I tried to open my eyes but failed—they felt heavy. I lifted my hand to feel what was wrong and touched bandages covering my eyes. A wave of fear swept over me. I couldn't understand what was happening. I started recalling that I had been with my wife, Irere, in the car on the night of our wedding. I screamed, calling out "Irere!" but no one answered. I kept shouting her name. Though my eyes were bandaged, tears streamed down my face.
Eventually, I heard a door open. The scent I smelled was familiar—it was my mother. She came to comfort me, but I couldn't comprehend what she was saying. I kept asking, "Where's Irere? Where is she?" She tried to calm me and said Irere was okay, but I didn't believe her. I asked her to call Irere—I needed to hear her voice. I missed her so much.
My mother called her. I listened intently to every movement. Finally, I heard Irere's voice. My mother told her I had woken up, and Irere promised to come to the hospital right away. I asked to speak to her. My mother handed me the phone and I asked, "Irere, my love, do you still love me?" Her voice was filled with sorrow, but she replied, "I still love you, and I always will."
That eased my heart a little. She promised she was on her way. I thanked my mother, who reassured me that I wasn't alone—everyone was there for me. Even though I had woken up, my mother's face seemed filled with grief. She called my father and told him I had regained consciousness. He was overjoyed and said he'd come after work. That was always his way—he trusted my mother fully and left everything to her care.
Not long after, Irere walked into my hospital room. She ran into my arms and embraced me. I reached out, feeling the texture of her hair—it was the same. I gently touched her to check for injuries; her skin still felt soft. I touched her left hand and felt her wedding ring. She was crying, and so was I. She told me she was happy to hear my voice again.
I asked her to remove the bandage covering my other eye so I could see her, but she said the doctor had to do that. My mother went to call the doctor while I stayed with Irere. I first apologized for the accident we had on our wedding night. Then I told her that as soon as I left the hospital, we'd go on our honeymoon by the sea, as I had promised. Irere replied, "That's not important anymore." Her voice was heavy with sorrow.
I insisted, saying, "No, it's important. I never break a promise." But she said, "Just being alive is enough for me. I don't need a plane or the ocean." Then she gave me shocking news: "It's been two months and three days since our accident." I was stunned. I thought it had only been a few hours. I asked her again, "Are you serious? I've been lying here for two months?" She replied, "Yes."
As I was still trying to process that, the doctor and my mother entered. The doctor smiled and said, "Kalisa, it's good to see you awake." I turned toward his voice and asked, "How long have I been here?" He confirmed what Irere had said: "Two months and three days." I muttered, "Impossible."
I tried to get out of bed, but my legs wouldn't move. The doctor warned me that I wouldn't be able to walk right away after being in bed that long. But he reassured me I would recover—maybe in a week. Still, it all felt unreal. I asked both my mother and the doctor to leave so I could talk to Irere alone.
Before leaving, the doctor cleared his throat as if to speak, but my mother stopped him and said, "Not now. This isn't the time." The doctor left, and my mother said she'd be nearby if I needed her. I remained with Irere.
She sat down beside me and held my hand. Even though I couldn't see her, I could feel that she was crying. I touched her cheek and asked, "Why are you crying?" She answered, "Because I missed you so much." I promised her, "Now that I'm awake, I'll never leave you again." She leaned over and hugged me, resting her head on my chest.
I had many questions to ask her, but her sadness was a barrier I couldn't cross. She told me I had been the only one seriously injured. She had stayed in the hospital for just four days, while I had been unconscious for over two months. I said, "I'm sorry. I never meant for this to happen." She replied, "I know, my love."
Then, taking a deep breath, she said, "There's something I must tell you. I can't hide it any longer." I could feel the emotion in her voice. She hesitated, so I urged her to speak. She finally said, "Your eyes were badly damaged, but the doctors believe you might be able to see again." I refused to believe it. "I can't live without seeing your face," I said.
She comforted me, saying the chances of recovery were high. I just needed to be patient. I thought about living without sight. I asked, "What purpose do I serve in this world now?" Irere replied, "Your family is here. I am here. I'll be your eyes whenever you need them." I wanted to thank her, but I was overwhelmed by emotion and couldn't speak.
I started remembering every face I had ever seen, every joyful moment in my life. I realized I might never watch a movie again—movies that had once comforted me in hard times. Most of my happiest moments with Irere had included watching films. I thought of my childhood memories, and for the first time, I understood the true value of sight. I had always taken it for granted, pitied those who couldn't see, but never truly thought about it. I whispered, "I wish I had died."
Irere was heartbroken, but she promised to stay by my side, as she had for the past two months. Then my mother came back in. Irere told her she had revealed everything. My mother was about to scold her, but I interrupted, saying, "It's okay. I had the right to know." My mother sat by my side and told me the whole family had done everything possible to ensure I recovered and that doctors were confident I'd regain my sight soon.
While we talked, I heard Mubaraka's voice at the door. He was filled with joy at hearing I was awake. I was happy to hear his voice too. I wanted to leave the hospital, but they asked me to wait two more days before removing the final bandage.
My family took turns visiting me. My father came every evening after work. He told me Mubaraka had taken over my role at work and done an excellent job. On my last night in the hospital, my father told me, "My son, you did something beautiful in life—you chose the right friends and a wonderful wife." Those words restored hope in me. He added, "You are lucky in a way few people are. Never take it for granted."
He told me how things had gone at the company and how Irere had cared for me tirelessly during my coma. He asked me to be a good husband to her and never hurt her. I promised I would. He then told me he was traveling to import new goods, as the business had expanded. Even though I had been absent, he and Mubaraka had managed everything.
He told me the house I had started building was finished and would be ready for Irere and me when I was discharged. Even though I had heard bad news during those days, my father gave me only news of hope. That night, I stayed with Irere. I asked her to stay close—she was my anchor. I wanted to thank her endlessly, but words felt too few. I simply said, "Thank you so much." And she replied, "Thank you for staying alive."
The night passed, and the stars faded away. In the morning, the doctor came in. It was the day I was to go home. He carefully removed the bandages from my eyes. I opened them, but I saw only darkness. I couldn't believe it, but Irere had prepared me for this, and I had promised to accept it. My mother thanked the doctor for all his care.
The doctor said it was simply his duty and that he had sworn to serve with compassion. Then he asked everyone to step outside. Irere asked, "Me too?" and he replied, "Yes." As she stepped out, he told her to gently close the door. She did. Then the doctor sat down beside me and said, "I have bad news." My heart sank—I wondered what could be worse than being blind.