“The safest place in a car is behind the driver,” my brother once quoted some research, but once again, I proved to be a statistical exception. I was occupying exactly that place in a white Toyota Corolla, a type so old that it didn’t even have headrests or seat belts in the back of the car, when a bus hit us from the passenger side. My friend next to me got hurled towards me. I got crushed between him and the door on my side. As our car started spinning another car flung into us. When we came to a stop, strong hands dragged me out of the car. I was taken to hospital, where they resuscitated me.
Soon after that, I started to vomit even though I was still unconscious, indicating brain trauma. Yet there was no suitable equipment at hand in the hospital to diagnose or treat me. This was Nairobi, Kenya. At the second hospital two blood-clots were discovered on my brain in addition to a skull fracture. The doctors knew they had to perform brain surgery to save my life.
When I woke up, I discovered that I was robbed. Nobody could understand what I was trying to say. I could not read, or write, or walk, or bring a fork to my own mouth. Even my short term memory was stolen. Permanent brain damage was staring me in the face. I was determined to recover fully. I, though, seemed to be the only who believed that possible.
Fast forward ten years. This memoir is about everything that led to my recovery and what I learned from the recovery process. Sharing openly and candidly about the struggles I faced, taboos I experienced, and how I eventually got to doing everything I had dreamed of, but what nobody thought possible after that fateful day.