The small boy has come in for his therapy session. He is flushed and excited and filled with joy.

“And what has made you so happy, Lwazi? “I ask.

I am eager to know. The words tumble out from his mouth with six-year-old enthusiasm.

“I have been running with my friends,” he gushes. A game of catches on the school field at breaktime it seems. He proceeds to demonstrate. He flings his arms onto the wheels of his wheelchair and swings the chair with vigour around the physiotherapy gym in a few haphazard circles to prove the speed of his running.

“Well done!” I enthuse.

A week previously, he had said, “I wish I could run with my legs like the other boys do.”

His voice had been sad and tinged with hope.

“And so, you can,” I had responded. I proceeded to explain that while some children ran with their legs, others, like his friend Noah, ran with the help of a walking frame.

“You’ve seen Noah?” I asked. Yes, he had nodded.

“And what about Esihle?” I had continued. “He runs with his crutches!” The erstwhile despondent head was now nodding vigorously. “And as for you, show me your strong arms.” He showed me his bulging biceps muscles with pride. “With these you can push yourself fast in your wheelchair,” I said. “You have wheels. You can run. Your wheels are your legs!” By this stage his smile was broad. He giggled.

It was the encouragement he’d needed.

He changed from the boy with the flail legs in the wheelchair who could not run, to the boy who ran on the field with his friends.