Page 92 of Death of the Author

He brought himself closer with a languid stroke. “Lagos is most beautiful from out here. It will be underwater soon enough.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, of course.” He laughed, as if this thought delighted him. “I th—”His eyes grew wide, as did his grin. He pointed behind Zelu. “Look! See? Everyone comes to Lagos!”

Zelu turned around just in time to see the first one. Its firm blue body glinted in the sunshine before rolling back under the water. Zelu gasped and dunked her head to see, and she did! The dolphin glanced at her just before it darted away. She saw another pass by, peeking at her for a moment above the water. And another, this one near enough to her that she moved closer to the man with surprise. “Heehee!” she shrieked. “Just like with my dad!” She bobbed there, staring after them.

“Well, lunch break is almost over,” he said, moving into a backstroke. “Enjoy your swim. Don’t let anyone tell you these waters are deadly! They’re only deadly to people who cannot submit to it. See the water’s citizens?”

Zelu nodded. “I do.”

“Go with that!” He waved good-bye and was gone.

Zelu stayed there awhile longer, soaking in the glorious moment. Feeling her various selves come together to be present in these waters peopled by curious dolphins. She imagined telling her father all about it. She could hear his laugh when she told him about the dolphin who’d thought her important enough to peek at from above the water. Maybe it had questions after it had seen her legs tied together below. She rolled onto her back and floated there, staring at the overcast sky.

She inhaled and then exhaled, and whispered, “Clarity.”

37

Interview

Bola

My sister Zelu? She may have nakedly revealed it with the robot novel, but all of us have to admit, she always had that thing in her. What our grand-uncle called a “disease.” He said that’s why Zelu dreamed of being an astronaut and leaving the planet before her accident. I laugh because now that I think of it, the elders on both sides of the family tended to love Chinyere and Tolu like royalty. They laughed at Amarachi and me. They thought Uzo was stunningly beautiful. But Zelu? Well, the elders marked Zelu as the one the spirits watched. And not in a good way. If the spirits pay too much attention to you, they tend todothings to you.

So Zelu always had the hardest time when we’d visit Nigeria. Especially after the accident. First, the country doesn’t respect people with disabilities. If you have mental issues that make you less sharp, you’ll get preyed upon. If you can’t run easily across a street, you’ll eventually get hit. No one is going to give you space or leeway becauseeveryoneis struggling already—or at least, that’s the mentality.

I don’t care how it sounds to racists, the poorly traveled, the prejudiced, the ill-informed, or the hostile: Nigeriaisa tough place. If there is anything about you that is soft, you won’t survive there long. I have a really hard time looking people in the eye and demanding what I want. I’m not a hard person, so it’s not easy for me. I can’t shout like Tolu or Amarachi or Chinyere. I can’t scheme like Uzo. My voice is soft and... my default is nice. I don’t feelgoodbeing any other way. So I stay back; I don’t even bother trying to shop when we are there. I let my siblings do it.

It was different for Zelu. She never has any problem dealing with people in Nigeria or looking them in the eye or making demands or shouting. Zelu is strong like Chinyere. But she’s also weak... in body, with her legs not working and all. Like I said, there aren’t good places for wheelchair-bound people in Nigeria. Not many. It’s a harder life. Nothing is made with you in mind. So even going to the market, my God, I don’t know how she could stand it. How must she have felt? On top of this, Nigerians have a way of viewing people with disabilities of any kind as cursed, like someone did that to them because they’d been bad or someone wanted to do bad to them. Many fear the bad luck will rub off on them. You’ll never be viewed as sexy or desirable in Nigeria if your legs don’t work.

But like all of us, Zelu still loved going there. I’ve talked about it with my siblings. We all agree that maybe it’s a certain type of Naijamerican thing. Some of us just have that unconditional, irrational love. It wasn’t a yearning for Nigerians to accept us. We allknewthat we could never be fully accepted as Nigerians. Why would we be? Yeah, we didn’t want that and we didn’t wish it. But maybe something in our blood made us love the land, the people, the cultures, the traditions,unconditionally. We knew all the problems, dangers, and contradictions. We knew them firsthand from being there and watching our parents. Yes, but we still loved. And so we always wanted to go back. Come and go and come and go.

Zelu would fall over when her wheel got stuck in a difficult patch of dirt. She would cry when she had to wait on the side of the road as everyone else ran across it. She’d roll her eyes when the elders called her crippled andcursed. Yet she’d still hear them out. There was one time when I was ten and she was fifteen. This is the story I want to tell you about, because this was when I understood my sister had a gift.

We’d both decided to stay inside the big house in my father’s village. Everyone else had gone to the engagement party of one of my cousins. Zelu was just not in the mood for it and I had an upset stomach. We spent the morning lazing around, but then Zelu said, “I need some fresh air. You want to come with me?”

“Ugh, nooooo,” I moaned.

“Come on,” Zelu insisted. “Some fresh air might help. You should move around. We won’t go far. It’s too hot in here, anyway.”

Itwastoo hot. The AC wasn’t working, and outside it was around ninety degrees and super humid. Still, even though the mosquitoes wouldn’t be that bad in the sun, the biting flies drove me nuts. I told Zelu this.

“Just slather yourself with peppermint oil and you’ll be fine. It cools you and keeps insects away,” Zelu urged me, and I didn’t like how her tone made me feel like a baby, so I went along.

So we both left the house wearing sandals, shorts, and T-shirts, and stinking of peppermint oil. As soon as we stepped onto the narrow dirt road that ran through the village, an entourage of about ten little boys appeared behind us. I don’t know what they were doing or where they were before we stepped outside, but they were here now. It was annoying as heck. My cramps seemed to flare up just looking at them. Why? Because they were whispering and giggling and pointing as they followed us. Some of them would speak in Igbo, some in English. They made fun of our accents when we spoke to each other in English and any attempt we made at speaking Igbo.

“Just ignore their stupid asses,” Zelu said as I pushed her chair down the path, but I kept looking back at them. Then Zelu pointed. “Ooh, there’s a nice patch of touch-and-die. Run your foot over it!”

I looked from the stupid boys to the patch of bright green fernlikeplants growing in front of a row of palm trees. “Fine,” I muttered. I ran my sandal over the plants and they instantly closed up their leaves and dramatically withered. I smiled and Zelu grinned. The boys behind us cackled; our fascination with the local plants was just fucking hilarious to them. As iftheydidn’t think they were cool, too. “Ugh,” I groaned, rolling my eyes. “Annoying little jerks.”

We walked down the narrow dirt road, past a few more houses, and that’s when our grand-uncle come out from between two leafy bushes. A tall, rail-thin bald man with a patch of rough white hair in the middle of his bare chest, he wore nothing but old shorts. No shoes, no shirt. Our father said his name was Ikechukwu, but Ikechukwu insisted we call him Uncle Pious, which he pronounced “Pee-us.”

“Ah, kedu?” he greeted, coming up to us.

“O dinma,” I said, but his eyes were already on Zelu. I immediately wished we hadn’t come outside. I laugh, but I’m serious. You can always tell when an elder is about to say some shit. He was looking at Zelu with piercing dark brown eyes, and they didn’t leave her for a second.

“How come you never come to visit me?” he asked.

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