I Danced With My Father’s Belt
I was repeatedly beaten mercilessly by the person I loved dearly
At the age of 10, life took an unexpected curve. My mum, three siblings, and I left the United Kingdom to join my father. Of course, we were excited about returning to Nigeria. After sojourning for several years in racial-infested terrain, we were finally back to our homeland.
We were glad to be accepted by kinfolk of the same brown skin but didn’t realize the challenges of integrating into society. Most detrimentally, adults didn’t govern children with tenderness but reformed them by spanking. My dad was a disciple of this school of thought, and the years that followed witnessed sustained aggressions of the cane.
Though society regarded my father as a highly sophisticated gentleman, he was a child beater with no remorse. His insensitivity stemmed from adults viewing child beating as necessary for good parenting. Besides, his military background authenticated using force when and if required. His children were no exemption; he reserved an iron fist for us but concealed it in velvet gloves. His reputation at home was crisscross to outsiders. He was a tyrant but outwardly an empathetic, considerate figure.
As far as I can remember, the public had respected my dad until the twilight of his stellar career. The sterling qualities defined him among an elite cadre of prominent men. I knew because he grabbed the spotlight during social gatherings, illuminated in a dazzle of eloquence whenever he chaired an occasion. He spoke with Queen’s English to the admiration of the enthused audience. They were mesmerized by the artistry and debonnaire of a charismatic young professional whom they touted with the repertoire of the new sensation.
After several years of training at the illustrious Royal College of Dentistry, United Kingdom, he had recently returned to Nigeria. The exposure complemented his enviable status as a decorated Major in the Nigerian Army. Consequently, an upper-echelon inducted him into society’s crème de la crème bracket.
My friends knew too, and they respected me, particularly my next-door neighbour, Peter Onyekwerem. We took rides together to school in his dad’s blue Peogeout 504, nondescript and panel-beaten chassis, different from our classy silver Volvo 244 GL, a fresh gloss from the manufacturer’s mint cabinet.
Unlike my dad, Mr. Onyekwerem was guttural and undignified. He was fond of barking orders to sit quietly and forbade eating in his car. Peter knew better than to disobey, or else his cheek would feel the quick sting of his father’s determined palm. So we kept mute; we had to for Peter’s sake. Mr Onyekwerem monitored the peace as he chewed on a branch to clean his goofy tobacco-stained teeth and spat the residue out of the window. I was irritated by his disgusting morning routine. However, I was proud of my father, a perceptible reflection of refinement.
Our first encounter with the belt was unexpected. On this occasion, I was a mere spectator but inching closer to my day of reckoning. My older brother, Aniekan, came back from school excited. He’d just been given a sex orientation by his pre-teen friends. They lectured him about copulation and showed him graphic images. He learned explicitly about the insertion of a phallus through the vaginal cavity in heterosexual pleasure and the injection of sperm fluid resulting in conception and childbirth. This procreation story was anti our orientation at the time. We believed children were a gift from God, who provided as He pleased. At least that’s what our parents told us.
On hearing the bizarre story, we rushed to our mum to refute. We needed her assurance that the news peddlers were phonies, concocting a frivolous story with no bearings to the truth. But she was tongue-tied at first and stammered out a lame reply, neither affirming nor denying the tabled facts. Instead, she was evasive and asked us to wait for an explanation from Dr Asanga, our family doctor.
Thirty minutes after dinner, my dad returned from work, and my mum welcomed him with the trending news. He savoured the information seething.
“Aniekan, dimi!” My brother heeded to the shout trembling; he tottered to the summon.
“Ame yomdi biad ditomin?” My father accused him of brainwashing us.
But, dad, I’m not trying to spoil my brothers and sister. That’s what my friends told me in school.
The more Aniekan spoke, the more furious my dad became. His lips tightened, and cheeks flushed. Then, my dad pulled out his belt and folded it, creating additional turgidity. Aniekan crouched at his feet, begging, imploring mercy. Rebuffing, he held Aniekan by the waistline and belted his buttocks. He tried to protect his burning backside with his hands, but dad pulled them away, and the belt lashed on. Aniekan managed to break free, writhing in pain and anguish on the floor. I counted twelve hefty whackings, each stroke accompanied with howling and pleading that fell on deaf ears. Finally, my brother curled up, sobbing and quivering in the quagmire of misery.
My favourite programme Voltron was showing. I stared at the black box affectionately, but I dared not watch. My dad had placed an embargo on watching TV during school days. Nobody dared defy him, especially after witnessing the harrowing episode with Aniekan a fortnight ago.
My father took a machete and cut two cane strips from a guava tree to further bolster his seriousness. The dry bark had rough stubby nodes; the coarseness created more friction and likely abrasion on contact with skin. He kept the long canes in the sitting room corner, in full sight, indicating his intent to curb perceived disobedience.
My desire to watch Voltron got the better of me, so I took a chance. I turned on the TV and settled into the action, transfixed by the mission of the Flaming Phoenix, bent on repelling the nefarious activities of the Dark Force. I was absorbed and didn’t hear my father pulling in through the driveway. Then, quietly, he unlatched the door and walked in on me.
“Aniewo edoken fin dim domo TV?”
My dad’s voice boomed into my ears and startled me. He wanted to know who permitted me. I was apoplectic with shock. Horripilation covered my skin, and a lump welled up my throat; I braced up for the worst. I knew what was coming, yet I couldn’t stop it. Experience taught me begging was of no use, but I did all the same. Without hesitation, my dad went straight for the stick and brandished it.
“Please, daddy, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, I promise. Daddy, please don’t beat me. But, you know I’m a good boy, spare me this once. Please! Pleee…”
“Stretch your arms!”
Thwack! I felt the sting on my backside; the pain stabbed my cheeks and rippled through my anatomy. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Impulsively my hands protected my rear. I needed to stifle the onslaught of the beating that caused soreness and the inflammation of many nerve endings. Thwack! He didn’t mind my defence but continued until the cane was splintered and broken. I fell on the carpet, agonized and immersed in a pool of tears. I suffocated on sobs, helpless and grateful for the torment to end. My arms were afflicted by searing pain. I noticed the rough cane had sliced my flesh and left blood stripes on my wrists and lower arms. But ignoring my plight, my father strode to the TV, switched it off and left me to languish.
The years that followed witnessed many more episodes of beating. Although my dad continued in this barbarity, he later realized his folly. Before he departed the planet, we ironed out the differences we had. He spent his last years in warm affection with his children.
The beating of children with a belt or cane is still very common in many parts of Nigeria today. When bleeding occurs, pepper is sometimes inserted into the wounds to aggravate the pain. Parents believe this is the best way to discipline a child and prevent a reoccurrence of disobedience.
