Page 6 of Death of the Author

Zelu only smile-sneered at him. She had been born and raised in the United States, but she’d been to Nigeria so many times, she’d lost count. She knew her people. They were blunt, and though they might say some shit, it usually wasn’t from ill will. Also, she knew it was useless to argue with them when the time wasn’t right. Like now. She watched her uncle Jonah strut off in the confident way he always did, laughing and slapping hands with everyone around him and complimenting women’s dresses. As she wheeled her way through the crowd, she settled into the familiar invisibility she always felt when among most of her relatives.

Nigerians never knew how to deal with abnormalities, and Zelu had plenty of those. She was a thirty-two-year-old paraplegic woman with an MFA in creative writing. Her father was a retired engineer and her mother a retired nurse, and her siblings were a surgeon, a soon-to-be neurologist, an engineer, a lawyer, and a med school student. But not much had ever been expected of her. This was mainly due to her disability. She’d endured her share of theories about family curses, juju, and charms. Her relatives were more interested in who was to blame than they were in how she lived her life. At events like this, people preferred to look away. When they did talk to her, they treated her like she was of lesser intelligence, and some had even unintentionally told her they thought so. Others would apologize to her constantly. And many prayed for her.

However, every so often, she caught an eye and a mind. Like the young man to her left in the blue-and-white Ankara suit. He was standing with two of her male cousins, but she was certain he wasn’t from her side of thefamily. She chuckled to herself, holding his gaze for longer than he probably was comfortable with. Then she rolled toward her table.

She sat with her siblings and their spouses and boyfriends. Of all of them, she was the only one who hadn’t bothered to bring anyone.

Her only brother, Tolu, Bola’s twin, was gazing at the dance floor. Tall, beautiful, and an excellent dancer, he never missed a chance to put himself on display. And his wife, Folashade, was the same. “I hope they play some dancehall!” Folashade said.

“They better,” Tolu said. “We’re in Tobago!” They bumped fists, pleased with each other.

“Not until they play ‘Sweet Mother’ like ten times,” Bola said.

“And some token Miriam Makeba, because Jackie loves her so much,” Zelu added.

“Where’s the puff puff? I’m starving,” Uzo whined, raising her phone up to take yet another photo of herself.

They all quieted as they thought about food. Zelu was hungry, too. She’d barely eaten a thing since the morning, so apprehensive had she been about the wedding.

“I hope they have Trini food mixed in with the South African and Nigerian, man,” Chinyere’s husband, Arinze, said. “I had this thing called callaloo and dumplings last night, holyshit. There was no meat in the thing and it wasstilldelicious. Can you imagine?”

“Sounds good, but they better have plenty of jollof rice and beef,” Tolu said.

“And plantain,” Arinze added.

“No goat!” all the siblings said at the same time. They laughed hard.

“Ugba,” Zelu added. She sniffed the air. “Though I don’t smell it, so, doubtful.”

“You think they shipped all that here?” Uzo asked. “Madness.”

“Who says they have to ship it?” Zelu said. “I’m sure there are plenty of Nigerians who’ve set up shop in Trinidad and Tobago.”

“Definitely,” Bola said, slapping hands with her.

Zelu cocked her head, looking at Shawn, Bola’s boyfriend, who was African American. “What about you, Shawn?” she asked.

“Oh, I’ll eat whatever y’all got,” he said with a shrug. “All sounds good to me.”

There was a loud clang from somewhere and they all sat up straight. A flute began to play a spooky melody; it was amplified in a way that made it sound like it was coming from all around the room. Tolu grinned and jumped up, shouting, “Yessss! Come through!”

Uzo got up and dashed to Bola, giggling. She held up her phone, getting ready to record. Zelu looked around, wondering how it would make its grand entrance. Everyone in the reception hall was peering around and whispering. But you could barely hear anything over the pulsing notes of the flute. Then Zelu saw it.

“Holy shit!” she shouted. “That’s a big one!”

The great masquerade danced, shook, and undulated its way from the banquet hall’s entrance. It looked like a giant bale of raffia, yellow and spiky, and was covered in lengths of soft, colorful cloth that floated down on all sides. It danced to the flute music and then suddenly lay flat. It leaped up, wide and billowing again, and continued dancing through the reception. Behind it, five men with thick ropes restrained it from attacking people. Walking behind them, three men played drums and one man played his reed flute into a microphone.

It arrived at the first few tables in the back. Most of the people sitting there had already gotten up and run to the other side of the room. Some of the men, however, remained and danced with the giant masquerade, unafraid. As it moved through the hall, it lunged at any woman standing too close, held back only by the ropes. The women quickly rushed to a safer distance, laughing to one another nervously. When there were no women to lunge at, it would occasionally dive at a man of its choosing. As it made its way to the front of the room, everyone else got up from Zelu’s table. Zelu, however, didn’t want to wheel back. She didn’t think the masquerade would pass too close, anyway, so why go to the trouble of moving? She stayed where she was.

She watched the flute player and drummers pass by her table. The flute player gave her a look she didn’t like—a sort of “Are you stupid?” frown. She felt a ping of discomfort, but he would be beyond her any minute, right? Wrong. The man stopped.Shit.He turned to her.Dammit.He played the flute in a way that made it clear he was calling her out, pushing the creature’s attention toward her. The masquerade, which had been nearly past her table, stopped. It turned.

Zelu felt her heart leap.Whyyyyyyy?Masquerades always made her nervous. Sure, there were just men inside these crazy, monstrous costumes, but something about them always felt unpredictable. It was said that the wearer became the spirit or ancestor the costume represented. Women were never allowed to don the costume of a masquerade (unless you counted the few female masquerade secret societies, which Zelu did not). This one twitched and then undulated as the flute player urged it on. And now the drummers were urging it on, too.

Zelu’s hands went to her wheelchair tires as it rushed at her. The men holding it were straining. Actuallystraining!

“Ah!” she said, moving back from the table. Laughter rolled across the party. This seemed to satisfy the masquerade and the flute player. They retreated and moved on. Zelu was furious. She’d been so startled and humiliated that a tear escaped her left eye. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t control it. Zelu glared at the creature and imagined setting the wretched thing on fire.

“Damn, you’re brave,” Uzo said from behind her, returning to her seat. “I’m totally going to post this. All the Naija guys who follow me are going to call you a witch.”

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