Bewon cannot believe his eyes. He actually rubs them to be sure, and he is aware of how ridiculous that gesture is.
He is standing in the doorway to the kitchen after a restful night’s sleep. He is looking at the plant, lush growth projecting from his sink to a height of about six or seven feet, with a thick trunk—too large to be called a stem—and spines that look like crossbow quarrels. It even has a flower, pale pink, shooting off to the left of the main structure.
“Jesu…”
How did it grow so big so fast? What is it rooted in? Bewon has no science, but a part of his brain knows that plants need sunlight. How did it thrive in the dark?
He steps in and hears a splash. There is water on the floor of the kitchen. He can hear a faint hiss from underneath the sink and he knows it is a leak.
“Olodumare, ki ni mo se?” Lord, what is my sin?
Bewon leaves his apartment barefoot and walks to the end of the corridor. He peeps out of the window at the garbage cans, half expecting a new growth of the cuttings from last night, but there is no such thing.
He returns to his flat and takes his grandfather’s cutlass from the closet. He stomps into the kitchen and swings at the trunk. The reaction is instantaneous, like a Touch-me-not, only more violent. Even as the laceration in the trunk oozes sap, the leaves shudder, and a dust rises into the air. Bewon sneezes, inhales, sneezes again, drops the cutlass.
He feels dizzy. A shimmering light coats every object in his field of vision, changing their tones into primary colours, like a cartoon. He places a hand on the wall for support, then slides into the water, not minding the wetness. His hands glow with a celestial light.
“Uh.”
He lies down, facing the ceiling. There is a pattern up there, like a map of a country. It is fascinating, even though Bewon knows it is the result of a leak from upstairs. It glows too, like everything else.
He feels like he is going to be sick. Bitter bile seeps out of his empty belly.
He drifts for a time, then a sharp pain causes him to cry out. The angle of the shadows has changed and Bewon knows hours have passed. The pain was in his foot.
He sits up and screams. The entire kitchen is filled with foliage. The pain was an adventitious root probing his left toe. It oozes blood, but without conviction, like an afterthought. The root shrivels back, out of sight. His right foot has… he is not sure what he sees. His right foot is gone, replaced by a complex root system. There is no pain, but Bewon feels something liquid and cold coursing through his body. He cannot feel his right leg, and the numbness is advancing.
He tries to scramble away, to drag his body by the hands and his one good leg. This triggers excruciating pain in his hip joint and a kinetic reaction in the plant. More of that… pollen fills the air, and as he breathes it, he knows peace again. The glow returns.
He knows he is a dying man. Lying there, he feels the unfairness of it all, but the pollen takes the sting out of even that. He is not filled with knowledge. Bewon feels his memory draining. He cannot remember the sound of his mother’s voice.
Bewon cannot believe this is the end. He cannot believe how calm he is. No more fussing, no more struggling, no need to look for a job. Just peace in Abraham’s Bosom. He thinks perhaps he should pray. He has not prayed since… he cannot remember.
He forgets his own name, then he forgets how to breathe, so he stops.
He chokes as fluid drips down his throat, and he convulses as his brain craves oxygen, and then Bewon is free from his body, finished with life and the universe.
But the universe isn’t finished with him.