Dinma’s story

It took me a long time to realise I was abused.

I counted corporal punishment as discipline, I was being punished for something I had either done wrong or didn't do well. But there were times I was punished for things I didn't do.

In September 2001, I started high school. I was eight years old, and my school was nearly 560 km from my family home. It was the first time I was apart from my family. We arrived three days before the school was to resume so we could get acquainted with the school systems.

My mom had braided my hair into beautiful cornrows, her daughter was going to boarding school. On arriving at the school in the morning, my father was informed that I had to cut my hair because students are required to do this. As the barber took down my corn rows, I felt stripped of my mother’s passing gift. It was snatched from me with no warning. The lines from that corn rows remained for about a week making me an object of mockery from seniors.

That very evening, we heard the bell ring, and we were told to come downstairs for what the seniors termed a “flogging party”. We were lined up from smallest, and I happened to be the smallest. We had to lie face down on the red sand in front of the hostel. Senior students gathered around, canes heaped on the side and the party began. I was called forward and flogged with the cane going round every part of my body. I remember asking myself, “what did we do wrong?”. That night, for the first time since I left home the day before and boarded a night bus going to Enugu, I wept.

We had a shortage of water. We were allowed a bucket for 3 days, that included bathing and washing and drinking. I still can't imagine how we made it work. One Saturday in my second year, I asked a senior student to help me with a cup of water to take cereal. She agreed and gave me the keys to the box room, a place where seniors stored water. I went there, took a cup and returned the keys. A few days later, another senior student called a meeting, threatening and yelling that her water was stolen, and she would find the thief. My name slipped out and I was called to the side, along with some other people. I explained my situation and what took me to the box room, but the senior would have none of it. She began to try to flog the truth out of us. When she got to me,  I resolved not to let her see my tears because I know I didn't steal from her. She had a harder resolve; it became a tussle and the next thing I felt was a blow to my eye socket. I was plunged into darkness. I curled into a ball on the floor weeping, and that must have set her off because she kept hitting me, saying “I thought you say you say you will not cry!! over and over. Finally, one of her classmates, a Lagosian like me, grabbed the cane from her and said “Look at this girl, do you want to kill her? She took me to my bed and asked me to lie down. But her next words stopped me cold; “Linda, sorry, just lie down and sleep, don't report her”.

When the Reverend sisters in charge found out what had happened from my classmates, they flogged the senior with a mop stick and suspended her for three weeks. From then on, seniors avoided me but not without stigmatisation; they often called me “possessed” .

In my third year another nightmare began. A senior prefect took interest in me. She made her intentions known to me through a mutual acquaintance. I had a bittersweet experience in a previous school mother- daughter relationship, so I wanted none of it, ever again. She cajoled, asked nicely, offered me nice things but I said “no”. 

Then she switched tactics, she became hostile, cruel even, employing the services of a few friends who lived in my hostel, and they made my life miserable. I was targeted from every side. Once, she came to my room and insisted the room was dirty. She told all occupants to lie down outside in the sun, whipping each of us. When it was my turn, she gave me over 100 strokes on every part of my body, from my neck down to my feet. Another time, one of her friends said I was mocking her with a song, she poured dirty water on me and told me to sleep on the floor that night. I was released at 1am.

When I became a senior student, I believed I had found rest. But I would later discover this was a lie. The principal became a thorn in my flesh. She called me a bad child, told a classmate to stay away from me, flogged me in front of the whole school when I didn't read well, and made me remove my shirt and stand in front of the whole school in my underwear because I didn't tuck in.

Even in my final year I experienced shocking incidents. On one occasion, a dirty trick had been played on a Novice. The Reverend Sisters flocked to the hostel accompanied by a live-in female teacher nicknamed Mad for her loud voice, bouncing step and how she flogged with no mercy, ready to chase you to the ends of the earth. All students were made to kneel and were flogged. Interrogations started I was placed in the middle of two Reverend Sisters, each flogging me back into the middle when I tried to escape. Then we were told we must inform our parents we would be expelled. I couldn't reach mine and spent all night wondering how to break the news to my parents, I didn't get a wink of sleep. My body was on fire, my friend helped me massage my body, I had marks and blisters from the canes. Eventually, we were pardoned but the emotional trauma of being accused wrongly, the body pains from the flogging, whilst preparing for final exams was excruciating.

Writing this article caused me to realise that I never really did heal, I simply moved on. Now I am forced to dig up my past, releasing pain and ache I didn't allow myself to feel. As I write I feel more anger towards the system that said it was okay to discipline a child in any way possible, if no major bodily harm is done. That school left me traumatized.

Most importantly, are the wounds unseen. The way I feel when I hear the sound of a whip close by. The pain I feel when I see a child battered. The tears I shed when I reminisce. The memories I fight to suppress, because the bad outweighs the good. The struggle of disciplining my children without guilt.

Then there is shame. Shame that I was cowardly not to have stood up for myself. Shame, that I am only speaking up now. Shame that I watch children around me get spanked, flogged and beaten because we called it discipline. I beat myself up for not standing up then and for waiting this long to rise up to the occasion.

What I went through, no child must ever experience. I intend to do what needs to be done to stand up for children everywhere. To be the change I wished someone fought for. The change I want to see. To put an end to corporal punishment.

Discipline is not inflicting physical pain; it is teaching and steering a child towards the right path. A lot of people who believe in corporal punishment use the word of God “Spare the rod and spoil the child” as justification, but let me end in the words of Apostle Paul, 1 Corinthians 13:4-7:

Love is patient

Love is kind.

It does not envy, boast and is not proud.

It does not dishonour others, is not self-seeking, not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 

It always protects, trusts, hopes, perseveres.

So, if you say you inflict pain out of love for a child, ask yourself “is that true love?”

Dinma Nmaele-Afam

End Violence Against Children Advocate