Chapter 16 | Batman in pink palazzo's

In the summer of 1995, I had a tragic accident - one that left me with a lifelong scar.

I was 8, it was the December holidays and I had taken a walk to the shops down the road with Miya and my cousins.

Then, seeing Mama out of the house was as rare as seeing an Afrikaaner who wasn’t passionate about rugby. We were on the opposite side of the street, waiting to cross what is usually regarded as a busy intersection, I saw a red car in the distance, took the chance and ran across the road.

Unfortunately, the red car was going faster than I had calculated and in seconds I was thrown off the street, flung into the air like Batman (this is how I tell the story to my younger audience),slammed into the windscreen like a bird relentlessly would against an unblemished glass and rolled on to the pavement with a graceful drop.

Except for the whiteness of their skin, the faces of the couple in the car are just a faint memory. They stopped, only to assure that I was alive and that they wouldn’t be charged with homicide. Whilst Mama cradled me in her arms, blood seeping from the right of my face, they took off. Unnoticed by anyone.

I was not a victim; I was merely a character in an incident that changed my life around in mere seconds. An incident which gave me a story to share, a history that was my own to tell.

The screaming of my name went unnoticed, as did the blood that slid down the side of my face onto my favourite waistcoat.

Moments later, I noticed the bread that lay to one side of the grass, moved to pick it up and started walking homewards. Not realizing the fatality of what had just happened.

Mama screamed, ran in my direction and made sure I laid down. I was forced to drink a glass of sugar water, for the shock.

The sound of sirens erupted in my ear. I was carried on a stretcher, a neck brace slung around my neck and all the time, Mama’s hand was wrapped around mines. The doctors asked several questions, checking to see whether I was still able to function cognitively.

The scab that plastered my face in a protective layer eventually faded with time, barely leaving a scar but I was fated for much worse, the nerve in my right eye had been damaged as a result - I would never be able to see with it again. The risks that I took had finally left me with a souvenir of which the rest of the world would be testimony to. I was given nicknames that were painful to bear even though I was unaware of the change.

Other people had 'fattie' to comply with but I was teased for something I had no control over. For something that could never be altered.Nerve damage, as doctor after doctor reminded us, had no remedy. Stem cell treatment was still in its infant stages back then and therefore an unheard of concept.

I was to live with the fact that I was blinded in my right eye for as long as I were to live.

It is narrated by Anas bin Malik that he heard the Prophet saying: Allah said: ‘If I deprive My slave of his two beloved things (i.e. his eyes) and he remains patient, I will let him enter Paradise in compensation for them. ‘[Bukhari]