(35): Fate and Preference (A Real Story)

Muhammad Muhsin Ibrahim

@muhsin234

Yippee! I got a new bicycle! This, coupled with my recent admission to a private primary school, inflated my ego to the point of absurdity. Admittedly, I started feeling pompous among my peers. A very few children were that privileged in all our neighbourhoods then. I had already finished another primary school when I was taken to this school. It was an expensive, prestigious, privately-owned primary school now, so no problem. I would stay for only a year, then move on to another renowned private college. All of this was meant to pave the way for me to study medicine at the university.

Before taking a bath and breakfast, it became my routine to go to my new best friend, my bicycle. I would check it, dust it, and try it. Until I was satisfied that everything was in order, I could not move on to anything else that morning. I would then get ready, bid farewell to my stepmother and siblings, and set out for my new school.

The school had a strict rule that pupils must be on its premises before 7:30AM, and it is many kilometres from our home. Thus, I had to prepare and leave as early as possible to beat the distance, the traffic holdup, and any other unforeseen hitch that might delay me.

It was an airy, chilly morning in September 1998. It rained heavily the previous night, so the temperature was lower. I couldn’t figure out how or why this day felt different. I could neither go back to sleep after Subh, the morning prayers, nor do my routine. I was just lying, bored. Nothing was heard more audible than the beautiful, melodious songs of some pigeons in the backside of our room, which used to be their house. The setting, as if in a romantic film, was so serene, peaceful and memorable. But I was internally jittery for no apparent reason. Under duress, I rode out to the school in such an uncharacteristic mood.

I didn’t go far when, from nowhere, I saw myself face-to-face with a wrecked-looking bus. There was a car parked on the side of the narrow road. I tried to nose in between the bus and the car, but I couldn’t. The space was thinner than I thought. The bus driver could have pulled up. He didn’t. He instead drove ahead until we collided. I can only recall that particular scene, and then everything went blurry.

I woke up on a hospital bed, surrounded by family members and other people I didn’t know. I tried to move; I couldn’t. My leg felt heavy. I rubbernecked and saw it was thickly bandaged. The bandage was soaked with blood. I looked around. Nobody said a word, but their sorrow-ridden faces spoke volumes.

“Where is my bike?” I enquired.

They looked at one another in amazement mixed with sympathy. Some minced some words that I cannot recall. Others shook their heads.

“It’s there.” My elder brother responded. There, where? He didn’t say. He then added before I asked: “You had an accident. But all is going to be okay. The Doctors have promised to take very good care of you”.

As fate would have it, things did not go that well. I spent over six months in the hospital. It was only by Allah’s will and sheer providence that I today walk on both my legs, for even one of the doctors once suggested the complexly fractured one be better severed.

From then on, my life changed. The arrangements for me to study medicine had begun to crumble. I couldn’t go back to that private school as planned. Not only that, even my dream for school was shattered, though not destroyed, and never will be. I finally didn’t become a medical doctor, but I am what Allah has destined me to be. I couldn’t have wished for anything better.

And I will, in sha Allah, be a doctor, not nonetheless of Medicine but of Philosophy.