e 3 a s h i g R E F L E C T I O N S

Falling Of My Tree

When I was younger, there was an acacia tree behind our house. It was one of many that dotted the landscape of the village - one at about every 100 meters. I remember vaguely playing under one particular tree and making a small wooden frame into a tree house between its thorny bushes. The air was so dry it always sucked the moisture from my mouth and nose. I preferred to be in my tree house alone and not be disturbed by other kids. I would climb up my hand-made ladder, hang up side down for few minutes and contemplate the immediate change in the composition of the landscape. The blue clear sky now appears at the bottom of my field of vision like an endless sea and where the sky was, there is now sand the colour of dry blood dotted with stars of grey and white gravel of varying size. Sometimes, there might be a camel feeding of some bushes of my tree or a neighboring one but it would not notice me and would go on grazing for hours. There were occasionally some locust but only once I remember seeing them in abundance almost masking the sun. More memorable was the constant buzzing of the eurybrachyidae planthoppers signifying the presence of summer.

I fell once off my tree. I heard the cracking of the branch under my weight and before I could react, I was on my way down, head first, onto gravel. I was knocked out for a short while then when I came round, I saw that my Kandoura has now turned red with blood. There was no pain and my hands and legs seemed intact. I touched the top of my head and could feel warm blood still flowing and what felt like a crack in my skull. I ran inside the house to the shock and horror in my mother’s eyes but my grandmother who was visiting at the time quickly declared that a mixture of salt and turmeric works best for head injuries and that a pinch of garlic would make the wound heal neater. Even though the clinic was only about 3km away, she decided there was no need to see anyone and that I would be fine. She said she would watch me over the next day to make sure that I was still alive and moving and that if I started talking gibberish it will be a bad sign.

It has been nearly 20 years since my fall. It didn’t affect me except often now when looking after patients with head injuries I would remember my grandmother nursing my own skull wound and would admire the simple life they were used to with no luxuries forcing them to make do with what they had.

PS: This post is dedicated to my grandmother.