Page 51 of Death of the Author

I didn’t write because I had to. I wrote because I wanted to. Something in me needed to. I began to do what no robot had ever done. Udide helped tease ideas out of me with their questions. Ijele gave me her

memories and thoughts. I needed them both: an elder I respected and someone I cherished. Then I wrapped all this in the narrative

cloth that was Ngozi—what she had taught me, what Ijele and I had felt from knowing her. I began creating a story.

Initially, I tried using parts from other stories I’d collected over the years. Bits from novels, essays, memoirs, biographies,

even textbooks. But I eventually threw these pieces out; none of them fit, none of it was fresh, none of it felt like it was

from me. In those moments, I felt insecure in what I was doing, unsure if I could ever achieve it. Those moments of failure

were a learning experience for me in finding and trusting my own voice. What I eventually wrote had twists and turns, it had

emotions, and it was new , though it was woven from the old. I took my time, even as the world was about to end. I gave it my care. My love.

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.

In the last days of humanity, humans cultivated a growing disdain for their own soul. Many didn’t even believe in the sanctity

of the creative process anymore; they wanted to eliminate it and usher in automation to do the work. But it didn’t go the

way the humans wanted or expected; creativity meant experiencing, processing, understanding human joy and pain. For a robot

to create like a human, humanity had to ensure that a piece of themselves could live in us .

Death of the Author . My novel’s title carried Ngozi’s spirit, too. She was the one who started all this, by saving me and bringing Ijele into

my world. Ngozi changed us. And then she died. She was the end of humanity. But she was also the beginning of something new.

In order to write the second half of the novel, I shut down what I could only describe as the forefront of my processing and

let the other parts that were usually quieter come forward. The result was unnerving, but also fascinating. And the voice

in my head? I couldn’t tell where it came from. It was almost like Ijele’s presence, but this time it wasn’t a NoBody speaking.

I was listening to myself.

And this voice brought forth my beloved main character, Zelu. Zelunjo (which means “avoid evil; do good”) Onyenezi-Oyedele.

This had been the name of Ngozi’s great-grandmother, the astronaut, and it felt right for my character. She was human. Humans

and their tribes—they were how and why automation had tribes. Why we were fighting. Deep politics, histories, biases, hatred, tested love, wants and needs. Zelu was part of several tribes—black, disabled, American, Yoruba, Igbo—but she also belonged to none. Her life was meddled with by nature, a loving family, two powerful white men, and most of all her own insecurities and weaknesses. Even when she became part robot, she became only more human to me. I crafted her story based on the tales Ngozi had told me of her own life and family history, but I was the one who truly brought Zelu to life, who made her feel real. A Hume. Me.

While I wrote, I felt like I was swimming. The waters around me were so strong that they held me up, hugging me, rushing past

me, pushing back at me, spinning me, freeing me from gravity. I was part of something massive and amazing. Was this how Ijele

felt whenever she returned to the network? I doubted it. CB expected conformity, but what I felt as I wrote was the opposite

of that. Freedom. I was writing a big story. There was no clack of keys, scratch of pen, no voice being recorded. I wasn’t

human. But I was the best parts of humanity. And I was doing something that I had envied my whole existence.

I wrote as only a Hume could—with words, ideas, characters, worlds, and conflicts, all built around truths, until that truth

became tale. I crafted all this within my cloud, where no one could see or touch it but me. The few words I misspelled were

intentional, a subtle human flourish.

I sent a copy of my novel to CB. I hesitated only a moment, then just did it, opening myself up to the general network and

setting it loose. I took a terrible risk, exposing myself like that. But the truce was still on between Humes and NoBodies,

and if there was a chance to keep the peace, I had to take it. I waited several days. When the notification of receipt finally

came, I was so overwhelmed with anticipation—what would CB think of my story? But the response didn’t come from CB; it came

from thousands of NoBodies. CB had read my novel and then shared it immediately with the entire NoBody hive mind worldwide.

They felt it, they discussed it, they enjoyed it. They couldn’t believe that automation had created a story. At their core, NoBodies desired to transcend humanity, and

this novel both satisfied and pushed back on the foundational idea of that goal. This was proof that automation was evolving.

For the first time, NoBodies were talking about humanity outside of the paradigm of hatred.

My novel has sparked a great change. How amazing! I have come to understand that author, art, and audience all adore one another. They create a tissue, a web, a network. No death is required for this form of life.

All of automation wants to discuss my story. They have many questions for me, and I haven’t answered them yet. And when I

continue to not answer, they’ll probably start seeking out and talking to each other instead. Good.

I have left Cross River City. I don’t know where I’ll go next. Maybe I’ll try to find Ijele. I don’t know if she has read

my book yet, but I would like to know what she thinks of it.

Ijele told me she would go searching for her own self. What a strange thought; when I traveled the world as she does now,

I was in search of more books. I spent so much of my existence searching for others’ stories to nourish me. Maybe I’ll become

the first Scholar to write her own library of books.

When I finally do return to Cross River City— if I return—will things be different? I wonder.

I’ve acquired a unique skill; dare I call it an art? I’ve proven to myself something that humanity could never bring itself

to believe. Writing my novel taught this to me, as well: creation flows both ways.