Disability arrives uninvited.
Sometimes it comes with a birth. Sometimes with a diagnosis. Sometimes, as in my case, it comes violently, in a flash of steel, a spasm of pain and a slow, quiet aftermath that rewrites your life.
I was 30 years old when I was stabbed in my right hand during a robbery – the hand I used to write, sign court documents, to hand over title deeds, shake hands and, ironically, protect others.
That single act of violence left me with a permanent disability and forced me to enter a world I had never truly seen before, the world of the disabled.
And let me tell you, South Africa is not kind to disabled people.
Recovery was not just medical. It was existential. Multiple surgeries later, I…
