Page 97 of Death of the Author

He stood where he was, looking sharply at her exos with a curled lip. He motioned to them. “They are unnatural.”

“Would you rather I sit in a wheelchair?” Zelu asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, thankfully, it’s not about you, Uncle,” Zelu said.

He frowned at her and opened his mouth to say more, but her auntie grabbed her hand. “Come inside and eat. I want to hear about everything you’ve gone through.” She pulled Zelu along, and Zelu had to let her near-confrontation with her uncle go so she could concentrate on not falling.

The egg stew was hot and spicy with curry, thyme, and chili peppers, and her auntie had added shrimp and fish to it. It was served over boiled yam and sweet, tangy fried plantain. Zelu nearly cried at the sight. It wasn’t that she was terribly hungry, but because this was what she and her siblings remembered most about their auntie. Egg stew. It was a common dish in Nigeria, but their mother never made it, and the only times they’d had it were here at their auntie’s place. And. It. Was.Delicious. Zelu and her siblings had talked and talked about it back home. For decades. To the point where it had developed a nearly mythical status among them.

“I remember you enjoyed this,” her auntie said.

“You remembered right,” Zelu said as she picked up her fork, grinning from ear to ear.

Her uncle was sitting across from her, scowling. Her auntie put a bottle of cold orange Fanta in front of her, and Zelu just wanted to faint with joy. This was the magic of her childhood. She could see all her siblings around her, grinning as they prepared to eat. She could hear her father and mother in the living room talking excitedly with her auntie and uncle. She could walk. Suddenly, she felt like crying.

“Tell me what it’s been like,” her auntie said. “What is fame like?”

Zelu stuffed her mouth as she spoke. Her auntie laughed and clapped her hands. Her uncle hmphed and frowned and surprised her by asking more questions. “So it is because of your books that these people gave you these abominable legs?” he asked.

“They are mechanical legs,” her auntie snapped at him. “As if you would want to stay crippled if you had another option.”

Zelu pressed her fingers into her temples.My God, even the ones defending me get it wrong.She started to speak up. “Auntie, I’m still—”

“They look strange,” her uncle spoke over her.

Zelu stared hard at her uncle.I’m right here, man.

“They suit her,” her auntie said.

“True.”

Zelu shook her head, giving up. She took a swig of her Fanta.

When she finished eating and they’d exhausted all their questions, they suggested walking to her parents’ house to see the grave.

“Can we drive?” Zelu asked nervously.

“It’s right around the corner, dear,” her auntie said.

Zelu bit her lip and then just spoke what was on her mind. “Those little boys outside. They’ll have half the village out here.”

“So? You are our daughter,” her uncle said. “You can’t come here without saying hello to everyone.”

Zelu sighed and fought against rolling her eyes.Daughter, shmaughter, she thought.They just want a spectacle. And it’s unsafe.

While her auntie and uncle put some outside clothes on, Zelu went to the backyard, where her auntie had a small garden of yams and tomatoes. At the far end of the garden, a path led into the bush. She wondered where it went. Maybe to a neighbor’s house, or out to a field of crops, since this was farmland. Then a shadow appeared on the path, and an old man seemed to materialize from nowhere. Zelu shuddered and stumbled back, unsure if she should bolt into the house. He was tall and very, very skinny, wearing dirty brown pants and an old T-shirt that saidtears for fears. He wore no shoes. He walked up to her, and as he got closer she saw that his arms were covered in a bright red substance up to his elbows. He looked like he’d reached inside something bleeding.

“Zelu,” he said in a reedy voice. Then he spoke in Igbo.

“S-sorry,” she said. “I can’t understand.”

“The writer writes well in the colonizer’s language but cannot speak the language of her countrymen. The future is strange,” he said.

Zelu found herself smiling at this.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

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