The Motorbike Accident

The accident happens the last Tuesday in July. It is my favourite time of day - 6.30am. The birds sing and the hawks swoop above my terrace. I am drinking my coffee and writing my journal pages. 

I look at my watch and realise I’m late for tennis. I hop on the bike and whizz through the hills of Kimihurura the warm breeze on my bare legs, my helmet down and Rwanda's lush greens and red dusty roads bright in my eyes.  

At a busy crossing I slow. My head turns as a car pulls from a side street onto the main road, right in front of me. I won't be able to stop, I think, he's too fast. And then, I'm waking up. People are pulling me and my bike off the road and I'm pushing them away, curled in a fetal position on the road, shaking and crying and bleeding. There's a group of older beautiful Rwandan women, wearing bright ketenge chattering to me in French, telling me I need to call someone. There's the police and the driver of the car standing nearby, asking for my license. First they pull me from the road and let me sit on the pavement. Then they decide I should sit on the bank, because Rwandan police take their job of clearing public space very seriously. 

I curl up on an edge of grass, shaking. I am surrounded by this bustling crowd of people, but my gaze is inside. My brain is like treacle. I am not in my body, but looking on, watching myself. I want everyone to leave me alone so I can curl back into myself on this bank and never, ever move. 

The women point to my phone. "Call someone." "Where do you work?" "Where are you from?" "Who should we call?" "Where should we take you?" "Don't cry." "It's ok. You're going to be ok." I hear the words, but they don't link up to anything, the circuits feel cut. My phone is inert in my hand and I look at it. It looks strange. Finally using all my strength and focus, I push the screen to call someone -  the last number in my phone - my room mate. She doesn't answer and I sit back feeling glad. Now I can stay calmly here, I've done what they've asked me. If only these people would go away. 

Then, my room mate is calling back and suddenly she's there. I'm crying slow, hot tears and telling her I will drive. She looks at the crushed central frame of the motorbike and laughs. "Are you kidding? Look at it!" We extract ourselves. I'm high on adrenaline, high on how glorious it is to be away from the noise of the road and the people. I whatsapp my colleagues to say I'll be late to work. I make light of the accident. "I'm walking. It's nothing. There's nothing broken." 

For weeks and months my brain will vibrate inside my skull. Noise will make it worse. Light will make it worse. Crowds and strangers will make it worse. I will find myself forgetting things -  leaving a pot boiling dry on the stove, forgetting who I've spoken with, forgetting what I've said. I will struggle with balance and often find myself getting up only to fall back with dizziness. I will sleep for weeks. Six months later, I will still feel an exhaustion that aches in my bones. 

The day after the accident I will get on a motorbike taxi and show up at the office only to burst into tears in my first meeting -  I will never return to that office. Every Monday I will tell myself and my colleagues I will be back. Then slowly,  with a dread in the pit of my stomach, I will realise I won't. Every week I will weep with frustration. After years of pushing my brain and body to work, none of my tactics will work. I won't be able to make my brain work. And no amount of self discipline will change it. 

I read my journal entry from the day before the accident. "Imagine today is your last day in the office - the last time with your colleagues, with your team. Savor it. Enjoy every moment. Greet your team. Indulge yourself in the joy of working here. Imagine this is the final day you'll be here and appreciate every single moment." 

As it happens, that entry was stunningly accurate.