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. Unlike 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?
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. Unlike 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?
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