Death of the Author

by Nnedi Okorafor

What matters is family. Without family, you’re nothing. You’re debris tumbling through space. Unseen, unconnected, uncollected, unknown, no matter how famous you are.

That’s Zelu. She’ll do something, then right after, just let go of it. Zelu puts it all behind her right away. So wrapped up in herself that she doesn’t know when she’s kicked people out of their sense of normalcy. She’ll just leave you there, reeling and wondering why. Maybe that’s what you all love so much about her.

But when she finally just asked him what he believed the story meant, he’d said, “Why don’t you tell me? What I think of my own work doesn’t matter. The reader decides what it’s about, right? Isn’t that what you said ‘death of the author’ meant?” Then he’d smiled a very annoying and smug smile.

gotten into a heated argument with Shawn about why she believed one of America’s worst yet quietest problems was white guilt.

We Humes had a profound love of storytelling. But no automation, AI or machine, could create stories. Not truly. We could pull from existing datasets, detect patterns, then copy and paste them in a new order, and sometimes that seemed like creation. But this couldn’t capture the narrative magic that humanity could wield.

And so Zelu learned that these physical robots, machines, and AIs, which she summarily called “automation,” in all their diversity, connectivity, and immortality, could be even nastier, more ambitious, and far more beautiful than any human being who had ever lived. This was evolution, and it was just the beginning. But the one thing no robot could do was truly create stories. That was the ability Zelu withheld from them.

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.

But the one thing Seth Daniels knew was when a story was worth following. And the one thing Zelu never failed to be was a story. Eventually, she would become the defining subject of his journalistic career. He’d follow the highs and lows of her meteoric but all-too-brief rise to stardom. He’d interview most of her immediate family members and loved ones, attempting to complete the tapestry of Zelu’s inner workings and why she did what she did. And, eventually, when Zelu was gone, he’d claim to be the one who saw it coming first.

The foreshadowing here is killing me

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. I’ve read Rusted Robots several times now, and each time, I see more and more of my sister behind each word.

We cannot escape our creators. I keep saying this. You can’t erase that which made you. Even when they are gone, their spirit remains. This should be okay.

You asked me if I agree with the choices Zelu made. Well, I’m a scientist, and I’m her friend. Zelu and I have shared the kind of experiences few could ever comprehend. I understand what led her down her path. Still, in that moment when she had to make a pivotal choice, I don’t know if I could have done the same.

Chinyere rushed and caught her before she could fall. Amarachi held her shoulders. The holding became a tight hug from them both. She held them, too. Their mother started keening and they grabbed and held her, too. Zelu shut her eyes, but for once, she did not go to space. She heard the breathing, sobs, and soft words. She smelled the spice that always clung to her mother’s skin, Tolu’s sandalwood-scented oil, Amarachi’s jasmine perfume, Bola’s bath soap, Uzo’s baby powder. She felt Chinyere’s long nails pressing her arm gently, keeping her here. She couldn’t fall if she tried.

But Zelu? She could connect the invisible. She would listen, and as she processed what she heard, things would appear to her that weren’t there before. She could put all of this into words, so everyone could see it. I was always glad she had this ability. With what happened to her, she needed it. But I never saw it as a magic that would move the world the way it has. None of us did.

“To be honest, I think I lost myself for a little while. Plus, my parents were against it. Everyone was.” “Of course they were,” her uncle said, standing up. “You’ve been shrugging off the house they built around you since you wrote that book, and this was the last straw. They don’t know what to do now. You rewrote your narrative.”

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.

When I was more than halfway finished with it, I paused and looked out into the forest. And then the title came to me easily enough: Death of the Author. I liked this title because our authors, the humans, have died off. But we have remained. We are their stories.