The Accident

I always knew that motorbikes were not safe. Weaving between psychotic taxi drivers who seemed to think that their rear-view mirrors would be better served as TV screens, the eclectic collection of mopeds and motorbikes and long-suffering bicycles perilously lug babies and old men and even double mattresses, through the crowded streets.

I could not really describe my driver as “calm and collected” either. We belted along the roads as though constantly pursued by a herd of irate buffalo; ignoring traffic lights, racing through petrol stations in order to avoid that inconvenient roundabout.

 I decided that the best thing to do was to trust him. Aside from the fact that I secretly really enjoyed our journeys, and could not honestly say that I wanted to go any slower, I told myself that what was good enough for the Togolese was good enough for me. If I wanted a booster seat and a fwuffy padded jacket, then I should have stayed in the UK. 

I did at least possess the intelligence to always travel with a helmet.

This evening, it rained on our journey home. Shutting my eyes against the driving rain and feeling my cotton top and skirt plastering themselves against my skin, I reminded myself that normally, I live in England. A true Brit forgets what life is like when it is not raining.

 I am not sure what it was that made me open my eyes. I suddenly noticed that the motorbike in front had just crashed into a car. I realised, in a strangely detached and logical manner, that we were hurtling straight towards them.

I surprise myself in the “Kairos”* moments. I can tie my stomach in knots over a social event or difficult conversation, but in the really massive moments, I always seem to have an overwhelming sense of peace.

My driver’s actions saved my life. Jamming on the brakes, the bike spun on the flooded tarmac, and we skidded sideways along the road. The detached and highly logical part of my brain told me that I had seen this manoeuvre in several James Bond films, but I had never expected to be slicing sideways on the back of a motorbike myself. 

Most of the time, I cannot say that I am gifted with common sense. The tattoo of bruises on my knees are a testament to my incurable clumsiness: the water bags that we drink from generally end up down my trousers or all over my face, as I have yet to work out the right way up to hold them.

Today, once the bike had finally skidded to halt and deposited us onto the tarmac, the only thing that crossed my mind was that I should probably make a list of the most helpful things to do in such a situation. I promptly picked up the wing mirror and walked off the road.

Praise God, the worst injury of the crash was a broken leg. I wanted to help the poor man at the side of the road, but I knew that whenever there is an accident between a car and a motorbike, the car always pays. Regardless of who is actually to blame, the chances are that the people in the car will be the ones with the cheaper medical bill.

We hobbled back onto our bike, and headed off home; the deceased wing mirror nonchalantly tossed into the bushes. With the wind whipping my face and oozing adrenaline, I could not contain an enormous “What-have-I-got-myself-into-now?” manic grin.

I cannot know why I walked away from that scene with nothing more than a swollen wrist and a couple of scrapes and bruises. I cannot know why it was a friend of a friend, not me, who was squashed by a truck in their motorbike accident last week. They were driving an identical motorbike on the same roads.

There are too many people who have been taken away too early; snuffed out in an instant. There are so many times when I have shouted at God, and told Him that even if He does exist I want nothing to do with Him, as I cannot understand how He can let these things happen.

Yet, there are also the people like me who get to walk away. People like me who just so happen to live next door to an amazing trainee doctor, and are friends with a qualified physiotherapist who can give any swollen tendons a full examination.

For me, the only way that I can respond is with gratitude. I can be grateful for my driver’s quick reflexes. I can be grateful that I walked away with almost non-existent injuries. I can be grateful for how well I was looked after. I can be grateful to be alive.

No matter how much security I try to create for myself in the form of money or intelligence or human connections, it is impossible to know whether today will be my last. I am so glad that as a Christian, death is not something to fear.

The only thing that I can do is live each day to the full, and as I go to sleep each night, I can thank God for giving me one more day to be alive.

*In Ancient Greek there are two words for time: “Chronos”, which is every day, commuting to work, scrubbing dishes, ordinary-little-things time, and “Kairos”, which is for earth-shattering moments like your wedding day, or the birth/death of a family member.