Gerhard’s Reviews > Death of the Author > Status Update

When you wrote and edited and polished something so many times, it became branded into your brain. It took only a few words to bring it all back, despite the fact that she hadn’t reread the novel in years, since it was published. Yet she still could not summon book two.

“Afrrreeeeekaaaaaaaaaaah!” Zelu said, imitating her bad accent. “Deh mothahland, where eet all began!”

...she also didn’t want to educate people about her exos, or debate whether she was an American, a “diasporic,” an Africanfuturist, or an African writer.

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.

Then Zelu came through the yard and she wasn’t in her chair, she was walking. Not on regular legs. On robot legs. She was a robot herself. A tall humanoid thing with a face full of light.

These were readers, right? If they were writers, weren't they also readers?

'Though I need therapy.' They all giggled. They all did. 'Nigeria ... wow,' he continued.