Miracle on the Road:

 Miracle on the Road: A Survivor’s Tale of Faith and Resilience

By Hakeem Agbelesola

It was a fateful evening around 8 p.m. when I boarded a commercial bus from Lafenwa in Abeokuta, Ogun State. My destination was Mushin, Lagos, but with no direct bus to Oshodi available, I settled for one heading to Iyana Ipaja. Unease gnawed at me from the start. Three times, I stepped off the bus back at Lafenwa, my instincts screaming that something was amiss. Yet, with no clear reason to abandon my journey, I reboarded, and the bus sped off once full.

As we approached Sango, tragedy struck. The bus somersaulted violently, flipping multiple times. My right hand, dangling outside the window, bore the brunt of the chaos, battered and mangled with every roll. In that moment, the lyrics of the late Dr. Sikiru Ayinde Barrister echoed in my mind: “When my house was burning, Satan said he would destroy it in God’s name, but the angel of death forgot to seek God’s permission.” Those words felt like a lifeline, a reminder that my survival was in divine hands.

Miraculously, we all crawled out of the wreckage. As I stumbled away, I noticed my clothes were soaked—not with water, but with petrol. The driver had been carrying a keg of fuel, and it had spilled during the crash. Seconds after I escaped, the bus erupted in flames, a fiery explosion lighting up the night. Standing there, trembling but alive, I joined the other passengers in a shaky chorus of gratitude. No lives were lost—a miracle in itself.

But my ordeal was far from over. My right hand throbbed with excruciating pain, the flesh torn and bones likely shattered. I sought help at two hospitals, only to be turned away because I had lost my wallet and phone in the crash. At the third hospital, a compassionate nurse lent me her phone to call my father. Through tears, I explained my plight. He instructed the doctor to begin treatment, promising to settle the bill the next day. True to his word, he sent funds through a friend, who then took me to the Lagos State University Teaching Hospital (LASUTH).

The journey to LASUTH was grim. My friend and I whispered our fears, both convinced my hand would need amputation. At LASUTH, the staff provided exceptional first aid, stabilizing me before referring me to Igbobi Orthopaedic Hospital. There, I braced for the worst, but God had other plans. Over three grueling months, the skilled doctors at Igbobi worked tirelessly, and to my astonishment, they saved my hand. Amputation was never needed—a testament to divine grace and medical expertise.

Throughout my recovery, I was never alone. I owe a debt of gratitude to those who stood by me: Boye Adetu, Tunji Balogun, Tolani Akiyode, Wale Shittu, and Segun Adodo. Their support was my anchor. I’ll never forget how Tunji and Boye, knowing how much I craved a taste of normalcy, smuggled steaming plates of pepper soup catfish into Igbobi, defying the hospital’s strict no-outside-food policy. Those secret meals, shared in hushed laughter, lifted my spirits and reminded me of life beyond the hospital walls.

Reflecting on that night, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. The accident could have claimed my life, yet here I stand, whole and healing. Barrister’s song rings true: Satan may scheme, but without God’s permission, death has no power. I thank God for His mercy, the doctors for their skill, and my friends for their unwavering support. My story is one of survival, faith, and the undeniable wonders of God’s love, made sweeter by the loyalty of those who stood by me.

This story is dedicated to all who face trials and triumph through resilience, divine intervention, and the strength of friendship.