Page 61 of Death of the Author

“Fuuuuuuuck.” She pulled the covers back over her head.

Msizi tried to make her feel better by ordering a giant breakfast from a local Nigerian restaurant he’d found. Yam porridge with cow feet, friedplantain, moi moi, akara, boiled eggs, and green tea. They ate together in the sunshine of their fortieth-floor hotel room balcony, high above the billboards and movie theaters. And not once did Zelu look at her phone. Now that she was more rested and had a full stomach, she did feel a little better, more balanced in her perspective. Everyone had just been high on the thrill of the movie’s premiere last night. No one was going to be critical of the director and actors or even the author right there in the room. The more nuanced reviews would start to come out in the weeks that followed, just like they had for her book. And besides, it was only a movie. It would be on the big screen for a few months, and then get lost on some streaming service, right?

No, it wasn’t right, but she would get there eventually. She could survive this. She’d been through worse.

She decided to wear all black to the interview. It wasn’t a conscious decision, it just felt right. The full-length dress had a plunging neckline but modestly covered her legs. She added an intricately beaded necklace that Msizi had given her for her birthday months ago and a bracelet of coral beads. The bright jewelry popped against the dark and simple clothes. It made her feel like a force to be reckoned with when she arrived at the studio.

On the drive over, they passed several billboards for the movie, and she felt her anger begin to simmer again, but she still thought she could fake it through the interview well enough. The movie may have gotten Amanda Parker’s attention, but she had asked for Zelu, not the director or leading actors. She was still the author of a well-loved book, and she could talk about that. She’d get through it without ruffling any feathers, saying something like “The film is a visually spectacular roller coaster ride.” Then she’d smile and say, “But the book is always better.” There would be laughs, and then they would move on.

Better to hint at the truth than flat-out lie. Most of the journalists she dealt with were more interested in getting a good sound bite than in her actually having something meaningful to say.

Having her makeup done was frustrating, as usual. “Please, just makeme look natural,” she’d told the artist. And the young woman had done a good job of that for TV, but Zelu still felt like she was wearing a mask. Maybe a mask would do her some good today, though.

Then the show’s producer came into the green room to take her to the set. She glanced out at the blinding lights, the ten cameras being dragged around the floor. The host, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Amanda Parker, was sitting at the same desk Zelu had watched her report from for years. Her dark hair was styled in twists and her suit was crisp and white, which would contrast with Zelu’s all-black attire.

“Okay, go,” the producer said, giving her a nudge. Zelu walked out onto the set, a smile on her face, her exos tap-tap-tapping on the shiny floors.

Amanda was still looking toward the cameras as she said, “From adjunct professor to literary superstar with one of the most anticipated blockbuster films in the world, today’s guest is on a wild, skyrocketing trajectory. I welcome the Queen of Robots, Zelu Onyenezi-Onyedele.”

There was a plush chair set up next to Amanda’s desk, and Zelu took a seat in it. The lights were hot against her skin. Zelu focused on Amanda’s face to ignore them. Up this close, the journalist’s twists looked overly tightened and her foundation looked like it wanted to crack and flake away like old clay.

“Happy to be here,” Zelu said. “You pronounced my name perfectly. That always brings me joy.”

Amanda smiled. “Well, it’s a name that’s on a lot of people’s lips right now. So, you’ve written this strange and amazing novel, and now it’s a strange and amazing movie. I was lucky enough to attend the premiere last night, and it’s fantastic. I can’t wait for the world to see it. Did you always set out to write a great work of science fiction? How did this book come out of you?”

Zelu sighed, grateful to be on familiar ground talking about the novel. “No. When I wrote it, I was just at this low point in my life, and... I dunno, I just wrote it. Maybe I needed some distance from humanity.”

Amanda laughed. Then she commented, “So you killed off all of humankind and gave robots the spotlight.”

Zelu grinned and nodded. “Basically. Before that, I wrote more, uh, literary stuff. Very different fromRusted Robots. I wasn’t a big fan of sci-fi.”

Even though this was well known, Amanda’s eyebrow rose as if it were brand-new information. “Yet you wrote a novel about robots and AI in a posthuman world battling each other. That’s a pretty big leap from not liking the genre. What inspired you?”

Zelu would’ve thought an award-winning journalist might have more to ask than the same questions she’d answered for a dozen other interviewers. She gestured toward her waist. “I’m paraplegic. I’ve often dreamed about removing broken parts and replacing them with new ones like a robot can do. The connection is hard to miss.”

Amanda nodded as if Zelu had just said something incredibly profound. “Very sci-fi indeed. And now you want to make that dream a reality?”

Zelu narrowed her eyes, not quite sure what Amanda was getting at. “If you want to see it that way. To me, it’s all a story.”

Amanda’s flaky face didn’t move, but her eyes flickered quickly toward Zelu’s waist and the lower part of her dress that covered her exos. “Authorial intent can’t be ignored, though. There may be some who interpret this book as you rejecting the identity of a person with disabilities.”

Zelu’s jaw unhinged. Every hair on her body stood on end.What the fuck?She glanced around the studio to see if anyone else was reacting to this, but all she could see were the hot white lights that stung her eyes.

She must have looked stunned, because Amanda jumped in again. “I mean, right now you’re so visible. Your book is a record-breaking number-one bestseller. I read it myself; it’s fantastic. Your movie is projected to be at the top of the box office. You’re taking the world by storm. Youmustsense it, right? Don’t you feel a responsibility to, well, honestly and proudly represent yourself to the world? You’re even wearing a dress that covers your leg tech. Why do that? Why not let the world see?”

Zelu barely heard the end of Amanda’s last sentence over her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. What thefuckwas going on? This woman was supposed to ask her about her books and her road to writing. The hardest part was supposed to be navigating comments about the shitty movie she hated so much. She’d expected Amanda might even ask about how she became paralyzed. But this was uncalled for. How dare this artificial-looking artificial journalist accuseherof not being true to herself?

Fifteen seconds must have gone by. Amanda only sat there, waiting for her to speak.

“Are you kidding?” Zelu blurted.

“It’s a serious question,” Amanda pressed. “You’re in a powerful position, perfect to be a role model for people with disabilities, and yet you’ve used the privilege of your monetary success to explore inaccessible technology that obscures this truth. Don’t you think it’s worth addressing?”

Zelu clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. This could not be happening. “This... this ismylife.”

Amanda tilted her head inquisitively. “What about those who look up to you, who have bought and recommended your book and funded your success? What do you owe them?”

That was it. Something inside Zelu cracked. She felt it, right behind her rib cage. And what leaped out dashed right up her throat and catapulted out of her mouth, straight at Amanda. “You want to judge me? Because my legs don’t work? Because I feel some sort of way about this fact? You ask me this, as someone who probably doesn’t think twice about how she can just get up and strut off this stage when this is over? Good for you. But I don’t owe anyoneanything. I’m no one’s... I’mno one’srobot. You said you read my book? I think you need to read it again.” And then, just because she might as well say everything she wanted to say, she added, “It’s better than the movie.”

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