No one but someone who is straightforward summarizes the story of how he slipped and got a sprain in his compound in simple terms—compound fracture. Oh! You said it's called minor accident. Well, we're on the same page, maybe not agreeing to the same thing, but we're reading the following words together.
As I lay here in this spooky hospital bed with broken bones and sprained muscles, I could still briefly walk you through my sister's misty journey in a moving picture. Follow me.
Growing up for Sister was rather tough. Our parents were no more, and she became two important figures, father and mother, wrapped into one significant figure. She didn't get the protection she needed, not even that of Dettol. Our vulnerabilities were in the bare, when everyone boasted of the richness of Cowbell, we were silent, because it wasn't our milk. But she wasn't going to let the negative comments talk her out of success.
Despite the deluging hardship, we watched Sister's steps each day as she strove with blood and water — blood, in battles to kill poverty, water to prevent us from drowning in shame. She saw herself as a boat along a stream, suspended in a wave of fractured, endless flow— never going back on her oars to a successful bank.
We knew eventually that the wind of transition would blow, as though it was about the rain. It was the dawn of a new reign when Sister completed her NYSC and was staffed at Prestige-And-Honour Group of Companies with a six digit salary.
I was so ecstatic when she called to break the news to me that I jumped in the air. As if it was break time, I landed only to listen to the breaking sound of my bones.
—Shomade Abdulazeez.