When I first arrived at the three-bedroom apartment of Mr. Nwokocha, Orji was just a wiry boy with firm lips, trippy toes, and thin slits for eyes, safeguarded behind thick-bottled eyeglasses. He bore a skin-punk haircut with a sharpened line to the left; the looks of a nerd. In overt elation, he clasped me so tenderly to his chest and my leaves stroked his warm boyish face. He thanked his father - Mr. Nwokocha for getting him a plant and his father, betraying a muddled comportment said, “You are a strange boy, Orji. Sometimes I wonder if you are truly my son. Boys your age would rather request a pet dog or a cat. But you seem too happy to have a Monstera plant.” I was happy too. I had a new home, away from the dusty plant shelves at Makinde junction and Orji seemed an interesting fellow whom I could hardly wait to decipher. I later discovered that Orji was only nine years old when he’d forgotten his school report card on the table. His name and age had been scribbled with a blue marker on the cover page. 

Two weeks tumbled past and I sat idly on that table, positioned in the corner of the room, away from sunlight which only stretched towards me at peak hours of the afternoon. I would elongate myself to the adjacent window to catch the fleeting rays of the sun, like the speeding headlights of the cars at Makinde junction. The junction had its perks and allures. There, I never had to worry about sunlight and water. The shopkeeper, Anjola, often flooded my pot with tap water, and the rainfall assisted on other days. But here, under Mr. Nwokocha’s roof, I stretched daily till my stem bent towards the window. Sometimes, Orji left the curtains closed, impeding the sunlight to my displeasure. This discomfort persisted when I became parched. My roots tightened beneath the soil in the brown, jug-like container. Twice, I tried to communicate my air of malaise to Orji when he sat at the table to read a book, sketch, or to cry. Yet I often ignored my plight and wondered why this little fellow was downcast and lonely. In those moments, Orji would spend prolonged hours sketching a woman so beautifully in his drawing book. His graphite pencil gradually incised her rounded jawline and piercing eyes. He carved her lips, crowned her head with an afro, and brought her to life with a meticulous shade; an impressive sketch for a boy his age. I desperately desired to know this woman, or what troubled Orji, so that I may soothe his fragile mind. Sadly, the communication gap between us persisted and tormented me like the hardened soil compressing my roots. 

When Orji left his bedroom, it was tranquil. I was alone. There was ample time to ponder over everything; Mr. Nwokocha’s sternness, Orji’s trammels, and for the most part, the tribulations of my fragile existence. Orji’s room was small, the size of Anjola’s plant shop. His bed was thin and a little longer than his height standing. There was a wooden bookshelf, a shoe rack, and a wardrobe some inches away from the bed. An oblong wall clock and a calendar hung on the wall, mostly in stillness, other times buffeted by the wind which often slipped in. The floor was covered with a blue rug that sometimes gave off an offensive smell, especially when Orji spilled water on it. I often wished the water spilled into my jug. Yet I forgave Orji for his negligence. I concocted excuses for him. He was just a boy with cosseted predicaments. He sobbed, even in his sleep. 

One day, Mr. Nwokocha walked into Orji’s room and found him crying. He snatched the belt from his belt strap and began to whip Orji, whilst screaming, “You want to cry, eh? You want to cry. I will make you cry.” Two whips and Orji hopped on his bed like a grasshopper and scrunched himself up into a fist. I curled into myself too, expecting the onslaught to end. It did not. Orji wailed and pleaded. Mr. Nwokocha continued to whip, whip, and whip, “You will cry today. You think I am not sad that your mother died? Enh? You think?” 

“No, sir,” Orji begged. 

“Then what is your problem?” He whipped. 

“Nothing, sir.” 

“Shhh.. Hold your lips! You asked for a Nintendo and I bought it. Did I not?” 

Orji bobbed his head like the red-necked lizard that often scrambled and fell off the corrugated roof of Anjola’s shop. “You asked for crayons, paints, and brushes. Did I not get them? You asked for a plant. Look at it on your table. I feed you well. I cloth and shelter you!” Mr. Nwokocha counted all five fingers. 

“Come here! Come and see the plant I got you. Come!”

Orji shuffled towards the table and stood a little close to me. 

“Look at it. You don’t water it. Look at the leaves turning yellow. Look!” He whipped and the stroke caught my stem and broke it. I watched them upended as Mr. Nwokocha stepped out of the room and slammed the door. Orji settled on the chair, expunged his tears, betrayed a scowl, and stuck his eyeglasses over his reddened eyes. And for the first time in three months, he saw me. He spoke to me. He said in a lilting voice, “I’m sorry.” And that was the last time I ever saw Orji cry. 

That evening, he watered me sufficiently and I became alive under Mr. Nwokocha’s roof. The next morning, he moved the table to the window where I received a full dose of sunlight daily. It was then I realized that sometimes misfortunes are bundled with a greater good. For even my broken stem straightened. My leaves foliaged in less than a week and just when everything seemed too good to be true, Orji began to leave the house early and return in the evenings. I soon learned that the long holidays had elapsed and school activities had resumed. I missed him. I waited impatiently for him to return home. 

In the days that unfurled, Orji refrained from crying. Yet he often arched his brows in melancholy. I longed to compel a smile across his face. I drank lots of sunlight and quickly absorbed the water deluged in the soil. And when Orji was home, I would spread my leaves broadly like a jealous lover so that he might regard me. He often reeled in like a marionette and stroked my leaves faintly, saying, “You look beautiful. I would not fail to take proper care of you.” A promise made and a promise broken in a twinkling of an eye. Although I had sunlight to my fill, Orji soon reverted to his negligence and hardly watered me. My soil gradually hardened. His books and sketches were higher up his priority. 

One evening, he returned from school with a pink cardboard, spread it across the table, and realized I was an obstacle. He picked me up and stuffed me away, close to his shoe rack. That was the darkest period of my existence. Yet, I watched him meticulously. I listened to his high-pitched voice in the lobby, toilet, sitting room, and kitchen. 

Some months later, a day I will never forget, which happened to be Orji’s birthday, Mr. Nwakocha purchased a football for Orji which he lobbed and kicked ferociously all day in the backyard. The slamming and thumping on the cement floor disturbed my ears, yet I endured it for Orji’s happiness. In the evening, when his party was to commence, Mr. Nwokocha returned home with a harsh-voiced lady and hot drinks. He and the lady drank in a stupor. The lady berated Orji in a sharp, punchy voice for disturbing her peace with his lobbing and kicking. Orji in turn called her a harlot. That day, Mr. Nwokocha deflated the football with a kitchen knife and whipped Orji blue-black for the slur. Yet, something was different about Orji. He barely cried nor begged to be spared. Orji was transforming into a hard nut and so was I. I was learning to starve and exist without the warm pleasures of sunlight and the relief of water. My beautiful leaves grew sickly, drooped, wilted, and fell one after the other until only one healthy leaf remained. Orji took notice one morning when he sat on the bed close to the shoe rack, buckling his school sandals. He transferred me to the backyard verandah. Here, I basked in the joys of sunlight and reveled in the rainfall. But I had lost the boy - Orji. 

Outside, Orji’s voice was inaudible. I admired the red-necked lizards climbing up and down the moss-infested fence all day and the rats that scurried past at night. Orji celebrated more birthdays as the years passed. His visits to the backyard were infrequent; when he needed to dispose of the trash, steal away from the house, or make a sketch away from the vigilant eyes of Mr. Nwokocha. Mr. Nwokocha abhorred it when Orji sketched and I often wondered if he was truly Orji’s father. I often anticipated our shared time which was few and far between. On this particular day, Orji made a painting of me and looked from where I sat to his drawing pad, “I hope you like it.” Then he sighed, “Why do I keep talking to myself?” 

I wanted to tell him I could hear him, that it was an exceptional painting. But the communication gap between us was a vivid obstacle. An old Ivy plant back at Anjola’s shop had told us it had mastered the art of communicating with humans. I wish I had given attention to its divulgement. Regrets! Orji left as saddened as he arrived. I continued to blossom outwardly, but on the inside, I was an empty shell, devoid of love and affection, like Orji. 

I caught glimpses of joy when Orji snuck Janet into his room when Mr. Nwokocha was away. That was the only time Orji returned

me to the table in his bedroom. His carpet smelled nice and his room was a tidy spectacle. An unfamiliar wide smile perpetually perched on his face. I would watch him swaddle Janet into himself for hours like if he let her go, she might flit away. Orji finally had a bosom friend. I was ecstatic for him, pleased that this girl - Janet brought me closer to him. When he came to the table to sketch Janet, I noticed his newly sprouting mustache and chiseled jawline. His shoulders were broader and his voice deepened when he beheld me and barked, “Janet, come and see, my monstera is sprouting another plant.” 

Janet wrapped her arms around his neck and said, “She is beautiful.” 

“She?” Orji inquired with a chuckle. 

“Yes. Can’t you see she has a child?” 

Orji laughed heartily now. Orji never laughed. I was astonished but delighted to share this moment with him. “It’s an undergrowth. I can cut it out for you.” Orji offered. “Take it home and grow it, so you always remember me.” Orji slashed a part of me with a knife and Janet took it away. I bled for days but healed eventually. My sacrifice went unnoticed. Orji did not draw close to me when Janet left. He returned me to the backyard and only sought me to embellish his room when Janet visited. Orji made new friends in an adjoining compound and returned home on Saturdays with dust-tarnished legs from kicking football. His sweat glued his white polo to his now muscular chest. He had become an attractive nerd by my standards. How had Orji grown so fast?

Days tumbled past, months eroded and one particular day, everything changed. A man visited the house with Janet. They banged the front door, got no response, and came through the backyard and banged harder. Janet was in tears. I tried to tell them no one was home. Mr. Nwokocha had yet to return from work and Orji had slunk into the next compound to kick football. Why was Janet in tears? On their way out, the man whom I later found out to be Mr. Tobias knocked me and I rolled over to the tap by the wall. I remained there, vulnerable until Orji returned, stuffed sand into my jug, and transferred me inside, but not to his room. He left me on the dining table in the sitting room. I was barely here, yet today, I watched Orji switch on his Nintendo and tap a controller passionately, sometimes slamming it to the floor in exasperation and other times jumping and stabbing his fist into the air in exhilaration. And when Mr. Nwokocha slotted his key into the door, Orji swiftly turned off the Nintendo and scuttled into his room, leaving me on the dining table where I spent the night. 

Mr. Tobias returned the next day with Janet and an outrageous complaint. It was Saturday and both Mr. Nwokocha and Orji were home. In a long story he rattled on, Orji was purported to have impregnated Janet, and he - Mr. Tobias had resolved to abort the child. He stated that if Orji were ever found with his daughter, he would be arrested and jailed. Orji disputed and violently challenged the resolve to abort the child. Mr. Nwokocha slapped him dead to the floor, and Janet ran to him where he lay. She clasped him in her embrace, both hugging and wailing. 

When Mr. Tobias left with Janet, Mr. Nwokocha broke down in tears, his big palm across his face. “Where have I gone wrong with raising you?” Then he sprang up from the cushion as if he had settled on hot coals, “You think you are now a man, enh? At sixteen, Orji! Sixteen!” He smacked Orji’s cheek again. Orji recoiled into himself and winced. “I am sending you to a military school in Lagos. You will spend your holidays in my brother’s house until you come to your senses.” 

That night, Orji left Mr. Nwokocha’s apartment and never returned. Even as I recount this sad ordeal, stuffed in a corner beside Orji’s bookshelf where Mr. Nwokocha had left me to rot, I still wonder if Orji would ever return. It seemed like Orji - the nerd, had moved on with his life.