This is my post on #freewriters2985#dailyprompt paralyzed hosted by 
In the quiet compound of Gwaram village, Toro LGA, Aminu woke each morning to the same betrayal. His legs lay motionless beneath the thin blanket, two strangers that once danced across the red earth of the football pitch behind the old dispensary.
Two rainy seasons ago a tipper truck had somersaulted on the twisting road near Rimin Zayam. Iron rods flew like angry spears. One found his spine. The doctors in Bauchi spoke of T12, incomplete lesion, physiotherapy. Then the money dried up and the words stopped mattering.
His mother, Hajiya Rabi, still rose before first light. She fetched water, pounded yam, swept the yard with short, determined strokes. She never asked why fate had chosen her firstborn. She simply added his care to the long list of daily miracles she performed without complaint.
Aminu discovered small rebellions. When his brother Yusuf pushed the creaking wheelchair donated by a Jos church group, he would close his eyes and chase the wind. The jolts over stones became sprints. The sudden shade under shea trees felt like crossing the goal-line. His heart pounded the same rhythm it once knew on match days.
One harmattan afternoon they travelled farther than ever—past the grandfather baobab, past the fork to Ningi, up the small rise that overlooked the valley. Millet fields stretched gold and brown to the horizon. Zinc roofs winked in distant settlements.
Aminu looked at Yusuf. “Inside here,” he tapped his chest, “I’m still running.”
Yusuf nodded, understanding what words could not carry.
The next Sunday they went all the way to Toro market. Okada horns blared. Traders shouted. Children trailed them laughing. Dust coated Aminu’s face like war paint.
He smiled into the chaos.
Paralyzed, yes.
But not stopped.