Page 91 of Death of the Author

As he worked, she looked out at the water and grinned. She made the mistake of meeting the captain’s eyes. “You have done this before?” he asked.

“All the time.”

“You’re a good swimmer?” he asked.

“Very.”

“Even though you cannot walk?”

“Imagine that.”

“We’re not going to ever see you again.”

“Oh, you’ll see me again,” she said. He was really getting on her fucking nerves.

“No one in Nigeria has ever had your success writing about robot,” he said. “It’s really cool. Maybe you want to get lost—”

“I don’t want to get lost.”

“We cannot afford to lose you. A lot of people look up to you... even when they say they hate you.”

Zelu paused, raising an eyebrow. “People hate me?”

He smiled. “Some. You know how it is. People at home will hate you most.”

Zelu nodded, but she was looking at the water again.

“I’m going to tell everyone about this,” the captain said to Hugo.

“I don’t doubt it,” Hugo said.

Splash!

Her first thought wasI’m free. Then she swam to the surface, noted theboat’s position, and started swimming. Smooth and easy, she stayed near the shore, keeping the boat in sight. She fell into a rhythm, and that rhythm aligned her with the motion of the water. Soon she felt it, that feeling she always sought. A connection. A joining. But this time, it was more profound than it had ever been. Something great and deep was hugging her, holding her up as she moved. It would never let her fall.

The salty water took her tears. And still she swam. Through everything. She was deep in her communion when she heard someone shout, “Hey!” It wasn’t coming from the boat or the shore. The voice was only a few feet away. “Mami Wata’s daughter!” A man’s laughter.

She stopped and bobbed in the water, looking around. “What the... Is someone else out here?”

Then she saw him. He was nearly beside her. A light-skinned black man with a bald head and a flat, arrow-shaped nose. He might have been in his twenties or thirties, but it was hard to tell. “Who you?” he asked.

“Who you?” she responded, grinning.

“I am an Ijaw man taking a swim on his lunch break.”

She looked toward the shoreline; there were no buildings in sight. “Seriously? People do that?”

“I am doctor, my job is stress. When I come out here, I’m free,” he said, leaning back so the water carried him. “For a little while.”

“I get it,” she said, leaning back, too.

“Where you coming from?” he asked.

She pointed behind her. She hadn’t realized she’d gotten so far from the boat; it was a speck now in the distance. “Tarkwa Bay Beach.”

“Eh!” he exclaimed. “You are true swimmer. I don’t meet many people who can swim that far.”

She nodded. “The water’s great.”

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