Death of the Author

by Nnedi Okorafor

I can’t be normal, so I’ll be something else.

To me, my sister was like a spirit, a sort of superhero. That evening was the first time I really began to see Zelu as a human being, and she was awesome.

“Loyalty cannot be forced; it can only be decided upon. We aren’t mortal like this one. If we aren’t destroyed, we’ll go on.

But it wasn’t just one fall. She’d fallen from that tree countless times since then and told no one about it.

Zelu looked down at her exos, coated with dust from the long walk. Her legs, socks, and shoes were dusty, too. She gave more trust and respect to that which could not support her than that which could.

They never said “I love you” because they didn’t need to. Their love existed in the space between words, in the moments when they were apart, before they came back together. Zelu would just have to believe that when she left, he’d keep loving her.

I’ve acquired a unique skill; dare I call it an art? I’ve proven to myself something that humanity could never bring itself to believe. Writing my novel taught this to me, as well: creation flows both ways.