The class was dead silent. I sat stiffly with my chest puffed out. Clutching and rubbing perspiration off my palms. Brother Richard moved to and fro; seething with anger which made his whole body quiver. He looked at me in frustration and disappointment. It was no doubt that until now I was his favourite student. Entrusted to be the class monitor. He reiterated his question, this time with a ring of sweltering authority and severity, ‘’ Where is the list? ‘’
“There is no list sir,‘’ I said, with my head high. Looking straight into his eyes, unflinching.
“Insubordination! Insolence!’’ He hissed. His mouth was in a tight pout.
Mr. Richard came back holding a long brown baton named Slesher. My whole body trembled.
“This is your last chance boy,” he said acidly.
I kept quiet. I was not about to back down now. He motioned me to come to the front. I stood up and straightened myself. Facing my classmates, I held on to the front of my own desk tightly. Praying that my bravery never waivers. The first blow landed with a splat on my left buttock. The pain was a quick sting which reverberated throughout my entire body. I made no sound. Then the second, the third, and the forth into endlessness. As he hit me, a neatly folded paper written ‘’Sesotho Speakers’’ scratched my thigh. This is my language.
Read – Wandered Too Far – A Flash Fiction by Oledibe Juliet, Nigeria
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Wow! What a piece I can relate to. Though it has been over a decade that I’ve completed basic education were this happens, I’ve been propelled back to class room days. It also takes me back to a recent video on the uncelebrated reason we have the Day of the African Child (June 16th) – our mother languages. This story can change a lot of perspectives and develop a love for the self that, starts with accepting were you come from for, it will help you know were you are going.