By Joyce Mamman Lawrence
It was November 2017, just about two weeks before my handover ceremony as the President of JCI Abuja Unity—a moment I had eagerly anticipated. Amid the preparations, I was also working on a project for a foundation in Kaduna to provide reading chairs and tables for an orphanage. I had already contracted a vendor, who kept insisting that the furniture was ready and taking up space in his workshop. Determined to sort it out, I decided to travel the next day, early enough to make it back the same day.
My cousin Samuel was with me at the time, and as I prepared for bed, I felt an intense urge to fast—a feeling that had been lingering for about two weeks but which I had kept postponing. I shared my plan with Samuel and asked him to remind me, just in case I forgot, because my morning coffee had become such a reflex that I could make it without thinking.
The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. to get ready for the trip. As I was going about my routine, I absentmindedly called out to Samuel to make my coffee. He laughed and reminded me of my fast. We chuckled about it, I prayed, and then I set out for Kaduna.
I reached Mabushi Park and boarded a vehicle. Since I was the last passenger, I had to sit in the middle of the back seat. The journey began smoothly, and soon I dozed off, only to wake up intermittently. We were approaching Kaduna when a loud bang jolted me awake. I didn’t feel any pain at first. The car had crashed into the back of a trailer; apparently, our driver had dozed off and rammed into a parked vehicle. The force of the impact sent my head crashing against the sharp edge of the vehicle, but I was immediately thrust back into my seat. Dazed, I grabbed my bag and stepped out of the car, trying to cross the road when some people rushed to help me. Confused by their attention, I touched my front teeth with my tongue and realized they were loose. My heart sank—was I about to lose my teeth just like that?
Not far from the accident site, there was a road safety checkpoint. The officers quickly came over, and I asked for medical attention. One of them replied, “Of course, ma, we can see that.” But I didn’t yet understand the extent of the damage to my face. They placed me in their car, while the driver, who they initially thought had died, was put at the back of their truck.
At this point, I still hadn’t informed anyone about the accident. I assumed I would get treated and head home without causing any alarm. But before I could make any decisions, my vision started to blur. Realizing I might lose consciousness, I quickly called my husband. But when I tried to speak, the words wouldn’t come out, so I handed the phone to the road safety officer, who spoke to him instead.
When I arrived at the hospital, they attended to me swiftly to stop the bleeding. Meanwhile, the driver, who had miraculously survived, started shouting from the back of the truck, and they brought him in for treatment too.
Soon, my brother-in-law whom my husband had called because he was far away in Kebbi and my sister arrived. When Sarah saw me, she burst into tears. In my disoriented state, I thought, “Oh no, they’ve brought the crybaby,” unaware that the damage to my face was far beyond my comprehension. They decided to move me to Kaduna town and debated which hospital to take me to. My sister insisted on Barau Dikko.
When we arrived, no doctor was willing to touch me. They said I needed to be attended to by a senior professional, as my injuries were too severe for anyone to risk making a mistake. My mouth, nose, and eyes were all bleeding at that point. The consultant was on leave, and everyone was frantically calling their networks, trying to reach him or find another qualified professional.
As the night wore on, I found it increasingly difficult to breathe through my nose—a discomfort like no other. My brother Ashidi wouldn’t stop crying and kept calling all my siblings. My thoughts drifted to my children—HarNom, who was four, and SimNom, who was just two. I also thought of my grandmother, knowing how close I was to her heart.
The next morning, the consultant finally arrived. After examining me, he announced that my upper jaw had split into two. He needed to assess the full extent of the damage, so I was referred for a scan.