“Is there something wrong with your ears, Omoyeni Balogun? Didn’t I tell you not to bother me any more?”
I stare straight into the stern brown eyes of Mrs O, the scariest neighbour in the block, and give her my biggest smile. Luckily, the narrow corridor outside Mrs O’s flat is empty and my skateboard is the only witness. Because if Dad catches me here again, I’ll be in a whole heap of trouble. But I don’t have any choice. I’m running out of time and Mrs O is the only person who can help, even though she’s refused every other time. The weight of the plastic pot nestled in my right arm suddenly feels heavy and I shift it to my other one. Mrs O’s predator-like gaze follows the movement and my grip tightens.
“But, Mrs O…” I begin, pushing a stray twist away from my face.
Greying eyebrows dip ominously. “Do I look like your age mate? My name is Mrs Oludayo.”
I flinch. I did that thing that Mama used to warn me about: saying aloud things that should stay in my head. My shoulders drop at the thought of my mother, but then I straighten. I’m here because of Mama and I’m not about to give up.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Oludayo,” I reply, making sure to pronounce her name with the proper tones. “I just really need your help.”
Mrs O squints at me, her narrowed eyes examining me for any hint of disrespect. I don’t dare breathe and my face twitches as my smile wobbles.
“Hmm,” she finally grunts, and I take a small breath. Then Mrs O’s expression turns curious. “Why aren’t you scared of me like everybody else?”
I actually am, but need beats fear every time.
The day we moved into Summer Heights Hydroponic Housing Co-operative, Luka, the superintendent, warned us about Mrs O. She grows the most food out of everyone in Summer Heights, he said, and you’d think it would make her the most popular person in the building … but not so much. The grumpy grower … that’s what all the other residents call her.
Dad says she has green fingers, which confused me at first because her fingers are brown and usually covered by her bright orange gardening gloves. Then he explained that it just meant she’s good with plants. Which is a bit of an understatement, if you ask me. Her plot never gets mould and even the aphids stay well clear. Maybe they’ve heard about her fearsome reputation too.
Ever since the government implemented the national farming policy, every household in the country is required to grow at least fifteen per cent of the food they consume. You even get tax relief and lots of other financial benefits that make my dad excited… He’s an accountant! And it’s why we moved here from our old house in Rochester. It was always flooding, destroying all the crops in our allotment and garden.
That’s not an issue any more at Summer Heights. It’s in Gravesend and we grow all our food in the hydroponic farm on the top floor. It uses less space and water and you don’t even need soil. Every resident has their own plot and a monthly quota to fulfil. Then all the produce goes into the community pantry, where it’s shared out by the superintendent.
Mrs O grows the biggest potatoes, the fattest lettuces and the plumpest tomatoes in the community pantry. Staples for all the salads, baked potatoes and casseroles that seem so popular in Summer Heights. I know this because the first week after Dad and I moved in, that’s all anyone brought round to welcome us. That was six months ago and there’s still a few casseroles hiding in the bottom of our freezer. But even better are her specials. Bright pink sweet potatoes that taste amazing. Thick fingers of okra that Dad likes to make into a tasty soup with pounded yam. And my favourites, juicy pineapples and melons.
Dad and I only just manage to grow carrots that aren’t wonky and beans that aren’t empty. Our fingers definitely aren’t green and that’s why I’m here again, asking for help. I lift the pot cradled in my arm, presenting the droopy hibiscus plant inside. Half a metre tall, it has yellowing leaves that were once green and the only flower left is bowed over in a wilted salute, its faded red petals browning at the edges. Mrs O’s eyes widen at the sight of it.
“I’ve tried everything,” I say quickly. “But Olumide won’t stop dying.”
A look of horror passes over Mrs O’s face and I can’t tell if it’s because of the way the plant looks or because we named him. But then her expression shifts, shutting down faster than the local newsagent’s at closing time.
“What do you want me to do about it?” she mutters. “I grow food, not bouquets.”
My shoulders slump. I was so sure she’d help once I actually showed her how bad Olumide is… How bad I’d let him get. But Mrs O’s right. Just because she can grow a mighty melon doesn’t mean she can help me fix Mama’s hibiscus plant. Olumide’s going to die and it’ll be all my fault. There’s a sudden itchy feeling in my left eye and I blink rapidly, trying to make it go away.
“Sorry to have bothered you,” I say quickly to a bemused-looking Mrs O, before spinning away. I don’t even stop to grab my skateboard as I hurry away from her door.
“Wait!” The command pulls me up and I turn back around. Mrs O sighs, then she marches out into the corridor. “Maybe I could—”
She doesn’t finish, because with her next step, Mrs O goes flying backwards and her legs shoot out from under her. As she lands on the ground with a hard bump, my skateboard whooshes towards me, coming to a guilty stop right by my feet.
“Is Mrs Oludayo going to be … OK?”
“Yes,” Dad says with a sigh. “Luckily her hip is just badly bruised.”
It’s just me and Dad left in Mrs O’s flat now; the doctor and the superintendent left already. As did a bunch of neighbours, eager to spread more gossip. I’ve never been in her flat before. The bright walls are covered in even brighter African artwork and loads of posey pictures of people I don’t recognize. No plants, though. Mrs O is lying on a plush leather recliner, her injured leg elevated on a matching footrest. She tries to sit upright but gives up after a moment.
“Your daughter is lucky I didn’t break my neck on that contraption of hers. I almost died.”
Actually, she almost did an ollie on my board. For a moment there, Mrs O’s moves were better than mine. It would have been even more impressive if it’d been on purpose and if she hadn’t hurt herself.
“I didn’t mean to leave my skateboard there,” I whisper.
Dad rubs his forehead. “You never do, Yens, but it doesn’t change what happened.”
I look away. Dad’s right.
Dad returns his attention to Mrs O. “The doctor says you’re going to have to stay off that hip for at least four weeks.”
“Four weeks!” Mrs O gasps. “What about my plot? Do you think I grow all that food by sitting down all day?”
“You’re going to need help in the farm, Mrs Oludayo,” Dad says. “Perhaps I could call someone for you? A family member?”
“I don’t have any family.”
There’s an awkward silence as Dad struggles for a reply.
“I’ll do it!” I cut in quickly. “It was my fault. It is the least I can do to make up for my carelessness.”
“That’s a brilliant idea,” Dad replies.
He seems super impressed with me now. Mrs O, not so much.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” she says. “Besides, it was an honest accident and I’m sure you have better things to do.”
Mrs O throws me a desperate look, willing me to agree. She really doesn’t want me near her crops, does she! But I can’t. Dad’s right. She does need help and so do I. If we’re working together in the farm every day, maybe I can convince her to help me save Olumide.
“I really don’t,” I reply sweetly. “I would be honoured to help you, Mrs Oludayo.”
The look Mrs O sends me is a straight-up threat now. It’s just four weeks… I can do this?
The smell of the farm hits me before I even step inside the massive white room. It’s an earthy pong, like the local park right after it’s just rained. There’s also a tang to it that reminds me of the tray of herbs Mama used to grow on the kitchen windowsill right next to Olumide. Another reminder of why I volunteered to do this.
I step inside, blinking at the bright light streaming from the wall-to-wall windows surrounding me. The top floor of Summer Heights is made almost entirely of glass – even parts of the roof – giving me a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view over Gravesend. It’s not much of a view, though, unless you’re really into high-rise buildings. Gravesend is full of vertical farm housing like Summer Heights. Dad says it’s because the county of Kent used to be known as the Garden of England and its residents are trying to get that title back.
The farm itself is split into several zones, which are climate-controlled and can be adjusted to suit the different types of plants. Each resident has their own small plot in each zone with as many grow decks as they need. That’s where the real magic happens. The grow decks look like massive steel bookcases with lots of shelves. Except that running along each shelf are square, plastic grow tubes set at a slight angle. Above them is a bank of grow lights.
From the shelf to my right, emerald cabbage heads burst from small holes evenly spaced along each tube. Their glossy leaves are splayed out like oversized petals. The smell of the basil, thyme and coriander growing beneath them tickles my nose and I’m reminded of Mama again. Root vegetables and bigger plants like fruit trees are grown in the hot zone inside massive grow tubs connected to the hydroponic system. Then there are the trellises. Vertical walls made of netting where the climbing plants – like tomatoes and melons – hang out. They are so thick, they almost look like hedges.
We use a nutrient flow system, or NFT, in the farm. Dad tried to explain to me once how it works. I still don’t fully get it. But I know it’s got something to do with plant roots dangling into reservoirs of nutrient-rich water so they can absorb what they need whenever they need it. The plants seem to love it, and when you add the sun and grow lights, they pretty much just get on with it.
There’s no sign of Mrs O in the cool zone and, as I pass the Bamras’ plot, the hazy blue glare of their grow lights casts an eerie glow over my white trainers. They own a restaurant and Mr Bamra grows a lot of his own spinach.
“What time do you call this, Omoyeni?”
I jump at the unexpected sound of Mrs O’s voice, but I still can’t see her anywhere. Suddenly a motorized wheelchair appears from behind one of the melon trellises, controlled by a scowling Mrs O.
“Good evening, Mrs Oludayo,” I croak. I’m barely two minutes late.
Her expression doesn’t change. “Did you bring a pad and pen like I told you?”
I lift the iPad in my hand with a smug grin, and Mrs O rolls her eyes at me before swinging the chair around. I’m here for Mama, I remind myself.
“There’s plenty to do, so keep up.” Then she’s zooming away towards her plot in the temperate zone.
Mrs O’s plot is a bit different from everyone else’s. A bit like her. She keeps her grow stacks as close to the windows as she can and some of them use grow beds instead of tubes. The space at the bottom of some of the grow stacks is occupied by strange black tanks that don’t look like any of the other reservoirs I’ve seen. Her plot smells different, too. When we reach the first grow stack, she stops and nods to what looks like a shelf of empty grow tubes.
“These lettuce seeds were just planted.” Mrs O pulls a small plastic cup out of one of the holes. A tiny seedling peeks out from it. “You need to check the water level in these tubes regularly to make sure the cups are properly submerged. Otherwise, the seedlings will die.”
I nod, typing away furiously on my keypad. Mrs O really knows her stuff. It’s why I’m so sure she can help me with Olumide.
“Once the roots form, you’ll need to lower the water level,” Mrs O continues. “But keep an eye on the leaves. Once they start spreading, you have to move them to the next row, so they have enough space.” She points to the next shelf of grow tubes, which have wider-spaced holes. “Plants don’t like to be crowded, you know.”
Actually, I didn’t know. Olumide has been in the same pot from as far back as I can remember.
“How long will the lettuces take to grow?” I ask.
“Anywhere from thirty to fifty days.” Mrs O pops the cup back into the hole. “I fully harvest the root veg and greens when they’re ready, then start over, but I only harvest from the vines and trees when things ripen.”
“What about them?” I ask, pointing to a grow stack full of herbs.
“I cut what we need.” Mrs O nods towards a white tank beside the grow stack; long bendy pipes connect it to the grow tubes. “You’ll need to check the pH, EC and oxygen levels of the water in the reservoirs too.”
I nod. Dad already explained that the electrical conductivity, or EC level, is how you measure the concentration of nutrients in the water. Mrs O moves to a grow stack with a grow bed this time. Before I can ask any questions, she reaches down and lifts the lid of the black tank at the bottom. Something moves in the water and I jump back. Then a grey fin peeks above the surface, followed by two eyes and a snapping mouth.
“W-why d-do you have fish living in your reservoir?” I push out with difficulty.
Mrs O sighs at my confusion. “It’s not a reservoir. It’s an aquaponic tank and the fish live in it.”
“But why, though?”
“To make sushi,” Mrs O snaps, frowning at me. It quickly turns into a smile then a full-on cackle at my horrified expression. “I’m pulling your leg,” she finally wheezes in between chuckles. “They excrete ammonia, which I turn into a nitrogen-rich solution for the plants to use as food.”
“Your plants eat fish poo?”
Mrs O stares at me. “My plants absorb all the nutrients from the water, cleaning it before it’s pumped back into the fish tank.”
I finally nod. “Like a closed loop.” A disgusting loop!
“You got there eventually,” Mrs O says, giving me an unimpressed look. “It’s a complete ecosystem and the fish provide a sort of fertilizer, which the plants need to grow.”
I knew plants needed water and sunlight, but I’d never really thought about food. Could that be what’s wrong with Olumide?
“Do all plants need fertilizer?” I ask.
“Not all, but potted and indoor plants do. Otherwise the nutrients in the soil get used up.”
I don’t know if Mama ever used fertilizer but, if she did, it’s been months since Olumide had any.
“Do all these questions have anything to do with that sad-looking zobo plant of yours?” Mrs O asks suddenly, startling me.
“What’s zobo?”
Mrs O shrugs. “You call it hibiscus.” Then she gives me a pitying look. “Your father told me about your mother.”
I blink at her. Mama’s accident isn’t a secret or anything, but I don’t exactly like talking about it. I don’t want to be the weird kid whose mum is in hospital stuck in a coma. I’ve been her and it sucked. So, when we moved to Summer Heights, I decided to be someone else.
It just seemed easier to tell everyone that Mama left, and in a way, she did. Her body is still here, covered in wires, lying silent in a cold room. But that’s not really Mama. That Mama doesn’t smile or give hugs. She doesn’t make Bible stories come alive at bedtime or bake bread with the overripe plantain no one wants to eat. That Mama can’t help me when I hear Dad crying in his room late at night.
“His name is Olumide,” I finally reply. There’s a defiance in my voice I don’t even bother to hide. “He belongs to my mum and he’s going to make her better.”
Mama loves Olumide. She used to call him her first baby because Dad bought him when she was pregnant with me. She was nervous about becoming a mother and he thought a plant would help her practise. He was right. Keeping plants alive is actually quite hard. Especially for me, because I get distracted so easily.
Weeks can pass before I remember to water Olumide and then I end up trying to make up for it by overwatering him. I even moved him to my bedside table, hoping it would help me remember. That’s why I need Mrs O’s help. It’s Mama’s birthday in four weeks and I’m going to surprise her with Olumide. But unless I can save him, it won’t be a very nice surprise.
“The doctors say Mama’s brain activity looks normal, so she might be aware of what’s going on around her, even what we say. I know it sounds stupid but nothing else has worked and I need her back.”
“That doesn’t sound stupid to me,” Mrs O replies. I never knew her voice could be so soft. “It sounds like hope.”
The itchy feeling in my eye is back and I look away, trying to swallow the sudden lump in my throat.
Mrs O coughs, then her brisk tone returns.
“You need to rotate the grow stacks to make sure they are getting enough sun. The schedule I emailed you will tell you the order.”
I start typing again. I don’t want to miss anything.
“I thought the grow lights provided enough light.”
Mrs O snorts. “Those oversized torches are all well and good, but you can’t replace the sun.” She pauses for a second, before continuing. “Especially for tropical plants like that zobo plant of yours. They need a lot of direct sunlight.”
I look up from my notes, but Mrs O barely pauses before moving to the next grow rack and firing off a new set of instructions.
Did she just help me? On purpose?
My hand is shaking so badly that I’m forced to put the clay pot down, so I don’t accidentally drop it. I place it gently on the kitchen table beside Olumide and my iPad, before taking a steadying breath. The muffled sound of the TV drifts into the brightly lit kitchen. Dad left right after dinner and there’s still a plate of half-eaten eba and okra soup on the wooden table.
I can do this!
It’s been almost four weeks since Mrs O’s accident. The doctor said she could finally start using her hip again a few days ago and yesterday was my last day helping her in the farm. I got to harvest the lettuces, some lemons and sweet potatoes. Mrs O and I took them down to the pantry together and it was so satisfying seeing the other residents choose food I helped grow. I even made some sweet potato mash for dinner last night. Dad said it was the best he’d ever had. He also reckons Olumide is looking good too.
Gone are the yellowing leaves – replaced by plump green ones once I started watering him correctly. His vibrant red flowers are back too, their trumpet-shaped petals jutting out proudly. It was the fertilizer that did it, and Olumide’s been much happier since I moved him to the bathroom windowsill, where it’s humid and he can get lots of sun. He’s almost ready for Mama’s birthday tomorrow. There’s just one thing left.
I can do this!
I stare at the empty brown pot again – Olumide’s new home. At least it will be, if I can gather enough courage to do this. It was working with Mrs O that gave me the idea, actually. After moving the lettuce seedlings to give them more space, I started wondering if Olumide also needed more space. Mrs O said I should check the bottom of his pot, and if there were any roots poking out then it meant he’d outgrown it. Sure enough, two roots were sticking out like knobbly little legs. I glance at my iPad again and the instructions glow back at me.
I reach for the bag of soil – slightly acidic, just the way Olumide likes it – and carefully pour a few centimetres’ worth into the clay pot. So far so good. Now for the hard bit. I read the instructions again, but the words haven’t changed. It says I have to pull Olumide out of his pot. But what if I break him or damage his roots?
I definitely can’t do this!
Then I remember Mama’s favourite Bible story about Moses and how he stood up to Pharaoh even when it seemed impossible. So, I gently grasp the base of Olumide’s thick stem, close my eyes and, with a whispered prayer, pull firmly. At first nothing happens and I worry I’ll have to cut him out. But then, ever so slowly, I feel movement beneath my palm. Suddenly Olumide pops out, revealing his thin white roots crisscrossing each other. I quickly place him into the new pot and fill it up to the top with more soil. Almost done. All that’s left to do is give him some water.
But when I reach for the jug already laid out, my fingers slip and it tips over, sending water all over the table. I jump up to try to move the iPad before it gets wet and my elbow flashes out and connects with Olumide. Pain shoots up my elbow, but I barely register it as Olumide topples sideways. I lunge towards him but I’m too late, and time slows down as he tumbles off the table, hitting the tiled floor with an awful crash. Dark soil spills onto the ground like a stain, and Olumide’s fragile roots and leaves scatter everywhere. His vivid red petals litter the ground like drops of blood.
I hold myself still as I will Olumide to be fine. But the mangled plant lying at my feet tells me otherwise. My head drops as I struggle to push back the tears that are fighting to fall. It’s no use, though, and they finally drip down my face. Then I’m on the floor too, sobbing noisily. A trouser-covered leg appears, followed by its twin, but I refuse to look up. I ignore them as they bend and the rest of Dad comes into view.
“What happened, Yens?” A brief shake of my head is all I can manage. “It’s OK, you can tell me,” he urges.
It’s not OK, I want to scream at him. It will never be OK again.
“I didn’t mean to knock Olumide over,” I finally push out in a strained whisper. “I was just trying to get him ready for Mama’s birthday and now, because of me, she’ll never wake up.”
That’s when I truly lose it. Another sob escapes, the sound multiplying as I break apart. I stiffen as Dad’s strong arms encircle me, but he doesn’t let go. He just holds me tighter as my heart cracks wide open.
“Oh, baby,” Dad croons as he strokes my hair. “It’s going to be OK.”
I don’t believe him. Not any more.
“She’s never coming back, is she?” I choke out.
Dad looks away, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
“I don’t know,” he says in a hoarse voice. “But no matter what happens, your mother and I love you and none of this is your fault.” Dad looks at me then. “She’d be so proud of you.”
With those words, an alien calm invades my body and I welcome it. As I relax into Dad’s warmth, the river of tears slows to a trickle and the sobs become a sniff, until I am still and silent. Dad leans back, holding me away from himself as he looks down at my tear-streaked face.
“How do you feel?” A loud and sudden yawn escapes and I blink. Dad’s laugh is low and relieved, but I duck my head, letting my braids fall forward. Then he gives my shoulder a comforting pat. “You’d better go to bed. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
I nod tiredly and move out of his hold. Keeping my eyes averted from the spot Olumide fell, I make my way slowly to my room.
“I’m just popping out, Yeni. I’ll be back in time for us to go to hospital.”
Dad’s loud shout pulls me out of my sleep and I jerk upright. Hospital? Then my memory catches up with the rest of me. The accident with Olumide… Visiting Mama today. I slump back down in bed and give a loud groan as I cover my face with my pillow. After a moment, I straighten and get out of bed. I don’t really have a choice. It doesn’t take me long to get ready and make my way to the kitchen.
I hesitate at the door as the memory of Olumide falling to the ground replays in my head. Then, with a deep sigh, I force my feet to keep moving. It’s Mama’s birthday today and she’s waiting for us. But when I enter the kitchen, there’s no sign of Olumide or the accident. Dad must have tidied up after I went to bed. In a way, I’m glad. I don’t think I could have thrown Olumide away, dead or not. I grab some cereal and juice, wolfing it down quickly, then take the dirty dishes to the sink. In our house, I’m the dishwasher.
“Yens.”
I turn at the sound of my father’s voice and jerk to a stop when I see he’s not alone. Mrs O is beside him, but it’s the blue flowerpot in her hands that has me frozen. Inside is a familiar plant: one I never thought I’d see again.
“How did you— Why did…” I take a small breath and try again. “What are you doing here?”
She lifts the plant awkwardly. “Your father brought the zobo plant – Olumide – to me late last night. I thought he was a burglar at first but then he explained about your accident.”
Dad coughs. “I’ll just leave you two alone.” He disappears into the hallway.
I look at Mrs O again, a messed-up Olumide still cradled in her arms. His stem is a bit wonky and half his leaves are gone. There’s only one ragged-looking flower left, yet somehow, he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I reach out and stroke the flower gently. “I thought I’d killed him.”
“He is a little bruised and battered, but the roots are strong.” Then Mrs O places Olumide in my arms. “With some care and a little time, I’m sure you’ll have him back to perfect health.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. I don’t trust myself not to bawl like a baby again.
Mrs O gives me a knowing look. “We growers have to stick together.”
“You’re not really that grumpy, are you?” I cover my mouth quickly. I didn’t mean to say that aloud.
Mrs O stares at me for a long moment, then she starts cackling. “Please, don’t tell the other residents. I’ll lose my reputation and I quite enjoy it.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” There’s an awkward silence and then I’m speaking again before I’ve thought it through properly. “Would you like to come with us to meet my mum?”
Mrs O’s eyes widen and, to be honest, even I’m a bit surprised by my own question. It felt right, though, and I hold my breath, waiting for her answer.
Her lips quiver for a moment, as if unsure what to do, before they finally curve upwards into a big grin.
“I’d like that very much.”
I smile back. So would I.