I never thought I'd be writing this testimony, but here I am, grateful to have survived a harrowing car accident. In the moments before the crash, I found myself rehearsing my own eulogy-wondering who would say what, and what they would remember about me.
My best friend would probably say, "What a fool, I don't know where you're rushing to."
Most of the comments from outsiders would be, "And na fine girl o" (a Nigerian expression meaning "what a fine girl"). My close friends would say, "She was really nice."
My ex will starve for days, call my number multiple times, then call my best friend to find out if what he heard was true. I may be wrong, but if you asked my opinion, this is what I think people will say. You can see how I intentionally left out my family's reaction? My brain cannot phantom what it would be.
Everything happened so fast. All I can vividly remember was pressing my phone at the back seat.
As church was coming to a close, the pastor gave his final remarks on how we shouldn't be the kind of Christians who come to church only when we need to ask God for something, when we are in trouble, when we need provisions, when we need promotions. We should serve God because He is the Lord of our lives and He deserves our worship. He didn't reference any scripture, but some came to mind, like Philippians 4:12-13, 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18, 1 Peter 3:15. I vowed to change my ways and avoid being a fair-weather follower, as Jesus warned in John 6:26-27
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I settled into the back seat of my ride home, feeling comfortable enough to enjoy the silence. But I'm not one to chat with drivers unless absolutely necessary - or unless I sense a friendly atmosphere that invites conversation. A deafening crash echoed through the air, making me jump in my seat. As I spun around to face the sound, my eyes widened in shock at the sight of the dispatch rider's crumpled motorcycle.
"Are you going to just sit there? Come out, let's help the man!" I yelled at the driver. "Madam, but no be my fault, I no see am" (a Nigerian expression meaning "it's not my fault, I didn't see him"), he retorted. I couldn't hear what else he said as I hurried to the accident scene. The rider laid sprawled on the ground, bystanders rushing to lift him up. There was a Lexus jeep coming right up to him, but it was able to swerve in time avoiding a possible collision.
I looked at the state the rider was in, with one hand clasped over my mouth. He spat out a mouthful of blood, and I could feel the Jollof rice and chicken I ate right after church service coming back to my mouth. "Are you okay, sir? Are you alright?" I knew it was a silly question given the severity of the situation but I had to ask.
Someone handed him half a bottle of water, but it wasn't enough, so I begged a passerby for water, and he willingly obliged to share.
In all of this, where was the driver? I saw the driver coming behind me, The driver's hands clasped together in a desperate plea, his face etched with worry. Just by looking at him, you could tell that his main concern was the debt he was about to pay, like he was doing a mental calculation while approaching the scene.
The question everyone asked upon his arrival at the scene was,
"Why did you press the brake in the middle of an express road?" in the most Nigerian way possible.
The driver claimed he saw someone waving him down, and he hesitated on the brake. His eyes darted towards the waving hand and then back to the road, trying to decipher the meaning behind the gesture. Meanwhile, he failed to notice the dispatch rider closing in behind him.
I saw the man waving the car down, but I didn't think the driver would stop; it's pretty normal for people to wave down cars in the hope of getting a ride whether for free or paid.
My mind raced with the possibilities, what if the rider had been going faster? What if the car had swerved differently? The questions swirled, refusing to let me focus on anything else.
I am glad no lives were lost, and the damages are things money can fix.
We moved the motorcycle to a safer side of the road and attended to the driver. He didn't have any visible injuries, but we tried to clean him up to the best of our abilities. Damages were done to his motorcycle; the side mirrors were broken, the brake pedal broken, his phone was broken. He was distraught because these were not expenses he thought he'd incur on a serene Sunday afternoon. The driver and I gave what we could, but it wasn't enough to cover the expenses. If you would like to give to him, here's his account number: FCMB, 5252043011, Bukar Musa. I'm very sure he'd appreciate whatever you have to give him. Thank you even as you consider.
After the rider was sorted, I thought about the reprimand he might get from his employer. What if he didn't have a good boss? I silently hoped that he would be okay.
The ride back home was a quiet one. The driver kept trying to explain his side of the story, but to me, it felt like his voice was distant, then it vanished. I sat still behind the car seat in total disbelief of the event that took place.
Right now, everything still feels surreal. I'm just very glad that the damages are things money can fix, because God forbid otherwise.