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No Escaping The Pain Of The Cane
When I read a
recent Times of Zambia article about an Ndola student who fainted
after being caned by a teacher, it brought back not-so-fond memories
of my school days. I was a good student, among the best in school,
yet I couldn’t escape the dreaded cane. On at least three occasions,
it came down hard on my butt, leaving painful marks on my skin and
reminding me that my misdeeds, however deliberate, paled in
comparison to this great misdeed that had been inflicted on me.
On one fateful
day, a deputy headmaster in Ndola decided to cane my entire class
because we were making too much noise (chatting instead of
studying). One by one we filed into his office, one by one we winced
in pain, and one by one we stumbled out, our butts on fire. As if
that wasn’t enough punishment, the deputy head also ordered us to
slash grass for an hour or two, not realizing how relieved we’d be
that we didn’t have to sit.
Another time,
a deputy headmaster in Lusaka caught me clowning around and caned me
in front of all my classmates. Though I was bigger than her, I had
to take it, I had to accept her punishment. She had a cane and all I
had was a pencil.
Carrying a
cane around seemed to give headmasters and their deputies unlimited
power. They could hit you for almost anything: arriving late for
class, wearing your socks too low, forgetting to bow. It was like a
totalitarian state - and apparently it still is.
Though I
completed most of my secondary education in Zambia, I did try to
attend school in India, spending short stints in several schools and
finding myself the victim, once again, of corporal punishment. One
male teacher grew especially fond of pinching my arm. He always
picked the same spot, as though other parts of my body weren’t
involved in whatever crime I had committed. It was the only time in
my life that I’ve seen my skin turn green.
The teacher
seemed to take great pleasure out of pinching me, his face looking
as gleeful as a dog at feeding time. The only thing he didn’t do was
drool. Thank goodness for that, because I would have had to mop it
up!
Another
teacher, a female, seemed just as sadistic. She would hit my
fingertips repeatedly with a ruler until they turned red. It hurt so
much, I felt like screaming: “Mummy! She’s killing me! Call the
police!”
Whenever I was
being punished, the other students would just sit still and watch,
probably thinking, “Thank goodness Melvin is in our class. We’re
getting so much free entertainment. This is better than going to the
movies.”
In America,
where I now live, school teachers and officials are not allowed to
hit students. Misbehaving students are detained after school or sent
to the principal’s office for a reprimand. They may also be required
to take a letter to their parents.
I wish I had
been sent home with a letter. It’s a lot better than being sent home
with a sore butt.
 Melvin
Durai is a U.S.-based writer and humorist who grew up
in Zambia. His weekly humour columns are read by thousands of
people in more than 90 countries. For an email subscription
to his columns, please visit his
website |
August 2004