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I remember the way her eyes fell when she saw me. One look at my foot and I knew I had messed up again. She always cleaned up my mess. Looking back, I wonder if anyone would ever care for me the way she did.
I grew up in a storey building. We were on the first floor. Each time I was going down, I would run down the flight of stairs and jump off at some point. I remember there were thirteen stairs. I would get to about seven or eight and jump. I enjoyed it every time and so I began to do the same in school.
On that fateful day, school had ended and I was eager to get home. My class was upstairs. As usual, I jumped about four stairs on my way down. I landed on my feet, went down and couldn’t stand up due to a sharp pain in one of them. Google tells me there are three sections to my foot: forefoot, midfoot and hindfoot. I think the bones in my forefoot and midfoot left their original position. I remember the way I cried, like I was stung by a million bees.
Mother was at the shop, trying to make ends meet. She looked at my sorry self resting on friends who had assisted me to get home. I got a slap on the face when she learnt I had sustained the injury after jumping off a flight of stairs. Something she had always warned against.
That night, Mother had my uncle pin me down and my injured foot on her lap. Next, she produced a bowl filled with hot water, dipped a towel into the bowl and applied the towel to my foot. I don’t know which hurt more: the scalding pain from the ‘treatment’ or the slaps I got each time I tried to wriggle myself free.
Looking back, that was the last time I had that kind of injury (or even any kind). I still run down stairs but jump, no, thank you.
Word count: 343
This is my entry for the AIR-CLINIC WRITING CONTEST 19 by @air-clinic. Join @air-clinic on discord here :
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Thanks for reading
Blessings.
[Image source:Shutterstock]
