi was too hotheaded. When they’d informed their uncles and auntie of their decision about the burial, she’d ended up shouting obscenities at the uncles, cursing all things Igbo, and telling the men they could shove their “kola nuts, yams, and patriarchal terrorism up their fucking asses.” Zelu had burst out laughing. The uncles stood up, indignant, and Amarachi had dared them to come for her, screaming wildly, “This isn’t the fucking village! I will happily fight you with my bare hands!”

Chinyere had dragged her out of the room and, in the process, managed to pinch the laughing Zelu’s arm so hard that she left a bruise. Zelu had followed them both out, still giggling uncontrollably. She just couldn’tstop. In the world she now lived in—where her father was dead and relatives came from the motherland to demand he be returned to the “soil,” as if his children and wife didn’t count for shit—her sister’s rant was funny as fuck. She couldn’t have been prouder of Amarachi. Tolu had apologized to the elders and calmed everything down.

As for Zelu, their mother thought she was too famous. It was for safety. A prominent man’s funeral in the village was an event that would attract a lot of vultures to begin with. But people would also be watching specifically for Zelu, the daughter who was a world-famous “filthy rich” writer. Her presence could ruin the entire event, at least according to her mother. Zelu hadn’t been back to Nigeria since beforeRusted Robotswas published. She missed it. But she also knew that her days of going there as just some disabled American Nigerian girl were over. Not only was she now famous, but her exos would attract so much attention, she probably wouldn’t be able to go anywhere without an audience. She’d still wanted to go, regardless, but her mother had become so agitated by the very idea that Zelu quickly stopped pushing. There would be another time. A quieter time.

Two days later, Zelu packed a small suitcase and then called an autonomous vehicle. When she entered her parents’ house, she paused. Her father’s coat was no longer on the rack. Its absence weighed on her. She hadn’t been to the house since before the wake-keeping. Her eyes stung and she pressed a hand to the wall to keep her balance. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Clarity,” she whispered. She stabilized. “Mom,” she called. Her voice sounded hollow in that way it does when a place is unoccupied. “Mom,” she called again. “I’m... I’m here.”

Her mother’s voice came from the bedroom. “I’ll be right there.” Faint and rough. She’d been crying. Zelu started for her parents’ bedroom, then decided against it and headed toward her own room. She stopped. She went back to her parents’ room and paused outside the door. She heard her mother sniffling.

“I can hear your heavy robot feet. Just come in,” her mother called.

“Sorry, Mom,” Zelu said, entering the room.

“For what? You are what you are. Come and sit.” Zelu was hyperaware of her mother staring at her as she walked across the room and slowly sat on the bed. “Those things are still strange to me.”

Zelu chuckled. “That’s never going to change.” On the bed, her mother had spread some old photos of her and Secret. They were yellowed and the corners were curled, if there were corners left at all. She probably had the digital files somewhere, but she had always been fond of printing out photos. Zelu picked one up. Her parents looked barely twenty as they stood beside a patch of flowers. “Are you all right, Mom?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be all right again,” she said. “But I’m better than I was.” She’d been more even-keeled since dancing with the masquerade. “You don’t need to trap yourself here with me.”

“Mom, I lived here recently enough. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“What about that short, handsome boy of yours? Won’t he mind?”

“He’s not that short.” Zelu laughed. Msizi certainly wasn’t tall, though. “And he’s fine with it. If he weren’t traveling soon, he’d have come to stay with us.”

Her mother hummed. “Ah, Zelu, you always do things your own way. Damn the rules, damn what is expected. I wish I could.”

It wasn’t the first time her mother had spoken of Zelu’s rigid individualism, but usually it was with judgment. Today, Zelu heard almost a hint of admiration. “Come on, Mom. You can, too.”

But her mother only shook her head.

Her mother’s group of Ondo society women came by the next day, and Zelu began to understand why Chinyere felt one of the siblings had to be there at all times. Her mother spent the entire morning cooking and then tidying the house. Then, an hour before the women arrived, she began to prepare herself.

“Mom, what’s all this?” Zelu finally asked as her mother stood before the bathroom mirror putting on the kind of makeup she usually reserved for formal events like weddings. “Aren’t these just your society women?” She looked closely at her mother’s tight cornrows. They needed to be redone.

“Yes,” she said, penciling a beauty mark on her right cheek. She paused and looked at the wig she planned to wear. She plucked the hair a bit.

“Then why all this?”

Her mother began to apply mascara. “Why all what?”

“They’re supposed to be coming to make you feel better.”

Her mother nodded. “They will come. They will take word home. Women judge. You’re not a baby.”

Zelu cut her eyes to the side and muttered, “Doesn’t seem very healthy.”

She heard the front door open. “Are they here yet?” Chinyere called from the foyer.

“We’re in Mom’s room,” Zelu called.

Both Chinyere and Amarachi walked in. They hugged their mother and gave Zelu a quick nod.

“What are you guys doing here?” Zelu asked. “I thought you were busy.”

“Just stopping by,” Chinyere said.

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