Zachariah remembers vividly: it was the 86th minute of the match final when the first bomber detonated. It felt like someone had bashed his ears; they were ringing so loudly. Dozens of shards of metal shrapnel had sliced into the skin of his torso and head, and even into his eyes so he could hardly see. He managed to drag himself out of the venue and across the road and to flag down a taxi. He woke up covered in blisters and blood, desperate to find his family and friends. “There were so many things I needed to work on that would help my life move on,” he says of the psychological effects. He stopped drinking, got serious at work, had a daughter he is devoted to, and saved money to buy a plot of land in his home village. “It makes you think you must be around for a reason.”


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