Page 3 of Death of the Author
Zelu flipped some of her braids back and smirked. “I know.” Their sisters—Chinyere, the oldest of them all; Bola, the youngest; and Uzo, the second youngest—laughed as they perfected their makeup in front of the large mirror. Zelu’s own dress was buttercup yellow, and it billowed over her wheelchair, making her look somewhat like the flower. She hated it, but this wasn’therday. Whatever her sister wanted, she would do. Still, she snuck two thin bracelets made of green Ankara cloth onto her left wrist to maintain her identity. Bola’s dress was a soft carnation pink and Uzo’s was a lilac purple. Zelu had to admit, the combination of the colors with her sister’s gorgeous Technicolor sci-fi-looking wedding dress was stunning.
“Zelu, want me to help you with your makeup?” Bola asked.
“Nope,” Zelu said. “Don’t need any.”
“You’ll be sorry when you see the photos,” Uzo said, patting her already perfect midsized ’fro. She’d placed a lavender butterfly pin in it. “They’ll be all over our social media.”
“Meh, I’m not the one getting married. Today isn’t about me. And social media can deal with me looking like myself.”
“Zelu radiates an inner beauty that makeup cannot enhance, don’t you know?” Chinyere said.
They all laughed. Of course, Chinyere’s makeup was flawless and already done. Her sky-blue dress was nearly as magnificent as Amarachi’s, but it was morehowshe wore it. It was Amarachi’s day, but Chinyere was and always would be queen.
“Well, I think that’s a weak excuse for looking plain, Zelu,” Amarachi said.
“You’ll be all right,” she said, grinning. “Marriage isn’t my thing, so I don’t have to suffer it. But I can have fun watching you.” This was her naked truth. Marriage had never been in her cards. She enjoyed her freedom and autonomy too much, and she loathed the idea of someone calling her his“wife.” It just seemed ridiculous. Not that she hadn’t had the option; so far, she’d had two wonderful men propose to her: one who was named Zelu, just like her, and one named Obi, who had been her creative twin; they’d passionately dated for three years... until he got the idea of marriage into his head and ruined everything.
“Ugh,” Chinyere said. “Spare us your lecture, Zelu. Today’s a day of marriage. Deal with it.”
Their mother, Omoshalewa, came in with a large box. Inside it was a thick orange coral bead necklace and matching earrings.
“Oh boy,” Zelu said. “Here we go.”
The necklace was worth a small fortune. The others gathered around as their mother put the necklace around Amarachi’s neck. “NOW you look like the true princess you are,” Omoshalewa said. It totally threw off Amarachi’s sci-fi dress. Zelu rolled her eyes, annoyed.
“This type of coral is the finest,” their mother said. “Onlythe most powerful people in the palace can wear it.”
Zelu flared her nostrils, fighting to keep her mouth shut. It was a horrible fact: their mother was indeed a princess from a long, strong line of proud (and useless, according to her father) Yoruba royalty. This made Zelu and her sisters also princesses and their brother, Tolu, a prince, something Zelu preferred to never tell anyone, despite her mother insisting they go by “princess” and “prince” whenever they visited Omoshalewa’s hometown or spent time with their maternal relatives. Being a Nigerian American in Nigeria, and imposing the privilege of royalty on top of that, disgusted Zelu.
Today, her mother was going to be really crazy with it. Which meant there was going to be drama, because their father was from a very proud Igbo family that spat on any idea of entitled predestination and opted for embracing education and capitalism and the Lord Jesus Christ. In her father’s family, everyone did their own thing, but it wasallfor the family. Thus, every single one of her father’s siblings had earned a PhD or the equivalent and was wealthy. If they heard any of this talk of princesses andprinces and kings and queens, they’d make sure to loudly point out that it was total bullshit.
“It’s super heavy.” Amarachi laughed, adjusting the humongous necklace hanging around her neck.
“A princess can carry it,” their mother said. “Remember how Chinyere wore it.”
“Icertainly do,” Chinyere said.
“Like a pink-orange tire,” Amarachi muttered.
“We are royalty,” their mother proclaimed.
Zelu frowned and looked away. Her eyes fell on her phone. She’d silenced it and put it on the table beside her. For once, she’d completely forgotten about it. Until now. And it was vibrating. She picked it up and wheeled herself toward the window on the far side of the room. It was her boss, Brittany Burke, head of the university’s English Department.
“Hello?” she answered with a frown.
“Hi, Zelu. I know you’re in Trinidad.”
“Tobago.”
“Oh. Yeah. I get them mixed up.”
“The country is Trinidad and Tobago, but I’m on the island of Tobago,” she said. She sighed, pushing back her irritation. What did Brittany want?
“Hell, I’m surprised I can even reach you.”
“A good international package is part of my phone contract.”
“Heh, smart.” Silence.
