Death of the Author

by Nnedi Okorafor

Behind the ceremony area, the ocean stretched dark and blue into the horizon. She paused, listening to the rhythmic crash of waves in the distance. “Magnificent friend,” she whispered. “One of the world’s greatest storytellers.”

That girl loved stories. If anyone had one to tell, she was there, ready to drink it. I was the same way when I was growing up. I loved where stories took me. How they made me feel. How they made everyone around me feel. Stories contain our existence; they are like gods. And the fact that we create them from living, experiencing, listening, thinking, feeling, giving—they remind me of what’s great about being alive.

She changed her laptop password to Bilbo (a character she loved for his willingness to go on an irrational adventure).

I wish I’d have shut up more often with her. Let her talk more. Let her spill. Let her just be her weird, impulsive self. She’s always had more to give than what she says, and speaking, no, writing may have been the only way for her to give it.

Finally, this was what it felt like to be seen. All her life she’d tried to make herself known. Now she’d spoken, and so many had listened.

“I will never understand your kind,” I said. “I will never understand yours,” Ijele retorted.

“Sometimes, I actually do look through a body toward the stars,” Ijele said, so soft within my mind. “I perceive them, and they make me wonder, ‘How did I get here?’”

“He was a real cultural man, and he raised progressive children who would evolve the culture,” Msizi said. “That’s beautiful, Zelu. He has earned the right to rest and wander. It’s a terrible loss for those he left, but we will all celebrate his life, too.”

“Do you love me?” she asked. She held her breath. She’d never asked him to say it, hadn’t thought she even wanted him to. But in case something did happen to her up there, she at least felt it was important to understand what she was leaving behind. He didn’t hesitate. “More than anyone in this galaxy.”

Earth was still Earth. Saved by humanity’s genius long after humanity had failed to save itself.

Writing my novel taught this to me, as well: creation flows both ways.