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.
Whatmattersis 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 bepartof 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 alotyounger. 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 isalwaystalking 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 herwahala. 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, thankGod.”
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 havecontrol. Zelu? None.
Thisis 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.
