Death of the Author

by Nnedi Okorafor

But after many hours of trekking through the muddy water with no sign of automation, I was growing discouraged, wondering if I was chasing a rumor.

Then I heard it. A signal. I stopped and listened. Mosquitoes attracted to my warmth buzzed around my head; a snake splashed as it slithered into the swamp; an owl hooted in the canopy above. Beneath all the noise, I could just make it out, more like a feeling than a sound. Almost warm, like audible sunlight.

It was a beautiful place to behold now that nature had reclaimed it. Husks of cars were tucked into the earth and grown over with periwinkle grass, a plant that humans had genetically engineered and that now grew wild all over the planet.

“The way you cling to your creators is pathetic. You’re like a baby who can’t leave its mother’s teat.” I wanted to laugh. It was just like a Ghost to think itself so above humanity yet use a biological simile about a mother and baby to express its disdain.

You all spin everything that is not familiar to you as either terrible or less than you. You only see things through your narrow lens and personal experiences. It is your weakness.