Death of the Author

by Nnedi Okorafor

A man wearing a white kaftan, a colorful blue-and-white wrapper, and a red-and-white Igbo cap entered carrying a talking drum, playing an aggressive beat that was so loud it hurt Zelu’s ears. He was followed by a flute player wearing the same outfit. Then a man carrying a metal staff with a cowbell attached to the top, who stabbed the staff at the floor, clanging the bell with every other step. The music was haunting, and Zelu felt it stir her spirit. “Make way!” someone shouted from the lobby. “It has come to pay its respects to Chief Secret Wednesday Onyenezi! To see him off to the world of the spirits! Get out of the way!” It was so tall that it nearly touched the high ceiling. It was wide as a carwash brush and looked like one, being made of stacked raffia and draped with an ornate red cloth. It danced into the viewing room, bouncing and swaying to the beat of the drums and the sound of the flute. Zelu grinned, tears in her eyes. A procession of men dressed in the same outfit as the first three followed. They were solemn and focused only on the masquerade making its way to the casket. When it reached the front, the nine-foot-tall masquerade suddenly slapped its entire body flat on the floor as if prostrating. The drumming, fluting, and bell clanging stopped. All the men stepped back, leaving the open space empty except for the masquerade. One of the men shouted again and the drummer began drumming a slow, deep beat. Several of the men shouted, as if to egg on the masqu...