The worst thing that ever happened to me was when my little sister, as a kid, slipped down the stairs of our home and slammed the back of her head against the edge of the last step. I remember watching her lifeless body lifted up at the base of the staircase, not too far from the scene of the accident, and we gathered round, all scared. I’m not sure who did the lifting. Probably my mom. I know they certainly yelled her name repeatedly but she did not respond. I thought for sure she was dead, so I gave a blood curdling scream, but no one looked in my direction. To be fair, I don’t think they heard. Somehow in my head, I’d believed that nothing as bad as my dad dying could ever happen to us anymore because we had had our fair share of tragedy.

I took slight steps back, rapidly going into shock, when that child opened her eyes and moved around like nothing had happened. Our enquiry of her well-being yielded a positive answer. My older brother, unsatisfied with the answer, did the “how many fingers can you see” test. Mind you, he was only 3 years older than her. We waited patiently, with bated breaths, for her answer and laughed with delirious relief, when it was the right one. I think she was checked out by a doctor later on. 

She had a secondary school entrance exam that same day and she went for it like none of this had happened. We never talk about that day and I never think about it. I don’t know what has sprung this memory to my mind now. It makes me cry. It also fills me with gratitude to God. 

That child is now an adult and she still constantly amazes me with her mind, her heart and her hustle spirit.

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