A friend the other day asked me, would you spank your kids or talk to them? Honestly I don’t know, till then.
I love kids with all my heart, and they love me too. Can’t wait to sire some. I feel my loins nod in approval.
My only prayer is I marry a woman who will be a mother, a wife and a best friend.
Ever been at a bus stop, and a baby, about one year old extends towards you, tries to escape her mum’s grasp and cries when stopped. That is a common to me. Not like I’m responsible for their dead cousins as someone once tweeted, but it always dazes me too. Well, babies are angels, they say, what they see in people, I’ll never know.
Spank or counsel, whic path do you see yourself taking? You tell me.
Growing up I was quite naughty, not naughty naughty, but just an independent adventurous soul. I would escape from home like a possessed ghost at the slightest itching, to go sight-seeing or playing with friends. And that ‘evil roving spirit’ had to be dealt with, exorcised.
And exorcised it was. I had a daily dose of Kiboko, five hot ones every night after supper. Mum was this woman, who couldn’t punish a child on an empty stomach. I’d love to emulate her rescheduling capabilities.
In the kitchen, she’d be conversing with you, sending you for a pan here, a spoon there, like her heart was scrubbed clean, like she isn’t keeping diabolical plans there.
On the dining table, she’d be smiling, all jolly and courteous and there you were, caught for a fool, thinking the good old lady had forgotten.
After cleaning the table, you’d walk majestically to bed, hoping she’d forgotten or worse justifying your earlier misdeeds, after all the Preacher’s daughter was there too. And pretty as she was her buttocks couldn’t have and didn’t have any hallmarks of the repugnant cane.
“Amanya ija hanu!” *Amanya come here
“Osibire nkahi? “Beitu mwanawe noyenda kuba omuhiri, lambila hati hati” *But you boy, you’re trying so hard to be a lumpen, lie down right now.
That was the moment of truth,yes it would be happening, again.
That’s where I would plead for forgiveness, promising never to do it again. And that’s where Mum would remind me that alas I should have thought about forgiving her too.
Looking for me that whole time in vain wasn’t soemthing she enjoyed. She had better hobbies.
I’d be psychollogically beat by then and morally defeated, that lieing down would be imminent.
The nature of execution would vary from her administering the ‘five cane dose’ seamlessly; to her holding me between her legs and giving me a flogging of my life, depending on my composure during the whole exercise.
I’d go to bed crying, but only from the inside. Crying out loud would guarantee you an extra prescription to keep you quiescent. A prescription my sore behind would squinch to on first thought.
Funny how in the morning; Mum and I would be the best of friends, cracking jokes, running errands and getting tipped for that. Till the evening when the cycle continued.
After fighting a wave of tempatation, off I would be again, to the nearest soccer field but first to the preacher’s daughter to compare buttocks.
I was really beat growing up till like primary six when i started showing abnormal maturity for a guy my age.
But I realised Kiboko, didnt change me, I looked into my heart and made a promise to myself to become the best son in the world. Maybe had my Bum not been subjected to torture, maybe had my parents engaged me, talked to me I’d have changed anyway.
But again, spare the rod, spoil the child. I guess that’s why African kids have no family issues, respect issues and generally those small issues white kids have. Like how do you get anxiety disorders or panic attacks, those were beat out of me by five years.