Page 1 of Death of the Author

1 Interview Chinyere

What’s the story you want?

Honestly, I don’t see it. Even after everything, Zelu will always just be Zelu to me. What you think she is—it’s all made

up. Life is short. Fortune is fleeting. 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.

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.

Zelu will always be part of our family. She will always be my sister. No matter what. Oh, it’s been rough. The fact is that Zelu never really cared

about family. Zelu had to do her own thing. Then she’d expect everyone else to deal with her mess. We will always love Zelu.

We hang in there for her. She never made it easy, though.

My name is Chinyere. I’m the oldest. That’s a year older than Zelu, though growing up, most assumed she was a lot younger. I’m a cardiovascular surgeon. The chief of surgery at Advent Hospital. I’ve lived in Chicago all my life and I love

it here. I’m married to a wonderful man named Arinze. He’s Igbo, like me, though both of his parents are Igbo, whereas only

one of mine is. What’s interesting is that he was born in Chad. Long story. We have two sons.

Our family is sizable, by American standards. So being asked only about my sister will always feel strange. But she’s the

one everyone is talking about, I guess. She’s the one everyone is always talking about now. Whose fault is that? You all should be ashamed of yourselves. The irony no one seems to understand is

that Zelu has always been the most unstable of us all. And I’m not talking about her disability. She’s not the first person

to have a disability. And I acknowledge that society has its biases, but we each move through the world in our own way. We

all have a path.

Let me tell you a story...

Some years ago, before all this happened, I was a new mom. My first son was only three months old. I wasn’t very happy, I

admit. I’m a surgeon, and suddenly I had all these months where I was staying home. My son wasn’t sleeping; I wasn’t sleeping.

My husband was always escaping to work. I wasn’t upset with him, though; I’d have done the same if I’d had the chance. 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.

It was about 10 p.m. and I was at home with baby Emeka. It was raining outside. Absolutely pouring. And lightning and thundering.

Emeka was crying and crying because he was gassy. I was walking up and down the hallway, rocking him and patting his little

back. I was so exhausted. My phone buzzed. It was Zelu, and she sounded like a slowed record. Slurring her words, barely making

sense.

“Zelu? Is that you?” I asked.

“Ssssoooo annoying. ’Course s’me. Caller eye-deeeee.”

“Oh my God, come on.”

“Ever look at your hand an’ think you have six fingers instead of five?” she whispered.

“What?”

“Needa ride, Chinyere. Don’t trust Uber.”

The rest of what she said was mainly giggling, snickering, and what sounded like blowing raspberries. It was late. I was alone

with an unhappy infant. And now I had to go out and get my sister. We all shared our locations with each other, so I could

find her. I dressed, bundled up the baby, and went to get her.

My BMW is a two-door (two years prior, we hadn’t thought we’d have any kids—funny how life decides certain things for you),

so it took me a few minutes to strap Emeka in the back seat. By this time, he was absolutely shrieking. But I stayed focused

and got it done. No use in my freaking out, too. Zelu’s location took me from Hyde Park all the way past the end of Lake Shore

Drive on the North Side. I found her in an all-night diner. She was sitting in a booth, looking out the window right at me

as I pulled up. Even from where I was, I could see that her eyes were glassy and red.

Emeka was fast asleep. Finally. The drive had worked like magic on him, and this would be a trick I’d use to calm him for

the next year. I had Zelu to thank for that, Zelu and her wahala . I was right in front of the diner, so I opted to leave him in my car, with the heat on, of course. It was below zero degrees

Fahrenheit outside. When I entered the diner, a waitress came right up to me. A short white woman with spiky pink hair. “Please

say you’re here to take that girl home.”

“I am.”

“Oh, thank God .”

I stepped toward Zelu and she looked up at me and grinned. She was wearing an Ankara pantsuit; West African wax-print cloth was her go-to when it came to fashion. She said she liked the colors and that Ankara cloth always looked like it was “trying to go somewhere,” whatever that meant. And she had on red heels. It didn’t matter to her that she couldn’t walk— Zelu’s shoes had to be fire. Her outfit was pretty nice. That’s one thing you can always count on my sister for: when she wants to, which is usually, she can dress to the nines.

“My sistah,” she said in our mother’s accent. “ Bawo ni .”

I rolled my eyes.

She reached into her breast pocket and brought out a large overstuffed blunt and a lighter. I heard the waitress, who was

standing behind me, gasp as Zelu started trying to light it.

“Zelu, stop it.” I snatched the blunt and lighter from her hands and grasped the handlebars of her wheelchair. She wasn’t

drunk, but she was very, very high. Like, you could get high just by sniffing her. I enjoy my occasional glass of wine, even

brandy, but I have control . Zelu? None.

This is my sister. This woman you all know and love. Our ancestors were probably so ashamed this night. I somehow got her in the

passenger seat, then I put her chair in the trunk. She was snickering the entire time, like my touch was the most ticklish

thing on earth. And I was sweating, despite it being freezing. I thought about the recent rain and wondered about black ice.

I shoved the thought away. I had to focus. Emeka didn’t wake up, which was a blessing.

I still had her door open when a guy came out of a Mercedes SUV parked beside me.

“Zelu! Come on! Where you going?” He was a gorgeous black man in his twenties wearing a very expensive-looking tan suit, but

it was all wrinkled up. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who normally did wrinkled suits.

“You for real?” Zelu shouted. “Go away!”

“Who is this?” I asked her.

“Some guy.”

“Baby,” the guy said, “I’ve been waiting for you in the freezing cold!”

“’Cuz they kicked you out! Take a hint! Don’t want you.”

“Just give me another chance.”

He was feet away now, and I turned to face him.

“Are you her girlfriend?” he asked me.

“I’m her sister .”

“Oh, thank goodness. Just tell her I want to talk to her.”

He didn’t seem drunk or high or anything, and that worried me. This was clearheaded distress.

“She can hear you,” I said.

“Go away! We’re done. ’S called... a One. Night. Stand,” Zelu slurred.

“I don’t do those,” he snapped.

“Apparently you do,” I said. “Hey, I’ve got a sleeping infant in the car. Can you just... quiet down and, even better,

go away? I’m sure you have my sister’s number—”

“I don’t! She gave me a fake one. I had to follow her here!” he snapped. He stepped closer. “Look, just get out of my way

so I can talk some sense into your sister.”

I didn’t move. I had no space to shut the door. He was getting angrier; I could tell. I’d dated a guy when I was in college

who... well, let’s just say, this guy’s behavior was familiar to me. I wasn’t sticking around to let him reach what he

was working up to. He was nearly in my face. My baby was in the car. That was it for me. I reached into my pocket, grabbed

my tiny canister of pepper spray, unlocked it as I brought it out, and aimed it right in his face. I pressed the button and

sprayed the hell out of him. Me! I had carried it in my pocket at night, and sometimes during the day, for years. I didn’t

even know if the shit worked. Still, it had always made me feel a tiny bit safer. But I’d never really imagined I’d use it.

That I could bring myself to use it.

While he screeched and clawed at his face, Zelu snickered, and the concerned waitress inside was probably already calling

the police. I shut the door, ran to the driver’s side, got in, and drove off. For several minutes, Zelu and I were silent...

except for our coughing. When you pepper spray someone, you have to deal with what you’ve done, on a smaller scale. In the

back seat, Emeka hadn’t woken up even for all that. None of the fumes reached him, thankfully.

“What did you do to him?” I asked my sister.

She only shrugged. The incident seemed to have sobered her up. “Fucked him. Was a student from one of my classes a few semesters

ago. Lawyer trying to be a writer. I just got tired of him by the next morning.”

“And you told him so.”

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s funny. Guys like that are so entitled. But even more so when you can’t walk. They think you should

be soooo grateful.” She giggled again, even harder.

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.