Page 82 of Death of the Author

Her mother paused, frowning, her eyes moist with tears. “That’s why you are the writer.”

Her mother’s words made her feel ticklish. They felt like an approval Zelu had desired for so long. “Yep.” She wanted to hug her mother, but she didn’t want to delay her from getting into the vehicle. So she just stood there grinning, hoping and waiting for her mother to decide.

Finally, her mother relented. “You’re right. O... okay.”

Zelu got in first and then waited for her mother to join her. It was the best way to do it. If she had waited for her mother to climb in first, then her mother would likely have felt more trapped.

She watched it all play out on her mother’s face: The fear. The conflict with her ways and beliefs. The struggle. The processing. Then the courage. The courage made Zelu smile. Her mother was still terrified and probably hearing a thousand pushy voices in her head, from those of relatives overseas to those of her own children. Then maybe she heard her husband’s voice, Zelu’s father’s. Secret had never ridden in the autonomous vehicles, but he’d talked about them often, saying they were so fascinating and strange. He’d liked that Zelu had discovered the service, and he’d told his friends about it.

Zelu’s mother pursed her lips tightly together and got into the vehicle. She plopped down beside Zelu and said, “Let’s go.” The moment the vehicle started driving, she screamed, but mostly with exhilaration.

The small birthday party was Amarachi’s idea. Her sister had ordered a cake, arranged for two of their mother’s best friends to cook a dinner, and sent invites to make sure the whole family was in attendance. Zelu and her mother were only minutes from returning to the house in the autonomous vehicle when Chinyere called her phone, frantic. “What are you doing?! How far are you?”

“Chill,” Zelu said. “We’re almost there.”

Chinyere hung up.

“Everyone’s there,” Zelu said, turning to her mother.

She saw her mother grin in the reflection of the car’s window. She loved her new hairstyle and couldn’t stop looking at herself. Zelu loved it, too. But she especially loved seeing a smile on her mother’s face. Her mother had shocked Zelu by telling the stylist exactly what she wanted without hesitation. The stylist had been delighted.

“I...” Her mother had glanced at Zelu from the salon chair. Then she blurted, “If my husband, Secret, were alive, I would never do this. He wouldn’t like it.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Zelu had said softly.

Her mother nodded and looked forward into the mirror.

“May I?” the stylist asked, touching her mother’s short-haired black wig.

“Go ahead,” her mother said. “Throw it away, even. I trust you.”

The stylist had dramatically tossed it in a wastebasket beside her station, and everyone in Amazon’s World applauded. Zelu’s mother’s cornrows were undone, her hair washed and then blow dried. Zelu had to take a picture of her mother’s medium-length, very thick salt-and-pepper Afro. During the funeral service in Nigeria, part of the Igbo tradition was that the widowed wife had to cut her hair. Zelu’s mother, though Yoruba, had conceded to the request by allowing them to take a chunk off the side. Zelu could see the spot where the hair had been cut. Then the stylist got to work. And in a few hours, with a rinse to even out the gray and the addition of some synthetic hair until the twists grew out, Zelu’s mother had shoulder-length twists just like Amanda Parker. Zelu recorded the moment when the stylist gave her mother a big mirror.

“What have I done?” her mother said, holding the mirror but not looking into it yet.

“Come on, Mom,” Zelu urged. “Look at yourself.”

The stylist, a tall, heavyset black woman with the biggest Afro Zelu had ever seen in person, was grinning, and Zelu zoomed in on her face as she recorded. She focused back on her mother as she raised the mirror to look at herself. Her mother’s eyebrows rose. Her eyes grew wide. Her mouth dropped open. She sat up straighter. “Oh my God,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears, a huge smile spreading across her face. She reached over and touched the stylist’s arm and just looked at her, tears falling. The stylist laughed and said, “You’re beautiful, Omoshalewa.”

“I am,” she said, touching her twists.

“You are, Mom. You always have been.” Then Zelu thought,You just forgot.

The autonomous vehicle pulled up to the house. The driveway and street were packed with cars and SUVs. Zelu and her mom got out and her mom turned to watch it drive away. “Where is it going?”

“Either to pick up its next passenger or just to patrol the area while it waits to be requested,” she said.

Her mother nodded. “They need those in Nigeria.”

They opened the front door. Everyone was packed into the entryway to shout “Happy birthday!”: Zelu’s siblings; Auntie Constance, who’d flown in from Dallas; and several women from her mother’s society. Zelu hung back, bracing herself. She hadn’t told anyone else about the hair appointment.

“Mom!” Chinyere exclaimed, staring wide-eyed.

Amarachi grabbed Tolu’s arm. “What the...”

Tolu just stood there, frozen, a tight grin on his face.

“Oh, wow!” Uzo shouted, bringing her phone up to snap a photo.“I love it!”

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