They say one small thing can change everything, but I never thought it could happen to me.
One second, my parents were laughing—Mom teasing Dad for missing a turn, Dad chuckling as he promised to make it right. The next second, everything shattered.
I don't remember much. Just the sound of screeching tires. The sharp gasp from my mother. A violent crash. Then darkness.
A distant beeping. Sharp. Rhythmic. Relentless.
I tried using my arms to turn of the alarm, just wanting to go back to sleep, but my arms, I couldn't move them, they were just way too heavy. I tried again, but still nothing, that's when panic began to set in, forcing me out of the dark dreamscape
Bright light pressed against my closed eyelids, forcing its way in. My body felt heavy, like I was sinking into the bed. The air smelled sterile—too clean, too artificial.
Pain. A dull, aching weight settled in my legs. I tried to move, but the sharp sting made me suck in a breath. My throat was dry, my mouth felt like sandpaper.
Then I saw him.
Slumped in one of the visitor's chairs, his head resting in his hand, was my uncle. His usually sharp, well-groomed appearance was gone—his shirt wrinkled, his beard slightly unkempt. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
That wasn't like him.
I swallowed, my voice coming out hoarse. "Uncle Charles…?"
His head jerked up. For a moment, he just stared at me, his dark eyes wide, as if he couldn't believe I was really awake. Then he exhaled, running a hand over his face before standing up and quickly moving to my side.
"Jason," he murmured, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it. His hand rested gently on my shoulder, the way it always did when he was about to tease me or promise me something extravagant—some new pair of boots, a gaming console, a surprise trip. He always spoiled me. Always had that mischievous grin when he was about to give me something I didn't even ask for.
But there was no grin now.
His fingers trembled slightly before he squeezed my shoulder, just enough to be reassuring. I could feel it—the hesitation, the weight in his grip.
Something was wrong.
My chest tightened. "Where are—" My voice cracked. I swallowed hard and tried again. "Where are Mummy and Daddy?"
His jaw tightened. His eyes flickered away, just for a second, but it was enough.
I knew.
The beeping of the monitor quickened. My breath hitched.
"No," I whispered, my hands gripping the sheets beneath me.
He shook his head, his lips parting like he wanted to say something, but no words came. His throat bobbed, his face twisting with something I'd never seen before—helplessness. My uncle, the man who always knew what to say, who always knew how to fix things, had nothing.
His hand moved, resting against my hair like he used to when I was little. "Jason…" His voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm so sorry."
I don't know when I stopped listening.
My uncle was still talking—his voice low, careful, trying to explain something. Maybe about the accident. Maybe about what happened after. But I couldn't hear him anymore.
The world around me blurred, the sounds fading into a hollow hum. The beeping of the monitor. The distant murmurs in the hallway. Even my uncle's voice—everything was slipping away.
I stared at the ceiling, unblinking. My body felt cold, my fingers numb.
I couldn't move.
I couldn't speak.
A hand gripped mine—warm, firm—but I didn't squeeze back.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought of my mother's voice, soft and playful as she scolded my father for missing a turn. I thought of my father's laugh, deep and reassuring. I thought of the way they used to watch my games, cheering the loudest from the sidelines.
Now there was nothing.
An empty seat. A silence that would never be filled again.
I closed my eyes.
And let the darkness take me.
Time passed. I think.
I wasn't sure.
I was floating, trapped in some empty space where nothing mattered. The pain in my legs didn't exist anymore. The weight in my chest was gone. Everything was quiet, and for a while, I thought maybe I had disappeared too.
But then—voices.
Faint at first, distant. I didn't care. They didn't matter.
But they didn't stop.
"…not responding…"
"…still no reaction…"
"…it's been days."
Days?
A small part of me stirred, but I shoved it back down. What did it matter?
There was no reason to wake up.
At some point, warmth pressed against my fingers. A hand.
My uncle's.
"Jason," his voice was thick, strained, as if he had been talking to me for a long time. "I don't know if you can hear me, but please… you have to come back."
I felt nothing.
Silence stretched between us before he let out a breath—heavy, almost defeated.
"You know…" He chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. "I was going to buy you those boots you wanted. The white and gold ones, remember?"
A memory flickered in my mind—me showing him a picture of them, my eyes lighting up, him smirking and saying, We'll see.
A lump formed in my throat, but I pushed it down.
"I'll buy you whatever you want, Jason," he whispered. "Just… wake up."
For the first time since I heard the news, something cracked inside me.
A sharp inhale. A tightening in my chest.
My fingers twitched.
His grip on my hand tightened immediately. "Jason?" His voice was urgent now, desperate. "Can you hear me?"
I wanted to answer. I wanted to say something, anything. But my throat was tight, and my body still felt like it wasn't mine.
I could feel a tear streak down my cheek.
My uncle let out a shaky breath. "That's it," he murmured, voice thick with emotion. "I'm here, Jason. I'm not going anywhere."
For the first time since waking up, I felt something.
And it hurt.
The first thing I truly noticed when I came back to myself was the weight of the room.
It felt smaller somehow, pressing in on me. The walls were bare, the air too clean, the windows too bright. A tray of untouched food sat on a table nearby, and the faint hum of machines filled the silence.
I blinked.
My body felt stiff, my throat dry. The ache in my legs was sharper now, no longer numbed by the fog I had been lost in. I let out a shaky breath, my chest rising and falling like I had forgotten how to breathe properly.
Then, I turned my head.
My uncle sat in the chair beside my bed, his elbow resting on the armrest, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. His other hand still held mine, as if he had never let go.
The sight of him hit me harder than I expected.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his usually well-kept hair slightly disheveled. The man who always looked put together, who always carried himself with effortless confidence, looked… exhausted.
He must have felt my stare because he suddenly looked up. His eyes locked onto mine, and for a second, I saw the emotions flicker across his face—shock, relief, something else I couldn't quite name.
"Jason," he breathed. His grip on my hand tightened. "You're awake."
I swallowed, my throat scratchy, and tried to speak. Only a whisper came out. "How… long?"
His lips pressed together before he answered. "Twelve days."
Twelve days.
I let the words settle. Almost two weeks of nothingness. No words. No movement. Just silence.
I should have felt something about it—guilt, maybe. Fear. But all I felt was hollow.
I turned my head away.
My uncle exhaled, sitting forward. "Jason…"
I stared at the window, my voice barely above a whisper. "Why did I survive?"
A heavy silence followed.
I didn't mean to say it. Didn't even realize I was thinking it until the words had already left my lips.
But I didn't take them back.
Because it was the only thing in my mind.
Why me? Why not them?
My uncle didn't answer right away. When he finally did, his voice was soft but firm. "I don't know," he admitted. "And I won't pretend to. But I do know this." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "They wouldn't want you to ask that question."
I swallowed, my eyes stinging.
"They loved you more than anything, Jason," he continued. "And if they were here, they'd tell you to keep going."
I clenched my jaw, my fists tightening against the sheets. "I don't know how."
His hand rested on my shoulder, steady and warm. "Then let's figure it out together."
I wasn't supposed to hear it.
But I did.
Lying in that hospital bed for weeks, I became good at listening—at catching the hushed conversations that happened just beyond the door, in the hallways, in the spaces where people thought I couldn't hear.
"Ei, so sad. Both parents gone, just like that."
"And the boy? Still alive?"
"Yes, o. He's awake now. But what kind of life will he even have? Broke both legs."
"Hmm. God knows best."
I closed my eyes, my fingers gripping the hospital blanket.
They never said it to my face. When they walked in, they smiled, spoke gently, told me how lucky I was, how strong I was. But outside… outside, they whispered about how I had lost everything.
I didn't blame them.
Because they weren't wrong.
Recovery was slow. Every movement was a reminder that my body wasn't the same. My legs felt like they didn't belong to me, weak and unfamiliar. Some days, even sitting up was exhausting.
The doctors told me I was healing well. The physical therapists encouraged me, saying I was making good progress. But all I heard was:
"His football days are finished."
Kwabena stayed with me through it all. He had his own life back in England—business, work, whatever it was he did—but he never left my side.
"You don't have to stay," I told him once, staring at the ceiling.
He snorted. "And leave you alone with your bad attitude? Not a chance."
I almost smiled at that. Almost.
When the hospital finally discharged me, the first thing we did was bury my parents.
It was just the two of us. No distant relatives. No childhood friends of theirs. No large crowd of mourners. Just me, Kwabena, and the cold, gray sky.
I stood by their graves, staring at the freshly turned earth, waiting for something to happen.
For tears to come.
For the weight in my chest to ease.
For anything.
But I just felt empty.
Kwabena stood beside me, silent. He didn't rush me, didn't say anything to fill the silence. He simply waited.
After a while, he exhaled. "You ready?"
I wasn't.
But I nodded anyway.
The meeting with the family lawyer felt unreal.
I sat in a stiff leather chair, hands clasped together, while the lawyer read through legal documents with the efficiency of someone who had done this too many times before.
"Your parents named Charles as your legal guardian," he said, adjusting his glasses. "You'll be living with him in England."
The words settled in my chest like a stone.
England.
A place I had never been. A life I had never imagined.
I turned to Kwabena. "Do I have a choice?"
His gaze was steady. "I won't force you. But what do you have left here?"
I opened my mouth, but no word escaped
I didn't have an answer to that.
Because, deep down, I knew the truth.
Nothing.
The airport was loud—too loud.
I wasn't sure what I had expected, but walking through Kotoka International Airport felt… wrong. Like I was leaving behind something I wasn't ready to let go of.
Kwabena walked ahead, dragging my suitcase behind him as if this was just another trip. For him, maybe it was. But for me, this was the end of everything I had ever known.
I took a deep breath, glancing around at the crowds of travelers moving past us. Some looked excited, others exhausted. I just felt numb.
"Come on," Kwabena called over his shoulder. "We're boarding soon."
I forced my feet forward.
I had never been on a plane before.
Before the accident, my world had been small—school, home, the neighborhood field where we played football until the sun went down. My parents had always talked about traveling one day, but it never happened.
Now, here I was.
The plane was cold, the hum of the engines a constant background noise. I sat by the window, staring out at the night sky as Ghana shrank beneath us.
I wasn't sure how I felt.
Kwabena, seated beside me, glanced over. "Nervous?"
I shook my head. I wasn't scared. I just… didn't know what came next.
He didn't push me to talk. Instead, he handed me a pair of headphones. "Try to sleep."
I didn't.
The moment we stepped out of Heathrow Airport, the cold hit me like a slap to the face.
I shivered, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Kwabena laughed. "You'll get used to it."
Doubtful.
Everything felt different. The air smelled strange. The sky was gray, nothing like the bright blue I was used to. People walked fast, their expressions blank, focused.
"Come on," Kwabena said, leading me toward the car park. "Grays isn't far."
I barely listened. My mind was still back home, still on the pitch where I used to play, still in the house where my parents should have been.
I had left everything behind.
Kwabena's house was big. Really big.
The kind of house that people back home would have pointed at in magazines, shaking their heads, saying, Some people have too much money.
But I didn't really notice.
The high ceilings, the polished floors, the huge windows that let in natural light—it all felt distant, like none of it really mattered.
"Welcome home," Kwabena said, pushing open the front door.
I stepped inside. The air smelled like coffee and something unfamiliar. It wasn't home, but it was nice.
I set my bag down, looking around. Everything was neat, organized. Too perfect.
Kwabena clapped a hand on my shoulder. "You hungry?"
I shook my head.
"Alright." He didn't push. "Your room's upstairs. Second door on the left."
I nodded, grabbing my bag and heading up.
The room was simple—bed, desk, a wardrobe in the corner. A window overlooked the quiet street below.
I sat on the bed, staring at nothing.
This was my life now.
And I had no idea what to do with it.