Page 27 of Death of the Author
27 Enter the Dragging
The next morning, she hid her head under her covers. The crisp, cool white sheets smelled of lavender. Sunlight spilled in
from the open curtains, filtering through her blanket and casting a warm yellow glow through her private cave.
She’d fallen asleep last night still wearing her stupid, flashy clothes. The uniform of her greatest humiliation. She wanted
to tear them off, slip out of her own body, and become a ghost.
Msizi was lying beside her, but she didn’t care much what he was doing. When she’d woken, he’d been frowning at his phone
screen. Probably reading early reviews of the film.
How could this have happened? She’d written a book people loved. It had been optioned by a great studio with a great director
attached. She curled tighter into herself as she thought of all the other movies he’d directed and how much she loved them.
Msizi’s hand thrust into her sanctuary. It was holding her phone. “Your agent,” he said. “Answer it. He’s been calling you
all morning.”
“Blah,” she groaned. But she took the phone and accepted the call, putting it on speaker.
“Hold on to your hat, Zelu,” her agent said by way of greeting. “You’re going to be on Code Switch !”
The fog of self-loathing lifted for a moment as she pushed herself up. “Huh?” Code Switch was one of the most popular news programs in the country. Zelu and her family watched it every day at prime time from wherever
they were and then group-chatted about it. The host, Amanda Parker, was a serious journalist, and she rarely brought guests
on for purely promotional reasons. “Why do they want me ?”
“ Everyone loves the movie!” he raved. “Have you seen the reviews?”
She cringed. “Not yet.” She pushed the covers off her head, letting out all the warmth. The cool of the room wafted over her
face. She looked at Msizi. He smiled apologetically and shrugged.
“What would I even say to Amanda Parker?” she asked her agent.
“Just say you’re grateful people like it and you’re excited by the reaction, blah, blah. It won’t be anything deep. It’s good
publicity for you.” Before she could even respond, he continued, “I’ll set it up. They want you in the studio in a few hours.
That’s show biz, huh? Ain’t it great to be in LA?” Then he was gone.
Zelu’s mouth was still open, some half-formed response lost on her lips. She looked at Msizi again.
He laughed. “Don’t act all woe is me . It’s exciting and you know it.”
“I don’t want to talk about that movie, Msizi,” she said.
“I know.”
“I hate it so much.”
“ Oh , I know.”
“Fuuuuuuuck.” She pulled the covers back over her head.
Msizi tried to make her feel better by ordering a giant breakfast from a local Nigerian restaurant he’d found. Yam porridge with cow feet, fried plantain, moi moi, akara, boiled eggs, and green tea. They ate together in the sunshine of their fortieth-floor hotel room balcony, high above the billboards and movie theaters. And not once did Zelu look at her phone. Now that she was more rested and had a full stomach, she did feel a little better, more balanced in her perspective. Everyone had just been high on the thrill of the movie’s premiere last night. No one was going to be critical of the director and actors or even the author right there in the room. The more nuanced reviews would start to come out in the weeks that followed, just like they had for her book. And besides, it was only a movie. It would be on the big screen for a few months, and then get lost on some streaming service, right?
No, it wasn’t right, but she would get there eventually. She could survive this. She’d been through worse.
She decided to wear all black to the interview. It wasn’t a conscious decision, it just felt right. The full-length dress
had a plunging neckline but modestly covered her legs. She added an intricately beaded necklace that Msizi had given her for
her birthday months ago and a bracelet of coral beads. The bright jewelry popped against the dark and simple clothes. It made
her feel like a force to be reckoned with when she arrived at the studio.
On the drive over, they passed several billboards for the movie, and she felt her anger begin to simmer again, but she still
thought she could fake it through the interview well enough. The movie may have gotten Amanda Parker’s attention, but she
had asked for Zelu, not the director or leading actors. She was still the author of a well-loved book, and she could talk
about that. She’d get through it without ruffling any feathers, saying something like “The film is a visually spectacular
roller coaster ride.” Then she’d smile and say, “But the book is always better.” There would be laughs, and then they would
move on.
Better to hint at the truth than flat-out lie. Most of the journalists she dealt with were more interested in getting a good
sound bite than in her actually having something meaningful to say.
Having her makeup done was frustrating, as usual. “Please, just make me look natural,” she’d told the artist. And the young woman had done a good job of that for TV, but Zelu still felt like she was wearing a mask. Maybe a mask would do her some good today, though.
Then the show’s producer came into the green room to take her to the set. She glanced out at the blinding lights, the ten
cameras being dragged around the floor. The host, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Amanda Parker, was sitting at the same
desk Zelu had watched her report from for years. Her dark hair was styled in twists and her suit was crisp and white, which
would contrast with Zelu’s all-black attire.
“Okay, go,” the producer said, giving her a nudge. Zelu walked out onto the set, a smile on her face, her exos tap-tap-tapping
on the shiny floors.
Amanda was still looking toward the cameras as she said, “From adjunct professor to literary superstar with one of the most
anticipated blockbuster films in the world, today’s guest is on a wild, skyrocketing trajectory. I welcome the Queen of Robots,
Zelu Onyenezi-Onyedele.”
There was a plush chair set up next to Amanda’s desk, and Zelu took a seat in it. The lights were hot against her skin. Zelu
focused on Amanda’s face to ignore them. Up this close, the journalist’s twists looked overly tightened and her foundation
looked like it wanted to crack and flake away like old clay.
“Happy to be here,” Zelu said. “You pronounced my name perfectly. That always brings me joy.”
Amanda smiled. “Well, it’s a name that’s on a lot of people’s lips right now. So, you’ve written this strange and amazing
novel, and now it’s a strange and amazing movie. I was lucky enough to attend the premiere last night, and it’s fantastic.
I can’t wait for the world to see it. Did you always set out to write a great work of science fiction? How did this book come
out of you?”
Zelu sighed, grateful to be on familiar ground talking about the novel. “No. When I wrote it, I was just at this low point
in my life, and... I dunno, I just wrote it. Maybe I needed some distance from humanity.”
Amanda laughed. Then she commented, “So you killed off all of humankind and gave robots the spotlight.”
Zelu grinned and nodded. “Basically. Before that, I wrote more, uh, literary stuff. Very different from Rusted Robots . I wasn’t a big fan of sci-fi.”
Even though this was well known, Amanda’s eyebrow rose as if it were brand-new information. “Yet you wrote a novel about robots
and AI in a posthuman world battling each other. That’s a pretty big leap from not liking the genre. What inspired you?”
Zelu would’ve thought an award-winning journalist might have more to ask than the same questions she’d answered for a dozen
other interviewers. She gestured toward her waist. “I’m paraplegic. I’ve often dreamed about removing broken parts and replacing
them with new ones like a robot can do. The connection is hard to miss.”
Amanda nodded as if Zelu had just said something incredibly profound. “Very sci-fi indeed. And now you want to make that dream
a reality?”
Zelu narrowed her eyes, not quite sure what Amanda was getting at. “If you want to see it that way. To me, it’s all a story.”
Amanda’s flaky face didn’t move, but her eyes flickered quickly toward Zelu’s waist and the lower part of her dress that covered
her exos. “Authorial intent can’t be ignored, though. There may be some who interpret this book as you rejecting the identity
of a person with disabilities.”
Zelu’s jaw unhinged. Every hair on her body stood on end. What the fuck? She glanced around the studio to see if anyone else was reacting to this, but all she could see were the hot white lights
that stung her eyes.
She must have looked stunned, because Amanda jumped in again. “I mean, right now you’re so visible. Your book is a record-breaking
number-one bestseller. I read it myself; it’s fantastic. Your movie is projected to be at the top of the box office. You’re
taking the world by storm. You must sense it, right? Don’t you feel a responsibility to, well, honestly and proudly represent yourself to the world? You’re even
wearing a dress that covers your leg tech. Why do that? Why not let the world see?”
Zelu barely heard the end of Amanda’s last sentence over her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. What the fuck was going on? This woman was supposed to ask her about her books and her road to writing. The hardest part was supposed to
be navigating comments about the shitty movie she hated so much. She’d expected Amanda might even ask about how she became
paralyzed. But this was uncalled for. How dare this artificial-looking artificial journalist accuse her of not being true to herself?
Fifteen seconds must have gone by. Amanda only sat there, waiting for her to speak.
“Are you kidding?” Zelu blurted.
“It’s a serious question,” Amanda pressed. “You’re in a powerful position, perfect to be a role model for people with disabilities,
and yet you’ve used the privilege of your monetary success to explore inaccessible technology that obscures this truth. Don’t
you think it’s worth addressing?”
Zelu clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. This could not be happening. “This... this is my life.”
Amanda tilted her head inquisitively. “What about those who look up to you, who have bought and recommended your book and
funded your success? What do you owe them?”
That was it. Something inside Zelu cracked. She felt it, right behind her rib cage. And what leaped out dashed right up her
throat and catapulted out of her mouth, straight at Amanda. “You want to judge me? Because my legs don’t work? Because I feel
some sort of way about this fact? You ask me this, as someone who probably doesn’t think twice about how she can just get
up and strut off this stage when this is over? Good for you. But I don’t owe anyone anything . I’m no one’s... I’m no one’s robot. You said you read my book? I think you need to read it again.” And then, just because she might as well say everything
she wanted to say, she added, “It’s better than the movie.”
Amanda didn’t flinch. She didn’t apologize. All she did was smirk. And that was when Zelu realized she’d just given Amanda
what she wanted. What a coldhearted asshole this woman was.
No one gave her a cue. She stood up and walked off the set.
When she got to her dressing room, she slammed the door and locked it. Not a second after, the knocking began.
Knock, knock. “Zelu!” her agent called. He sounded out of breath.
She buried her face in her hands. “Give me a few minutes!” she shouted through her fingers.
“Okay.” He paused. “Is your phone in there?”
She looked around. It was on the counter in front of the mirror. “Yeah.”
“Can you let me in?”
“No. Not yet. I need a few minutes.”
“Okay, fine,” he responded. “Just don’t look at your phone.”
She narrowed her eyes. Why was that what he was worried about at a time like this? She hadn’t really looked at it since yesterday,
wanting to avoid the dumpster fire of early reactions to the movie. But she was not in the mood to be caught unawares again.
She grabbed it, swiped it awake, and immediately saw that her social media was going nuclear. And not about the movie. She
felt dizzy. She tried to recall the specific words she’d used in the interview. She couldn’t. Her head was in too much of
a muddle. All she knew was that she’d been attacked out there, ambushed, on national TV. On one of the biggest news shows
in the country, during prime time. She scrolled through the notifications, sitting down as she read.
Bitch!
Your book is AI-generated trash.
Dumbass Africans always sell out to white people the fastest.
Even the ones with no legs.
We were so behind you!
I’m throwing my book away!
Stop lying to us. You’re actually a robot, right?
#BoycottRustedRobots
#ZeluIsTrash
#AbleistDisabledWriter
#AbleistWriter
She was hemorrhaging followers by the thousands every minute. A notification from Yebo popped up.
You seem to be receiving a large amount of negative traffic on various social media platforms. Shall I filter?
She clicked Decline.
The posts kept coming. Faster and faster. Clips from the interview manipulated to make poo come out of her mouth as she spoke.
Distorted to make her look monstrous, with glowing red robot eyes. Her body replaced with a monkey’s. Images of her cut out
and pasted into the middle of a literal dumpster fire. These were the same people who had been loving her for months. Who
had salivated at her every word, sharing, Liking, screenshotting. The hashtag views were quadrupling by the second, spreading
like a disease, flooding like water. Nothing could stop it.
More Yebo notifications offering to hide the negative activity popped up, and she declined them all. She needed to see what
was happening. She wanted to know. Let it happen in front of my face instead of behind my back , she thought.
She sat in that room for a long time. There was shouting from outside the closed door. A landline phone on the green room’s
wall kept ringing. Msizi was trying to call her cell. Her siblings were texting her. She reached into her purse, fished out
her AirPods, and stuffed them into her ears. She shut her eyes, turned on noise cancellation, and let everything fall away.
My skin is stronger than titanium. Smooth, contained, no pores. I have no mouth, ears, nostrils, vagina, urethra, anus. My
eyes are African lights. My face is a screen made of thick glass. My display is Ankara themed. I have all I need within my
body. I replace whatever I want to replace. It’s all still me. I don’t breathe, because I’m a robot. I fly into outer space.
Out here it is quiet. I’m still. I’m calm. I’m peaceful.
Zelu’s phone buzzed in her hand, breaking the spell. That idiotic woman had blindsided her, and social media picked up and ran with the accusations. Snakes in the grass, all of them. So entitled, all of them. They did not know or care what it was like to live in her body, in her mind. She opened her eyes. Her knuckles were white, clutching the corners of her phone. She felt like Dave Bowman in 2001: A Space Odyssey as he floated over to disconnect HAL. But instead of shutting off her phone, she went onto her social media platforms, bypassing
the hurricane of posts, and clicked open the text boxes. In them, she typed:
All of you can go to hell. I’ll NEVER be that poster girl that you can manipulate like a paraplegic Barbie doll. You can’t
put my arm here and push my legs there! I’m ME! Deal with it!
Post.
“Fuck you people,” Zelu muttered. She grabbed a tissue and dabbed at the tears rolling from her eyes and blew her nose. She
glanced at her feed again, and it was like sticking her head out of a window during a tornado. Words, words, words. Relentless.
Insult and hatred upon insult and hatred. Tearing and biting at her post. She dropped her phone. Let them do their worst.