On Thursday, the 11th of July, I fell from a moving bus.
I wish I were using the above sentence as a figure of speech — to explain some drastic change that has occurred in my life, but it’s pretty literal.
I went to visit a friend. We had a test (Evidence) the following day. Her friend was there, so we all read and solved past questions until 10:00pm, before deciding it was time to go home. I remember how we walked leisurely on the street, talking about a place where they sell meat pies, and trying to remember our cases. Maybe, if my head hadn’t been too stuffed with sections of the Evidence Act, I would have been able to sense what was waiting for me; but that’s just giving myself too much credit.
At the junction, there were no vehicles, so we waited. Eventually, a Danfo trudged along filled with people. Two people got down; one from the conductor seat, and one from the front. My friend’s friend decided to seat in front, so I opted for the conductor seat.
“That seat is not properly set,” one of the other passengers said, as I sat down. Within a split second of trying to adjust the seat properly, the driver took off and I fell.
In 2015, my friends and I went on a trip to Valencia. One of us had parents who owned a Yacht and drove us out into the water for a couple of days. Because I have a mother who nearly drowned as a child, and who is very very African, I had been forbidden from going near water all my life, and saw time away from her prying eyes as an excellent opportunity to learn how to swim. One of my friends took it upon herself to be my instructor. She made me do breathing exercises and practice paddling on the water. Then she let go, and all I could taste was salt.
When I fell down from the bus, I felt the same sheer panic of being swallowed by sea water. My knees kissed sand, I could feel my skin melt away. I held onto the metal seat. The bus kept moving. The entire incident didn’t last up to two minutes, but I remember thinking, “I don’t think this is how I want to die.”
Sound returned to me. Somebody screamed. My friend says it was me. The driver eventually halted, and people came down from the bus, some shouting at him, others expressing their shock. I was quiet as I felt them surround me, offering condolences, and pouring water on my legs, to expose the beautiful red circles that now bloomed where the skin on my knees once were. I couldn’t move, or speak. At some point, I whispered Thank You Jesus, and then I said it again, just to hear the sound of my own voice. My friend grabbed my hand and waltzed me away in search of a pharmacy to administer first aid, and that was when I burst into tears.
My life has been pretty tame where malaise is concerned. In fact, I’d consider myself a very lucky girl. Good things have always found me, even when I’m not looking for them; but for some reason, 2024 has been particularly hard. A month before this incident, I had another leg injury that caused me a lot of trouble. It’s been exhausting trying to girlboss my way through life, school, and work, while dealing with these inconveniences.
The aftermath of this injury has been really painful:
First, the timing is pretty bad as I am about to start writing my final exams and I dislike having to think about medication and dressing and pain. The pain is almost unbearable. The other day I went to the hospital to get the wound dressed. The nurse said it was turning green, and dedicated thirty minutes to cleaning out the wounds with methylated spirit.
I cried like a child.
Then, I am worried about scarring. I really like my legs and I’m worried the wounds will leave giant scars I will have to explain forever. I think one sexy scar per person is enough, and I already have one from an incident with an iron during my teenage years, so I’ve paid my dues. What do I need three for? Also, my mobility has significantly reduced. I walk like someone with a giant boil in her metaphorical balls, and I can only do so for very short distances so I have to Uber everywhere. As you can imagine, this has been pretty distressing for my account balance.
If I have learned anything from this incident, it is that life as you know it can change in the twinkle of an eye. A friend invited me to a listening party for his podcast, and the first episode was about a lady who woke up one morning to discover that she could no longer hear the sounds from the Mosque near her house. In one day she had lost her hearing, just like that.
The variability of life leaves much to be desired where tragedy is concerned. Sometimes you will have to pick two while somebody you know will hold on, but last last everybody will still go gen. It’s insane.
The Saturday after the incident, my mother came visiting and I was recounting everything that happened to her when I realized that all the variables had worked together for my good. If I had fallen the wrong way, I could have hit my head on the pavement. Had the bus been on the other side of the road, at a busier time of the day, I could have gotten hit by another moving bus. That I am able to complain about the scarring on my pretty legs is because I still get to use them. In that sense, I’m grateful.
I am documenting this incident because it’s the scariest thing that has happened to me yet. I saw my life flash before my eyes, and I’m trying not to undermine what that experience felt like. I’m also tired of having to explain what happened to my legs to people and a friend jokingly suggested I write medium piece I could direct inquirers to, so if you’ve seen me around and you were wondering what happened, here you have it.
I was also ranting earlier about how I’ve been unable to buy the fabrics I want to use to sew my final year thanksgiving outfit (because again, limited mobility), and I felt that streamlining my thoughts through an essay would give me much needed reprieve. To some extent, I think it has.
