Sheer luck

Sheer luck

I was called into the police station and made to sign (with the painful wrist) some papers.

‘It’s a miracle madam, you are lucky. Hope your hand isn’t giving you trouble,’ said the milkman shaking his head in wonder as he handed me the milk and change. He had watched it all from his milk booth a year ago and it never stopped amazing him.
On a sunny August afternoon I had set off on my scooter. Nearing a T-junction, I turned slowly to the right. I saw a sand truck move leisurely towards me. He began turning left and before I realised what was happening the massive tyres crushed the front wheel of my scooty and I was pinned between the truck and a car.

My right wrist holding the handle slammed against the car. I gaped in horror as the truck continued to advance, stopping inches short of my left leg. People were yelling at the driver and someone helped me onto the pavement. Pain squeezed tears from my eyes and my right hand felt useless.

A medical student gave me her water bottle and I sipped water in a trance. Two policemen were briskly ordering my scooter to be taken to the police station and one of them rudely asked me if I wanted to book a complaint against the truck driver. When I shook my head and said, “First, I need to go to a hospital. I think my hand is fractured,” he replied, “Okay, then I will book a complaint against you for irresponsible driving. Quick, give me your number.” The pickup van with my scooter had left and I struggled to my feet feeling giddy. The policeman took down my name and number and walked away saying ominously, “You’ll hear from me.”

Half an hour later I found a small clinic where an ancient doctor wrongly pronounced, “No fracture.” His kind nurse consoled me, bandaging my crushed hand and giving me a pain killer. I trudged home narrating the events to my husband over the phone. He pictured my ‘truck accident’ with gory details of me in torn clothes, bleeding and lying somewhere on the road. Relieved that it wasn’t so terrible, he said he would get my scooter back.

“Sorry madam, please don’t book a case,” the owner of the truck began calling me up late afternoon apologising with this refrain. My husband visited the police station and found varying versions of my accident, mostly giving an impression that I was some middle aged nut case who wilfully drove into the truck. That night I was called into the police station and made to sign (with the painful wrist) some papers.

With our released scooty loaded in an auto we returned in our car with the truck owner and driver sitting in the back seat (they had the nerve to plead a ride to the bus stop!). I looked back at the driver - all of 19 years giggling nervously. I told him,” You almost made my children motherless today. You shouldn’t be driving at all.” The owner interrupted, “Madam, you have really prayed well today. God saved you.” “Keep him off the roads and many more lives will be saved,” I retorted.