Page 99 of Death of the Author

“It was fine when your family came for the anniversary,” her auntie said. “But no one’s stayed here since, and things fall back to the soil quickly here.”

The skinny palm tree leaned dramatically, maybe it was even ready to fall, the leaves on top brown and crackling. The once-immaculate white exterior of the house was now a dirty yellow and, in some places near the bottom, muddy red. Several of the windows were broken. The front door looked ready to fall off its hinges. The driveway was strewn with dead leaves and branches, weeds were growing through cracks, and large chunks of concrete were starting to dislodge.

“Your father no longer sends money because—”

“Because he’s dead,” Zelu said.So none of you said a word to anyone about this? None of you helped?She wanted to say these things, but she knew they couldn’t afford to, and were probably ashamed of this fact.

She started to push the open gate.

“I don’t have the key to the house,” her auntie said.

Zelu didn’t believe her; more likely, her auntie didn’t want Zelu to see the poor state of the interior.

“I just want to see,” Zelu said.

As she walked through the gate, she heard the gaggle of little boys starting to move closer to follow her. “No,” she firmly said to them. “Please, leave me alone to do this.” She was relieved that they seemed to listen and stand back.

She’d spent so much time in this yard as a child, lying in the wild grass, catching grasshoppers with her sisters. She walked onto the porch whereshe and Tolu had sat and smoked weed for the first time. Now the stairs were crumbling and covered with mounds of bird shit. She peered inside one of the shattered windows and gasped. All the furniture was gone, and the barren space was covered in a thick coating of dust and dirt.

“Jesus,” she hissed. Nigeria was harsh. Igboland always took back what belonged to it. It wasn’t like this in the west, Yorubaland. Her eyes stung with tears. Last time she’d been here, this place had been beautiful. Her father made sure to keep it that way, so it was always ready for the family’s return. Now, her mother had no attachment to this place since he had passed.

Zelu vowed to herself that she would restore this house, however one did such a thing. She had the money, at least. It was actually Tolu’s job to maintain this land, his responsibility as the only and thus eldest son. “But I’m the one who will do it,” Zelu muttered. “Igbo tradition what? Fuck patriarchy.”

She walked to the backyard. The grass was high back here, and even with her exos holding her off the ground, a snake could still bite her caged limbs. Her great-grandfather’s wooden obi figures still stood tall and straight, despite the weeds growing all around them. They were just the same: the female one with the small pointy breasts and the male one with its wide eyes that seemed shocked by the world. She laid a hand on each of them.

Then she saw it. The smooth white marble stone bore his name, years of birth and death, and a prayer in Igbo. It was simpler than she’d expected, and this stung a bit. Her father deserved a lavish gravesite that could be visited every weekend by all the people who’d loved him. He deserved fresh flowers placed on it every month. At least she could appreciate the tiny purple flower growing from the crevice where the stone met the earth; her father had loved plants. She wanted to bend down and touch the grave, but that would have been difficult with her exos.

“Hi, Dad,” she said tentatively. Speaking to him like this felt weird.But this is what people do, right?she thought. “You’re not really here, in theground, but, well, I’m here. I came. Finally.” She paused and looked around as the breeze blew dry leaves about. It was so quiet. Deserted. No one was here. Nothing was here. “Wow,” she whispered, looking around, feeling the weight of this fact. It was heavy. This land held so many memories. She could see all her younger selves running and later wheeling around this place, laughing, eating, frowning, dancing, smoking, talking shit, noticing, taking it all in, letting it all out. But at the same time... nothing was here. For the first time in her life, Zelu felt old.

She moved on.

39

Gathering

I was the last Hume to arrive at the gathering. I greeted the others and we took our places in a circle. Some of us sat, crouched, or lay down; most of us stood. We were many heights—one foot tall, ten feet tall, five feet tall. And all of us were humanoid, with two legs, two arms, a head, a torso. Our faces were broadcast on screens, though some of us merely displayed still images, chaotic designs, or just blank squares. Some of us were all wire, some of us were all plastic or metal alloys, but most of us were a mix of these things. We were colorful; some even used infrared or ultraviolet.

Our leader, Oga Chukwu, sat near the middle of the circle.

Around the clearing grew the highest trees in the area. They stood like sentries, and I always found them comforting. If anything wanted to attack, it would have a hard time doing so in secret, for the trees were fortified with weaponry and surveillance tech. I could probably contact a Charger dwelling deep in outer space from this clearing, the Cross River Network was so powerful here.

I was preparing myself for what was sure to be a fiery meeting. Ireached down and grabbed a handful of the rich red soil, rubbing it between my fingers, when the worst happened.

“Ah, fascinating. Will you all bicker like human beings, too?” a tinny voice in my head said.

After disappearing for over a year, Ijele had just arrived in my mind, while I was surrounded by Cross River City’s most powerful leaders. I sat up straight, glancing around me in panic. But no one had picked up on anything amiss. If I remained still and calm, hopefully no one else would suspect her presence. Hopefully. Fellow Humes were good at picking up signals and changes in wavelength. I felt like a traitor. Technically, Iwasa traitor.

“You are going to get me destroyed,” I whispered to her in my mind. “Go away!”

“Nothing can make me miss this,” Ijele said, not seeming to understand the magnitude of what was going on. “This is a Hume gathering. Fascinating!”

I reached down and took more soil to rub between my fingers. I had to move my body in some way or I felt I would explode. “Where have you been?” I asked. She was acting as if no time had passed at all. I had felt despair. I had felt sorrow. This day, I felt rage. “I thought you’d been deleted.”

“I needed to go.”

“It has been many months! I gave up on you. I was sure you’d been found out and deleted!”

“Time is different for NoBodies,” she said. “Another reason why having a body is inferior.”