Wednesday, 3 August 2011

WHY I HATED DADDY - PART 2

Daddy had just rushed back outside to place the cherry on the cake, that is to say, relieve his hand of severe punishment and hand over power to a more competent wooden rod. A million rivers could overflow their banks by the amount of tears Kevin had shed, his shirt now drenched in them. “If you play football ten times, I’ll whip you a ten times. Why are you so stubborn, eh? Do you want to break your legs?” daddy shouted. These tantrums were accompanied by the occasional stroke of the rod that was sparsely spared. After all, he wasn’t a spoilt child by any stretch of a mile; he just went with the flow of his innermost instincts and disregarded the eminent consequences of his actions. Brilliant at school and but with an incredible affinity for football, he engraved his name in stone whenever it came to disobeying his parents, simply for the love of the game.


He continued to face this beat-less music from his lifetime coach, receiving each whip with much gusto comparable to that of Asamoah Gyan, after he struck the bar from the penalty during the recent African world cup. Kevin begged at least thousand times, well, counting them was the least of his worries at that moment, but this is no exaggeration. In the midst of these exchanges, his aunty, Auntie Hagar, came out from nowhere as if sent from heaven to rescue him. And rescue him she did.
Recognizing the current situation, which trickled in by her intuition, she separated the past and the future in that very moment. She instantly earned a call-up into the “kneeling and begging” squad, doing her very best to save him from further ludicrous lashes. This intriguing game ended abruptly as daddy finally felt he made himself clear enough. Kevin took an early shower, considering the fact that he often bathe only once a day.


Kevin Ashley is a very close friend of mine, so close that the pain incurred from his experience, like Ghana’s first world cup appearance, is mutually imprinted on both of our minds. Narrating this crude childhood ordeal felt like kissing my image on the side of the other. Discipline has many forms and shapes, but in my opinion, the brutality-based form of discipline is hugely overrated and overly emphasized. This slice of the punishment cake suffered him not only emotional scars, but also dented his social skills. For a long time he struggled to maintain friendship of any sort, save that between he and his mother. The good news is that he has succeeded in overcoming this demon of a memory,  invoked by the incantations of time and chance. 





Written by : Kojo Essuman Ackah
(C) Copyright ~ 2011 All Rights Reserved

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