Sunday 28 September 2014

Spare The Rod or Spoil The Child

Recently, American football star Adrian Peterson was indicted for whipping his 4 year old son with a tree branch, which he claimed was a method of disciplining the child. This got me thinking about how different the issue of discipline is here in Nigeria, how different it was when I was growing up.

My parents, especially my mother was a believer in the idiom "spare the rod and spoil the child". As a staunch advocate of the importance of bringing up well-behaved children, she never condoned any form of disobedience or bad behaviour, and had different methods of discipline depending on the severity of the act committed.

Minor offences like rudeness, not greeting an elder, or refusal to do a chore, could warrant punishments like a sharp pull to the ear or cheek, being asked to kneel in a corner, eyes closed and hands raised up. But major ones like lying or stealing would definitely warrant a flogging or worse a beating. We always preferred the former.

Floggings were administered on the palm of the hand and the instrument was a long, dark brown, sun-dried tree branch which was aptly called a 'water cane' because of its flexibility. This much dreaded weapon which made you scream loud enough to wake the neighbours, was kept in a corner of the living room where all could see. The sight of it was enough to make you think twice about committing any offense. Hand stretched out, palm facing up as the lashes are delivered in quick succession. Pulling your hand back reflexively so that the wicked cane misses its target would always result in some additional lashes. Fleeing was never an option as there was the risk of some hot lashes landing on your tender back instead. After what usually seems like a lifetime, the punishment is finally over, your palm feels as if a million soldier ants are drilling holes into it, you crawl up in a corner wailing like a wild animal till you are pacified by the same individual responsible for your tears. This would usually be followed by a lecture on why you were punished and then some sweets.

Beatings were a few quick slaps to the face, arms and upper back and they were reserved for the most grievous acts like lying or stealing. They usually played out this way, ''you hear your full name (pet names having long been forgotten) being called in a loud voice as your `crime' is discovered, you burst into tears and start running for the closest neighbour`s house to seek assylum. You get there and quickly 'report' yourself, usually to the mother of the house, editing the story as you go along, sugar-coating the parts where you committed the punishable act and getting her to take sides with you. After some hours she takes you home herself and pleads for mercy on your behalf''. This tactic worked but not all the time, sometimes the beating would commence as soon as the neighbour left or worse, late at night when you were already in bed thinking all had been forgiven and forgotten.

The worst kind of beating one could receive was the kind that came at the end of the school session, the one that had to do with your performance in school. God help you if your position failed to fall within first to fifth! It would be better for you to disown your parents and not return home. At least not that day. This was the only occasion where no neighbour pleaded for you, in fact involving them might be a big mistake especially if their own kids were olodos like yourself.

Some beatings just stick with you sha...

When I was 13 years old, something happened that made me suspect I was adopted. U
nlike my younger sister by a year, Oby, I preferred to save my pocket money than spend it all on sweets. One sunny day we both had to attend the first birthday party of a neighbour`s son and true to type Oby had no presents to give the little boy. So I proudly presented my carefully wrapped present, with my name boldly written on it to the boy`s mother. On getting home we recounted the events of the day to my mother and as we got to the part where I presented my gift, she moved closer to me and the next thing I felt was a whoosh of hot air and a ringing in my left ear. My mum had just struck me across the face! I cried for hours and refused to eat as I struggled to understand why I had been struck. As the clock ticked and late afternoon turned into night, my stomach groaned in hunger, I waited until everyone had gone to bed before sneaking into the kitchen to eat my food which had since gone cold. Before curling up to sleep in the living room, I plotted my escape from home in search of my real mother as I believed I must have been adopted to be beaten for no apparent reason. The next day my mother sat me down and explained that she had struck me simply because as the older one I should have been more responsible by asking Oby in advance for a part of her pocket money to buy a gift for the boy, as we were aware of the party months before.

Fortunately, that was the last beating I ever received. For most of us, the beatings stopped as we grew older and wiser, but unfortunately this did not apply to everyone. For some, the beatings followed them well into the University.

One hot March afternoon, while we napped before heading out to the beach, the stillness of our female hostel in Delta State University, was shattered by the sound of a commotion and the shrill cries of someone in a lot of pain. On getting to one of the rooms from which emanated the noise, we were shocked to see a plump dark woman dressed in blue iro and buba, obviously not an undergrad, unleashing quick, loud slaps on a slim fair girl, obviously an undergrad. The scantily clad girl was crying loudly, trying to shield herself from the onslaught. We were later to learn that the woman was her mother, who decided to pay her a visit and exorcise some demons while at it, upon hearing that her once innocent little girl had now transformed into a runs girl who went around with married men.

I imagine this happening now, in America, the story would definitely be 'breaking news' on CNN.


It is hard to deny the importance of discipline, as it is a process of teaching a child what type of behaviour is acceptable or not. There are some who swear that the beatings they received as kids were largely responsible for them growing up to become child molesters and serial killers. To support this, studies have shown that spankings or beatings can increase the likelihood of a child developing mental health symptoms. On the other hand, there are others, including my humble self, who believe that the beatings they received played a major role in molding them into the fine citizens they have become.

That being said, I do not support beatings as a first choice, apart from the fact that they can shake the foundation of trust between a child and its parents, they teach children to lie to avoid detection and subsequently an ass whooping. Other alternatives like grounding a child for bad behaviour or rewarding them with treats for good behaviour should be foremost. 

Joor what really is the best way to bring up a child?

Candies?


The rod?


Sunday 14 September 2014

The Hot Zone


A group of men dressed in space-suit-like outfits, cautiously throw a dead body into a grave, they pause only to toss in anything else they are wearing that came into contact with the deceased. There are no religious or traditional burial rites, no ceremony, no mourning, no family members, and no final goodbyes. It looks like a scene from the 1994 non-fiction thriller "The Hot Zone" by Richard Preston about viral hemorrhagic fevers particularly about ebolaviruses and marbugviruses.

This is a true picture of what is happening on a daily basis, in Guinea, Sierra-Leone and Liberia. It is the story of Ebola, a deadly viral disease that is slowing creeping across borders, and sneaking silently through checkpoints undetected.

Ebola Virus Disease (EVD) or Ebola is an infectious and generally fatal disease marked by fever and severe internal bleeding, spread through contact with infected body fluids by a filo virus (Ebola virus). There is no known cure.

According to the WHO, Ebola has killed over two thousand people and infected an estimated four thousand since the outbreak began in Guinea in December 2013. A figure which is growing at an alarming rate, and which both the WHO and the UN believe are vastly under-estimated. Ebola has now spread to Sierra-Leone, Liberia, Nigeria and most recently Senegal.

As I follow the news daily, I think about the victims, the ones under surveillance, those under quarantine, but most especially the dead. I read the interview of Dennis Akagha, the fiance of the first Nigerian Ebola victim, Justina Ejelonu. He recounted in chilling details her final days, the terrible conditions at the quarantine centre in Yaba, her slow and painful death, and his own miraculous recovery from the dreaded disease which he contracted while caring for her.

Patrick Sawyer, the index case from Liberia, was admitted at First Consultant Hospital on July 20th, the next day was Justina`s first day at work, Sawyer was her first patient. The 30 year old nurse had a lot to be excited about, her new job at this hospital, her forth coming wedding in October, her two months old pregnancy. She was carrying their first child. She succumbed to the disease which she had contracted from Sawyer three weeks later.

In a small village in far away Liberia, most of the houses have been abandoned, their doors padlocked and windows shuttered. The empty houses belonged to people who either died of Ebola or those who fled in terror, for fear of contracting the virus. Some of the residents abandoned the town in such a hurry that their clothes and floor mats have been left hanging on clotheslines. 

Kazalee Johnson, a community worker, lost his 8-months-pregnant sister, his brother, niece and many, many others: too many to name."They died. They died," he said. "So many people died -- the houses on your right and even the houses on your left. They are all gone."

In another village, one of the local clinics had to be locked up after all the health care workers based there contracted the virus. Only one survived. Some kilometres away is the town of Barkedu, home to more than 8,000 people, which is now completely under quarantine, no one can go in, and no one can go out.

Epidemics are often graded by their RO, or reproductive number. RO 0 signifies that the disease cannot be passed from person to person. An RO less than 1 will die out quickly because there will be few secondary infections. Any RO above 1 connotes an expanding epidemic. A recent report showed a new calculation of the RO for this epidemic and it found that when the outbreak began in Guinea back then in 2013, its RO was 1.5, meaning each person infected one and a half other people. But by early July 2014, the RO in Sierra Leone was a hideous 2.53, so the epidemic was more than doubling in size with each round of transmission. Today in Liberia, the worse hit country so far, the virus is spreading so rapidly that no RO has been computed. 

In fact, recent figures showed a surge in new cases in Liberia.The surge is as a result of more than 500 new cases recorded in just a week. WHO said that it expects thousands of new infections in Liberia in the coming weeks.

But there is hope.

Hope despite the fact that the sole major international responder, Doctors Without Borders pleaded for help many months ago and warned repeatedly that the virus was spreading out of control. It had to take the near death of two American doctors  who got infected in Liberia, for the WHO to finally awaken from its slumber and declare the disease an epidemic. The disease which could have been easily nipped in the bud months ago has now spread to five African countries.

Hope in the growing number of survivors. A recen t study revealed that 45% of those infected recovered from it. 

Hope as production of ZMapp, the `wonder' serum which is believed to have cured the two American doctors, is being expedited. A report released last week, showed the result of a test carried out on 18 healthy monkeys who had been injected with lethal doses of the virus. ZMapp healed all 18 of them.

Hope as human trials of an experimental vaccine began last week. So far no adverse reactions have been experienced by any of the healthy volunteers.

Hope as I dream of a day, not so far away, when I will offer without an iota of fear, the traditional Catholic firm handshake as a sign of peace to the Yoruba man in the white agbada sitting next to me at the 6.30 am mass, and a small peck on each cheek to the thin French lady on the other side. Just like we used to do. 

A day where mourners will once again escort their dead to the burial grounds.

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