Death of the Author

by Nnedi Okorafor

Fame is just swirling dust. It’s people dreaming and perceiving while they say your name like it’s some tangible object, but it’s not. A name is just a name. A sound.

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

Being a woman is tough. Especially one who is a mother. We’re not all cut out for domesticity, even when we love our children.

“I feel no love for bodies,” Ijele finally said. “I have experienced the physical world, and it is nothing special. This is nothing to cherish. Body is not a god. That is flawed human thinking. The experience of the world is much deeper and wider than any one body can hold.”

You said you loved swimming in the ocean because it was a reminder that you were part of so much more. And that vastness didn’t make you feel insignificant. It made you feel specific and powerful and . . . you.”

“You don’t fight the ocean. You have to trust it to carry you. And once you do, you can be anything.”

I don’t believe in miracles. I’m okay with it. I’m alive. I have a strange present and a strange future. And I’m curious. I’m ready to spin the wheel. I want to see. I’d have been a fool if I didn’t go to see.

It will be my fault. But I will continue. I’ve allowed myself to dream. Not of reality. I will never be able to walk. I know. But I want to see. I don’t expect, but maybe I am hoping. Tomorrow is where my hope lives.

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

“If I had a chance to go back, to never have it happen, I wouldn’t take it. This is me. This is my path. I’m better for it all. I’ve climbed higher, seen more, traveled farther, created more than I ever could have with my legs. My ultimate boon.”

She blamed herself and her arrogance for all that had happened, no matter what anyone said or what her logical brain knew. She couldn’t help it. It was how she’d been able to accept what she was. She had to own it. But the problem is, blame comes with guilt, and guilt is heavy, and that pressure just keeps building.

“Write what you want, woman. Walk how you want. Love who you love. Speak your truth. Be good and roll with life. You can’t have or control everything or everyone.”

“It took me twenty-five years to get to this point. I used to work for NASA. Still do sometimes, but I let things go, put things into place, made the hard decisions, and moved. I did it. It was scary, difficult, my family thought I was crazy, even Marlo needed to be convinced. There was so much to do to get where I wanted to be. But eventually, I got here. One thing at a time. Perspective.”

“Don’t get lost in the woods, Zelu. I think that’s why Msizi brought you here, to the desert. So you wouldn’t get lost in yourself.”

“People like you and I like adventure, have to go on adventures, even when it annoys the people we love. We like to see things, test limits . . . but that doesn’t mean we won’t regret going.”

Neither she nor her father was an adrenaline junkie who jumped out of airplanes or climbed mountains, but they both always felt the need to follow what called to them.

“I’m an engineer with engineer ways,” he said. “Once I started, it was hard not to go all the way.”

“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.”

“You are of him,” Msizi whispered softly into her hair. “You literally can’t be without him.” Another sob racked her body, and Msizi held her tighter. “We are mortal beings. We die. But we live first. And your father left a great legacy.”

“Zelu, listen to me. Today is a dark day. A dark, dark day.” He pulled her face closer to his. “When you write your stories, you look into yourself and see into things. Be the writer today. Use that ability. You are the observer and the observed. You are the documentarian and the subject. You are the author and the reader. This is how you create. This is something you know how to do. Now let it be here for you. Do you understand?”

“Oblivion,” she said as she stared at it. Her father’s face flashed in her mind, and she gulped, the tears welling again. She couldn’t believe she had any more left. “You’re just expected to keep going. Watching people you love drop off, one by one. Then you keep going until it’s your turn to drop off and be gone and then people weep over you. Sometimes I feel like I’d rather be a fucking robot. No pain. No death. No finality. And no need to fear life.

“We cannot afford to lose you. A lot of people look up to you . . . even when they say they hate you.” Zelu paused, raising an eyebrow. “People hate me?” He smiled. “Some. You know how it is. People at home will hate you most.”

Some of us just have that unconditional, irrational love. It wasn’t a yearning for Nigerians to accept us. We all knew that we could never be fully accepted as Nigerians. Why would we be? Yeah, we didn’t want that and we didn’t wish it. But maybe something in our blood made us love the land, the people, the cultures, the traditions, unconditionally.

was so good to get out of the United States, away from its self-centeredness, its superiority complex, its vapid noise,

She’d remember it because, for the first time in her life, she’d done something she didn’t want to do because she loved the person who wanted to do it and it felt 100 percent right. Even when he’d sprung it on her, she hadn’t gotten angry or offended. She hadn’t felt out of control. She’d felt loved, respected, and understood. It was possible.