Page 86 of Death of the Author

“Oh man, this is going to be awesome,” Marcy said. She was sitting in the first-class pod beside Zelu, whose own pod was next to the window. Zelu was quickly texting her family group chat that she had boarded the flight to Lagos. She was looking forward to takeoff, when she’d be disconnected from the world for some hours.

“Itisgoing to be awesome,” Zelu said, putting her phone down.

“Once we get to the hotel, maybe,” Uchenna said. “The Lagos airport is always like a gauntlet. I hope you guys are ready.”

Hugo pushed his neck pillow into place. “Ah, I love a good adventure.”

Zelu turned to her window and looked outside, trying to disappear for a little while. Behind her, a man was speaking to someone in very stressed Igbo. They were still in Atlanta, but this was the flight that would go straight to Lagos. Once at their gate, it was like they were already more than halfway there. While their flight from Chicago to Atlanta had been full of American passengers, most of them white, this flight was different. Almost everyone on the plane was black and most likely Nigerian. You could see it in the style of dress and body language; you could hear it in the accents and languages spoken. You could smell it in the choices of perfumes and colognes. And, of course, you could tell by the hectic way people lined up to board the plane; it was already a competition.

To show his solidarity with Zelu, Hugo had opted to wear his short pants, which showed off his prosthetics instead of hiding them. The utter commotion that she and Hugo had caused when they got in line was only a precursor to what she was going to experience when she arrived in Nigeria. People had gasped, stepped aside, stared, pointed, loudly commented. How the two of them must have looked, though. Hugo with his high-tech prosthetic limbs that allowed him to move just like any other person, and Zelu the famous writer with her exos. One young guy had turned to his friend and laughed, saying, “Na that writer who is robot!” Five people had asked her to autograph copies of the books they were carrying, and seven more had rushed to the airport bookstore to grab copies for her to sign.

Hugo took it all in stride, but it was exhausting to Zelu. The last time she’d traveled to Nigeria, getting around by wheelchair had been not only extremely difficult but humiliating. People had spoken to her as if her disability were mental as well as physical, or they didn’t speak to her at all. Some of the children had laughed at her. Some adults, too. Mainly the ones who were envious of the status that came with being an American. Not tomention the fact that it had rained the entire time they were there and the mud had left her stranded inside the hotel for two days.

Now she was at a different stage in her life and even more of an anomaly. When the plane took off, she sat back, put her noise-canceling AirPods in, and closed her eyes. She reveled in the fact that she was in the sky, where walking was useless even if you had the full use of your legs. She was cut off from the rest of the world. No internet, no phones. She couldn’t even see below the clouds.

“Excuse me, miss.” Someone was tapping her on the shoulder. She groggily opened her eyes.When did I even fall asleep?she wondered. Was it dinnertime? A copy of her book was being pushed in her face. A British edition. It looked well-read. Zelu blinked, trying to shake herself up. “Huh?”

“Sorry, o,” the woman said, grinning. She had one gold tooth among her many white ones. “Can you... can you sign this? I really love it!”

Zelu stared at her for more than a few seconds. Had this total stranger really come up into first class and woken her just to get an autograph? Seriously?!

“Sorry, o,” she said again. Yet she did not go away or take her book back. Zelu scanned the aisle for a flight attendant. Of course, there was none in sight. Marcy and Hugo were asleep, too. Uchenna had his gigantic headphones on as he stared intensely at his computer. She took the woman’s book. “Do you at least have a pen?” she asked.

“Oh yes, here,” the woman said, totally oblivious to Zelu’s annoyance. Or more likely, she just didn’t care. She handed Zelu a blue pen. Zelu sighed loudly and autographed the book.

“Eh, could you write my name, too?” the woman asked when Zelu tried to hand it back.

“Are you serious?” Zelu asked.

“I just... please, o,” she said, grinning wider. “My name is Prosper Egwim-Chima.”

Zelu scribbled the name and handed it to Prosper, who left quickly. Zelu was still holding her pen, but she didn’t bother calling the womanback. “Whatever,” she muttered. Then she smiled, reminding herself of a fact that always pleased her: she had fans in Nigeria.

“Okay,” Uchenna said. “Push your bags fast. Move quickly. Our ride is already there waiting for us, so wedohave places to go. Act like you’re in New York. Zelu, get ready to walk fast.”

Zelu chuckled. She’d been ready from the moment she’d stepped off the plane. This was new to Hugo and Marcy, but it was routine to her. They were past baggage claim and now they merely needed to get to the exit. There was sometimes one final checkpoint, and this was where airport security would try to ask for bribes and waste your time. She waved her hand near her waist, staying close behind Uchenna. Thankfully, people were so busy staring at her exos that Zelu, Hugo, and Uchenna walked right past the final checkpoint line. Zelu let out a breath.

“Hold on, guys,” Uchenna said.

Marcy had been stopped and was now having to lug her suitcase onto a table and open it up. Uchenna went to help her.

“You doing okay?” Zelu asked Hugo.

“Is it always like this?” he asked, wiping sweat from his brow with a folded paper towel. It was hot and muggy.

“Yep. They don’t really turn the AC that high in the airport.” They stood in front of a restaurant where some young men were eating and people-watching.

“Yeesh,” Hugo said. “What a way to welcome travelers.”

“We haven’t even gotten outside yet,” she said, grinning teasingly at his discomfort. She was enjoying herself. “Ah, it’s good to be home.”

“A place’s airport says a lot about the place.”

“True.”

“But I’m really excited to be here,” he said, perking up. “I can’t believe I’m fifty-two years old and just making it to West Africa.”

“Better late than never.”

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