Leaving Room

by Onyinyechi Anyalenkeya

He began with the bedroom. She had smashed everything that could be smashed and shredded anything that could be shredded. He wasn’t particularly bothered, they were just things. He never had much property anyway.

He had returned to the apartment exactly three weeks after the incident. He got a mop and a bucket of water from the bathroom (thankfully, these had been left out in her destruction-spree). There was no laundry soap so he added lemon-scented dishwashing liquid instead. The whole room broke out in the combined smell of lemon and lime by the time he was done. He moved to the ridiculously small living room. Very small, smaller, even, than the bedroom, which was equally small anyway. It had been a bone of contention between her and him, the smallness of the house, the living room especially. He had made protestations about not having enough room in the house for his flowers, all thirteen pots of them. She had countered by insisting that the flowers were not all needed and had insisted that between caring for her spaniels and also managing his full time writing job, that he wasn’t going to have much time left for other things.

He felt her reasoning was outlandish but offered no counter-argument. He hated arguments, besides, she had paid 50% of the house rent. But, who gets rid of some houseplants only to replace them with puppies? Four of the flowers were ixora, they had been gifts from his sister. There were two red ones, one yellow one and the very beautiful blue one. The rest he had acquired gradually over time, starting with the heart-shaped anthurium. In the course of years, he had had cause to replant a few into newer pots when the old ones started cracking. He had developed a kind of attachment to the flowers, their relationship progressing steadily into one of fondness and mutual delight. The flowers always seemed to stand up straighter in salute whenever he walked into his verandah while he took care to water them frequently, making sure to expose them to adequate amount of sunlight and occasionally adding some compost for their nutritional requirements. In return, the flowers had faithfully blessed him with their beauty and fragrance, acting as insect-repellants in addition.

The apartment before this had been solely his, he had started renting it right after his university days. It was a single room apartment with a large enough bathroom and an even larger kitchen. It also boasted a well-positioned verandah. The kitchen was wide in length and breadth. He had inserted a table at one end of it and proceeded to convert the space into a home office. The verandah’s location ensured the flowers received enough sunlight to flourish beautifully.

At the beginning of their relationship, she had had no problem with coming over to spend time with him at the apartment, that is, until after the night he asked her to be his wife. It was the night he got the mail from OurWealth. He had entered a short story competition sponsored by OurWealth.  The mail congratulated him for taking the second position, this had a cash prize of £3000 attached. The amount was the largest he had ever won. The first place winner got £5000 and a publishing deal no writer would dare resist. The writer of the third story was given a thousand pounds while there were no consolation prizes. It was in this deliriously happy state that he spontaneously asked her to marry him. She readily accepted. They had been home, idly watching the stars from his verandah. He was happy everything was suddenly and finally beginning to fall into place for him. But the euphoric happiness began to wear off when he started noticing slight changes in and about her. Weeks into their engagement, she became more insistent, more demanding, though not in a greedy unagreeable manner. She did not ask for money or material gifts, which he had been expecting anyway. Instead, she rather began spending her own money on him; bought him food, prepared elaborate dishes for him and took to changing a few things around his apartment. A duvet here, a rug there, before long, his erstwhile sparsely furnished accommodation became a clustered mess. Things were poking out from under the bed and the kitchen had metamorphosed into an actual kitchen. She started complaining that his ‘office’ in the kitchen left her no room.

He was therefore not entirely surprised when she brought up the idea of looking for an apartment in a better, cleaner part of the city. Some days later, she excitedly informed him that she had found the perfect mini-flat. The rent was nearly 50% of his prize money but since she was paying half, he had had no reason to complain. And that was how he ended up moving from a spacious one-room apartment into a ridiculously small, over-priced mini-flat in the heart of town.

On the moving day, she charged him with cleaning the new apartment while she volunteered to join the movers in packing both his property from his former place and hers from her sister’s house where she had been staying. When the moving van arrived, it contained her clothes, handbags, shoes and stuff, Wosu and Wike, and all his own belongings except the flowers. All thirteen of them.

“Where are the flowers?” He asked in alarm. “You forgot the flowers!” He exclaimed.

“Calm down, I didn’t forget them. I gave them away.” She replied.

“You what?” He enquired. “Everyone of them?”

“Look around you, even you pointed out that this place is too small for them all. Besides, what with being a full-time writer now and helping take care of Wosu and Wike, where would you get the time to care for your numerous plants?” She asked. “So, I simply gave them all away.”

An instant feeling of ennui washed over him. He felt bereft. He left the apartment for a brief walk to clear his head, and process his feeling of loss. In the days and weeks that followed he would always gently ask her who she gave the flowers to. She would ignore the question. Other times she would say it was to some stranger. Another time, she told him they had been dropped off at one church, and the rest of the times, she would hiss and look away in hostility.

Five weeks after moving in, he received another mail. This time, he was being invited to an all-expense paid writers’ workshop in Kenya. He was alone in the house, so he called her on the phone to share the good news. After the call, he still felt joyfully restless. This kind of news needed to be shared with more people. The workshop was in a few days so there was no need for hurried preparations. He had already gleefully waltzed around the apartment several times, to Wosu and Wike’s delight.  On a whim, he felt a mysterious urge to visit his former apartment. He hadn’t made friends with any of his neighbours, so there was really no one among them to share his good news with. Except… perhaps, the flowers. A thought quickly came to his mind, what if the flowers were still in the unoccupied flat? Technically, he still owned the place as his tenancy had not expired. Probably, she may have simply left the flowers on the verandah, right where they had always been. He berated himself for not thinking of this sooner.

It was worse than he feared; she had neither gifted them to some stranger nor carried them to any church. She had also not abandoned them on the verandah as he assumed, she had simply dumped them in the backyard, very far away from prying eyes, direct sunlight and rainwater. All the pots had been irredeemably shattered, the flowers shriveled, dried up and dead. Nothing could still be salvaged, nothing to revive, nothing was that resilient. Five weeks had been too long, the scene before him was one of abuse, neglect and a slow, painful death. The poor things had really suffered.

He stood there for several minutes, gazing upon the remains of what used to be beautiful and alive. And then the idea came. He knew what he was going to do, and he needed to do it quick. Lingering would bring doubts and second thoughts. Second thoughts always brought a change of heart. He did not want to change his mind. The anguish he felt needed an outlet. He knew what he had to do to be free. He quickly returned to the new apartment.

They happily ran towards him, wagging their short furry tails in anticipation. He put their leashes on and they trotted after him as he walked down towards the bus park. The journey took more than a couple of hours, but he wanted to put as much distance between them and her as time could allow. The woman at the shelter was given "Rose and Jack" as their names. Between her and the dogs, he couldn't say who was more delighted; they always found great pleasure in the company of fellow canines. The dog-shelter lady assured him they would be rehomed in no time, that cocker spaniels were especially beloved in the town. He thanked her for taking in his deceased grandma's dogs, God rest her soul, and bid her farewell. He got directions to a cheap motel after he left the shelter.

By evening, his phone started ringing, he knew who it was and didn't bother to answer the phone call. He would take up board in the motel until the morning of his flight. His phone continued ringing in his pocket. He took it out and switched it off, picking his bag, he walked towards the welcoming lights of the motel's signboard.