Page 17 of Death of the Author

17 Rice and Stew

She was in the ether between dream and reality, almost awake, when a soft female voice said to her: “Imagine waking up in

the morning and deciding how tall you want to be.” She opened her eyes, the dream fleeing like a bird. She tried to recall

it—flashes of Msizi, maybe of them running together. She stared at the ceiling as she sighed. Then she pushed herself up and

into the day.

Zelu checked her email. Her publisher’s appointed publicist was asking her to field yet more interview requests, including

one from The Daily Show . There were eighteen messages from random people begging her to be on podcasts. She had been nominated for some award. Her

agent wanted to talk on the phone so he could rave about her book sales. Some Nigerian guy had sent her his manuscript, demanding

that she read it because it was “similar” to what she had written; Let us discuss , he’d said. She stopped browsing, muttering, “Ugh, fuck this shit.” She cleared all her phone notifications and went to the

kitchen.

After making some tea, she went out to the patio, her phone on her lap. A dashing male cardinal flitted among the budding branches, a speck of red like a message from the Yoruba god Shango. The air smelled fresh and the temperature was already in the sixties. Spring was around the corner. If she were teaching, she’d be on spring break at this time. She smiled and sipped her tea. She didn’t have to worry about that shit anymore.

By now, they had to have heard plenty about Rusted Robots back at the university. Initially, the thought of that Seth Daniels guy going to them for interviews had been enough to trigger

a panic attack, but she now actually hoped journalists would ask them about her. Wouldn’t it be great for an article to come

out about how adjunct teaching was a nasty, exploitative business? Let them explain how they’d treated her like trash and

basically chased her away. Those fucking shit students who’d ganged up to get her fired were hopefully kicking themselves.

Only days ago, yet another one of them had emailed her an apology. When she had time, she’d respond to him with two words:

“Fuck off.”

Her phone buzzed. MIT had just sent her a travel itinerary. It was officially time to tell her family about the exos program.

It was Saturday, which meant everyone would gather right here at the house as they did every week. Perfect timing for getting

it over with in one fell swoop. What could go wrong? She looked down at her legs and gave them a loving squeeze.

Chinyere arrived first, at around 6 p.m., with her sons. Over the next two hours, Amarachi, Bola, Tolu, and Uzo showed up.

Today they’d left their kids and partners at home. Their mother made rice and stew, fried plantain, steamed broccoli, and

corn. They sat around the table and discussed politics, sports, houseplants, and whatever other random topics came up. Zelu

waited quietly for the right moment, nibbling at some broccoli.

After a while, their father corralled all of them into the living room, as usual. The more time passed, the more nervous she grew. Her family was always loud, but tonight, they were especially loud. Her mother and father had practically shouted at each other over why the Nigerian president was garbage. Chinyere had demonstrated several trendy new dances she’d seen her kids doing, all of which seemed to focus on her undulating ass. Bola had happily joined in and quickly stole the show, to Chinyere’s delight. Tolu and Uzo had gotten into an argument over something they saw on social media. Zelu felt exhausted by the night’s routine activities already, but she was anxious to tell her family about her upcoming trip to MIT and the reason for it.

“Everyone,” she finally said when things quieted down for a moment. All eyes turned toward her. “Okay... I... I have

something to tell you.”

“Have you been smoking again?” Amarachi blurted out, and Tolu cackled.

Zelu gritted her teeth. “Something good... it’s good. Really. You’re gonna like this.”

She wheeled into the center of the living room and looked around at her family. Their expressions ranged from blank to slightly

annoyed. She smiled, uncomfortable.

“Please don’t ruin the evening,” Chinyere said.

Zelu shot her a nasty look.

“What is it, Zelu?” her mother finally asked, concerned.

“Mom, it’s something good ,” Zelu insisted.

“Okay, o,” her mother said, still anxious.

Zelu took a breath. This was her family. She could tell them everything. Hadn’t she once told them she was “high as fuck”?

The world had shaken, but it hadn’t ended. And this was something amazing, even if she was terrified that it wouldn’t be.

Even if she couldn’t stop thinking that she might finish destroying her body with a second devastating fall.

But Zelu was a storyteller, so she told them in story fashion. Once she started speaking, it was easy. Her family listened,

silent and attentive. She was in her element. The plot was forward-moving. She wove in her apprehensions tightly with her

ambitions, her fears with her hopes. She made sure the theme was success. Once she finished telling them all about the supporting

character of doctor and professor Hugo Wagner, and how she’d be at the best engineering school in the world for a month, and how maybe she’d even be inspired to write part two of Rusted Robots , she sat back, grinned, let out a breath, and waited.

For several moments, no one spoke.

Her mother broke the silence. “Well, I don’t know about this.”

Zelu shot a look at her father. He would be on Zelu’s side. He was the adventurous one.

“It’s a fascinating idea,” he said, pinching his chin. “Zelu, you sure this is safe?”

She nodded vigorously. “Definitely! Safety isn’t an issue. There are dozens of—”

“Then why isn’t this on the market for just anyone?” Tolu asked. “It sounds cool, really, Zelu, but... it also sounds like

you’re donating your body for experimentation. I’ve heard too much about Western medicine experimenting on Africans—”

“I’m American, too,” Zelu snapped, shocked that Tolu also wasn’t on her side. He was always on her side! “It’s not like I’m—”

Tolu wasn’t done. “This white guy falls out of the sky and randomly offers you robot legs? How are you not suspicious? I think

I’ve seen this movie.”

“It’s not random,” she insisted. “I told you—”

“Zelu, calm down,” her mother cut in. “We are just concerned for you. Look at all that is going on in your life. You need

to be protected more than ever.”

Zelu scoffed. “Why is protection by you guys always like—”

“How does this man even know about you?” her mother asked.

“Mom, I’m all over the place right now! He read my book and then read about me in interviews. He studied up on me.”

Her mother grunted. “Yes, but he could do that with anyone. What’s special about you?”

Zelu shrank back, digging her nails into her palms. Her family knew how popular her book was, but still, they couldn’t stop seeing her as the child who fell from the tree and needed help just to go to the bathroom. None of them would ever admit it, but Zelu knew that some part of them, all of them, wanted to keep her at home to prevent her from nearly killing herself yet again.

But all that aside, there was always that underlying question, especially from her mother: Why would anyone be interested in you? Chinyere and Amarachi and even Bola were queenlier in her mother’s eyes than crippled, failed-professor Zelu. Tears tingled

at the corners of her eyes. She had not anticipated having to convince anyone like this.

“I don’t think I’m for it, either,” Chinyere said. “I mean, let’s say he’s legit and you get these things... Zelu, you

have to be careful. You’re already struggling with PTSD, anxiety, your constant panic attacks—”

“They’re not... constant.” She took a breath, briefly squeezing her eyes shut. “So because I’m scarred by that accident,

I shouldn’t try to... wait, how does that even make sense? I have the chance to walk again, so why shouldn’t I take it?”

“Ah ah, what if you fall ?” her mother said.

Zelu pressed her hand to her face and groaned.

“It’s not really walking,” Chinyere cut in. “It’s being carried around by robot legs. You wouldn’t be cured.” Uzo, Tolu, and Amarachi murmured and nodded agreement. Zelu, who was looking

at them through her fingers, wanted to scream. That was everyone. They were all against her. Wow. She hadn’t expected this

at all.

“It’s too risky,” Chinyere added.

“No, it’s not!” Zelu shouted.

Chinyere rolled her eyes. “Yes, it is. You’re paralyzed . If you ‘walk’ with those things, it’s not really you doing it.”

Zelu groaned again, wishing there were something in front of her that she could flip. “Who cares? I’d be more mobile than

I am now !”

“I really don’t think you want to wade into that water,” Chinyere said. “Seriously, answer my question: What if this doesn’t

work?”

“What if it does ?” Amarachi piped in from her place on the couch. She was looking at her phone.

Zelu pointed at Amarachi and nodded. “Oh, thank you ! You’re looking him up, right? See? He’s the real thing! Show them.”

“Yeah,” Bola said, also looking at her phone now. “I’ve actually heard about this guy at work.” Bola was an engineer, so it

made sense that she would know of him. “He’s doing big things in electromechanics, bionic machinery.”

“See!” Zelu said, beaming with triumph as she wiped a tear from her eye. “Sheesh! Told you!”

“All the more reason I think you need to stay away from all this,” Bola added.

“Ooooooh my God,” Zelu said, rolling her head back. “This can’t be happening! Do you all hear yourselves?!”

For a moment, her family was silent as they absorbed her apparent distress. Amarachi and Chinyere exchanged glances. Her father,

who had mostly remained silent, was looking intently at the floor.

“Sweetheart, we’re just trying to keep you safe,” her mother said softly, walking over to touch her shoulder.

Zelu shrugged her mother’s hand away and pushed her wheelchair back. “ How are you protecting me? By keeping me here? Like this? ” The tears were back, and this time Zelu couldn’t hide them. They rolled down her cheeks as she continued, “You don’t want

me to move out, even into a nice, more wheelchair-friendly place. You don’t want me traveling or doing public speaking events.

When I got invited to that Zanzibar literary festival and I said I was going, you said I should ‘get my affairs in order’!”

“Sorry for saying that,” Chinyere sheepishly whispered.

Fuck you, Chinyere , Zelu thought at her sister, remembering how stung and afraid she’d felt at those words. She’d imagined her own sudden death

in Zanzibar at the hands of kidnappers, and it was awful. Then she’d turned down the invitation; she still wished she’d been

braver and gone. “And now I have a chance to walk and you’re all saying that’s bad!” She took another breath. Her head was pounding so hard. Her hands were shaking. She sobbed,

“Why can’t you make this easy? It’s strange enough as is, but... how could I not take advantage of this?”

Her mother swallowed hard, her face pinched. “Zelu, would God want you to move around with machine legs? It’s not natural.”

What a thing to say! “I use a wheelchair, don’t I?!” she pointed out. “Is that ‘ungodly,’ too? Is that what your bigger problem

with me is?”

No one said anything. Not even to deny her accusations. She threw her hands up, the fight inside of her gone. Tonight should

have been celebratory.

And then Tolu broke the silence to announce that he had a court case coming up that was stressing him out yet had the potential

to make him a millionaire. Was the stress worth the wealth? Everyone had an opinion about this as well. The conversation moved

on without her. Zelu wheeled herself out of the center of the room. That was that. She would just stay silent from now on.

What did it matter? Whenever she told them about her life, they just used the opportunity to take control. Zelu parked herself

beside the couch where Uzo sat. Uzo got up and gave her a tight hug. “We love you, Zelu.”

“I know,” Zelu said, squeezing her sister back. She did. But love wasn’t always enough.

Zelu didn’t sleep that night. She spent most of it avoiding her email and social media notifications, binge-watching old Westerns

on her phone underneath the covers. Westerns always made her feel better, especially the ones that took place in wide-open

spaces.

Around 4 a.m., she called Msizi. She’d been waiting for his time of the day to come around. She needed him now. She held her

wireless dolphin lamp beside her to light her face up as she waited for the video call to connect. She needed to see his face,

too.

“Good afternoon,” he answered. Then he grinned. She could tell he was as high as the blue sky in the window behind him.

Zelu groaned. “Come on .” Talking to Msizi when he was high was like talking to the Mad Hatter; he got playful and loopy after just one puff. “I

wanted serious Msizi.”

“Oh, you always want me, no matter which one,” he said, plopping down on his bed as he held the phone above him.

“You’re at home?”

His gaze drifted away from the camera. “But what is home? Is it where the heart is? You’re my heart and you are thousands

of miles away, in the most racist country on Earth.”

“Says a South African to an American. I think we could debate that.” She huffed, reluctantly amused.

He laughed hard. “True!” Then he laughed some more and said something in Zulu.

“Msizi, maybe I’ll call you back later,” she said softly. “I need to talk to you about something serious.”

His smile faded. “No... eh, no.” He shook his head and rubbed his face. The video jostled as he placed his phone on something

across from him and then sat back. “Okay, okay. I’m good.” He said something in Zulu again. “Talk.” But he couldn’t keep the

high-as-fuck smirk from his lips.

Zelu raised a dubious eyebrow. “You can focus on me?”

“Definitely,” he said. A beat later, he broke into a laugh.

She hesitated. She didn’t want to wait until he’d sobered up; she needed him now. So she told him everything. Then she waited

for his reaction. Msizi wasn’t like her family. He hadn’t known her back when she was freshly broken and so, so vulnerable.

He was also a tech programmer and entrepreneur. He’d see why this was a good thing.

And then she heard him say exactly what her family had said. “What if it doesn’t work? I can tell you already have your hopes

up. Why wouldn’t you? It’s like you’re turning into a character in your book! But this is experimental, and—”

Was this really what everyone thought of her? Next was he going to say that she needed to stay in her place for her own protection?

That using exos, or even her wheelchair, was an act against God?

“Ugh, not you, too,” she whimpered, falling back against her pillow. “I know there are risks! But I... I want to take them! Don’t any of you have a sense of adventure?”

You all should be giving me the strength I don’t have!, she thought. Because I’m terrified. I can’t do this alone.

It was like a cloud of toxic fumes descended over her. She couldn’t see, she could barely hear, she couldn’t breathe. Everything

smelled bad, bad, bad. Msizi was talking and laughing and cautioning and telling her how much he loved her. She might as well

have been on Mars. At some point, she hung up on him. Then, for a while, she was in the clouds. The branch gave way. Falling.

Always falling. Then the crushing impact. She drifted into a troubled sleep.

When she awoke, it was another day. There was life to live. She pushed herself up. The sun was out, even if she heard the

rumble of thunder in the distance. Her dolphin lamp was dead. Her phone was still lying on her bed beside her. It was at 12

percent battery and buzzing against her comforter.

“Hello?” she said.

“Zelu!” her agent’s voice greeted her. “Glad I got you! We’d really like you to do this Daily Show appearance.”

“Fine,” she said. “Fine.”

“Excellent,” he said. “I’ll set it up.” Then he hung up. She held the silent phone to her ear for a while.