I grew up in a lively part of Lagos, where the streets buzzed with the constant hum of traffic, the laughter of children, and the noise of traders calling out to customers. I was the youngest of five children, and our house was always full—of love, of noise, of life. My parents were hardworking people, doing everything they could to give us a good life, and they dreamed of a bright future for me.
I wasn’t always in a wheelchair. In fact, I was an active, restless boy. I ran through the streets with my friends, playing football until the sun disappeared behind the horizon. I can still remember the sound of the ball hitting the ground, the way my heart raced as I chased after it, and the thrill of scoring a goal. That was my life—running, playing, dreaming.
Everything changed one rainy afternoon when I was just thirteen years old. It was a day like any other. My friends and I were on our way back from a nearby field where we’d been playing football. The rain had started lightly at first, then suddenly turned into a downpour. We tried to run home, but the streets were slippery, and before I knew it, I slipped on the wet pavement. My friends laughed at first—they thought it was just a minor fall—but I couldn’t get up.
I remember the pain. It was sharp, sudden like something had snapped inside me. My friends helped me up, but I couldn’t stand. I felt numb from the waist down, and fear began to creep into my heart. I was rushed to the hospital, and after what felt like hours of waiting and tests, the doctor delivered the news: I had suffered a severe spinal injury.
I didn’t fully understand what it meant at the time, but when they said, “You may never walk again,” my world collapsed. I remember looking at my legs, willing them to move, but they wouldn’t. I was trapped in my own body, in a way I had never imagined.
The weeks that followed were a blur. I was transferred to a rehabilitation center, where they taught me how to use a wheelchair, how to navigate a world that suddenly felt foreign to me. My family was devastated, but they tried to hide it. My mother would cry when she thought I wasn’t looking, and my father, who had always been the strong, silent type, seemed more distant than ever. My siblings tried to cheer me up, but I could see the pity in their eyes.
I hated it. I hated the wheelchair, I hated being dependent on others, and most of all, I hated myself. The dreams I had once nurtured—the dreams of playing professional football, of running down the streets with my friends, of simply walking on my own two feet—felt like they had been snatched away from me. I fell into a deep depression. I refused to leave the house, refused to see my friends. I didn’t want to be “the boy in the wheelchair.” I didn’t want to be the object of people’s pity.
For months, I barely spoke. I stayed in my room, staring at the walls, wondering what my life would look like now. I didn’t think it was a life worth living anymore. I felt like I had lost everything that made me who I was.
It was my brother, Chike, who finally broke through the darkness. Chike was older than me by eight years, and he had always been the one I looked up to. He came into my room one afternoon, sat down beside me, and said, “Emeka, I know this is hard. I can’t even imagine how hard it is for you. But this is not the end. You’re still here. You’re still alive. And you still have so much to give. Don’t let this be the end of your story.”
I didn’t respond at first. I didn’t believe him. How could he understand? He could still walk, still live his life the way he wanted to. But something about the way he spoke, the sincerity in his voice, planted a seed of hope inside me. Maybe he was right. Maybe this wasn’t the end.
Slowly, I started to emerge from the shell I had built around myself. It wasn’t easy. Every day was a struggle, physically and emotionally. But with the support of my family, I began to find a new path. My body had changed, but I was still me. I had to find a way to live again, to dream again.
I started going to physiotherapy more regularly, and there I met others who had experienced similar life-altering injuries. Some of them had lost limbs in accidents, others were victims of illness, but they were all fighting, just like me. We bonded over our shared struggles, and in them, I found strength. They weren’t just surviving—they were living, pushing boundaries, refusing to let their circumstances define them.
One day, during a group session, I met a man who would change my life. His name was Mr. Bello, and he was a wheelchair basketball coach. He came to talk to us about adaptive sports and how it could help us regain confidence and physical strength. At first, I wasn’t interested. Sports had been the thing I loved most, and I couldn’t bear the thought of playing from a wheelchair. But something about his passion sparked something inside me.
Mr. Bello encouraged me to give it a try, so I did. The first time I wheeled onto the basketball court, I felt awkward, out of place. But as the game began, something changed. The ball was passed to me, and instinct took over. I pushed myself forward, maneuvering the wheelchair with more speed than I thought possible. I shot the ball, and it went in.
In that moment, I felt alive again. For the first time since my accident, I felt like I was in control of something. I wasn’t just the boy in the wheelchair—I was an athlete again.
I started playing wheelchair basketball regularly, and it became my lifeline. The court was a place where my disability didn’t matter. What mattered was my determination, my skill, and my will to keep going. Through basketball, I found myself again. I wasn’t the same person I had been before the accident, but I realized that was okay. I was still Emeka. I still had dreams. And now, I had a new one.
I began to train seriously, and a year later, I was selected to represent Lagos in a national wheelchair basketball competition. Standing—or rather, sitting—there in my uniform, I felt proud. Proud of how far I had come, proud of the fight I had in me.
Life hasn’t been easy, and I still have days where I struggle, where the weight of my situation feels unbearable. But I’ve learned that my worth isn’t determined by my legs or my ability to walk. My worth comes from my heart, my spirit, my drive to keep going, no matter what life throws at me.
Today, I share my story not because I want pity, but because I want others to know that there is life and hope despite disability. There is hope after loss. We are stronger than we think, and sometimes, it takes losing something to discover the strength that has always been inside us.
Editor’s note: Emeka (pseudonym) shared his story with Onyinyechi Okereafor, and the story is told in first person.