Blinded By Light

Yesterday, my mother came to visit—a ritual as comforting as it is familiar. She arrived, as always, laden with goodies, her love language wrapped in foil and plastic containers. We spent a lazy afternoon trading stories, laughing at old memories, and soaking up the simple warmth of being together.

But all good things must end, and soon it was time to see her off. I walked her to the main road, where the dusty chaos of bike taxis rules. That’s when the trouble began.

She stopped at the edge of the tar, eyed the swarm of riders, and laid down her law. “I want someone with shoes,” she said firmly. “And someone middling—not too young, not too old.” Her logic was razor-sharp, drawn from a lifetime of watching the road claim fools. The young ones, she explained, ride like they’re fleeing a demon—full throttle, no fear, accident magnets. The old ones? Their arms tremble at the first wobble; a pebble could send them tipping.

Fair enough, I thought. How hard could it be?

Harder than I imagined. Every bike that roared toward us was a blur of white light before I could so much as glance at the rider’s face or feet. It wasn’t the speed—it was the headlamps. Those blinding, merciless white halogen bulbs that most riders have swapped in, thinking they’re an upgrade.

Let me tell you what that light does. When it hits you, you don’t see the bike, the rider, or the pothole yawning two feet away. You see a supernova. You are blind—utterly, helplessly blind. Only the person behind the light can see. So if a car swerves, if a goat darts across, if anything at all goes wrong, the one walking, the one on the other bike, the one standing at the roadside… they might as well close their eyes and pray.

The original headlamps—the ones that came with those bikes—were never like this. They cast a gentle, honest glow. Both riders could flash each other and still see the road, still react, still live. But these halogen monsters? They turn every encounter into a duel of blindness. And the pedestrian? The pedestrian just vanishes into the glare, a ghost before their time.

I’ve heard the defenders say, “But I can see so much better!” And I believe them. That’s exactly the problem. Your clarity is my blindness. Your safety is my peril.

So there I stood, squinting into the oncoming flood of white suns, trying to find a middle-aged man in shoes. Bikes whizzed past, each one a temporary eclipse. I could have waved one down—any one—but my mother’s voice echoed in my ears. She was right. She’s always right about the road.

Finally, through the glare, a giant of a man materialized. He wore mud-caked rainboots—not exactly sneakers, but shoes enough. His face had the weathered calm of someone who’s seen it all and hasn’t panicked once. Average age. Strong hands.

“This one,” my mother said.

I helped her climb on. The big man nodded, kicked the engine to life—with his lamp blazing, because of course it was—and they melted into the traffic. Later, she called to say she’d arrived safely. Thank God.

But not everyone will be that lucky.

So here’s my plea—to every bike rider, every taxi driver, every car owner who’s swapped in those blinding white lights: Please stop. Your brighter road is making everyone else’s darker. And to the council, to the authorities who hold the power to enforce, to inspect, to fine: Step in. A simple rule—original lamps only—could save eyes, limbs, lives.

Because the next person blinded by that white flash might be your mother. And she might not find a giant in rainboots in time.