As the village dreamt, one little girl, Rehema, was woken up by what sounded like thunder. Sensing the rain, she ran to check the windows in her parents’ room. They were sealed shut. She then walked back to her bed to ensure her room’s window was shut, right before the thunder cracked louder, followed almost immediately by a bright yellow light that pierced through the blinders.
I saw up ahead the articulated trailer of a lorry jack-knife out in front of the scaffolding truck, the truck’s brake lights igniting in glowing red against the mist of spray. The roof of the scaffolding truck’s front cab crumpled against the trailer and the flapping high visibility jacket move slowly towards me, in my direct line of sight, as I pumped the brakes.