Old Fashioned Disciplining: My Mom Was a Pro

Yesteryear's Kenyan parents were bad-a$$ when it came to disciplining their kids. My mom used to beat me so bad I thought I was adopted. I was lucky if a day passed without any tears. I am therefore more than qualified to categorize the types of beatings there are out there. Here goes...
A mom's best friend

Organized Beating

This is the kind of beating you get in school. With a smooth and perfectly weighted cane, you get five good ones on the palms of your hand or for the boys, on their behind. My mom used this type of beating when my level of naughtiness was, say 2 on a scale of 1 to 5. My sister and I had to go for the cane. And it had to be perfect. Otherwise, the $hit would hit the fan and the disciplining would escalate to another type we'll discuss next; the random beating. 

Random (Anything Goes) Beating

This was the most popular type. My mom used to call it Githigithanio (anything goes). Like the name suggests, any item would be used to accomplish the task at hand. Slippers, canes, shoes, cooking stick, teeth, anything. It would happen anywhere and anyhow. 

To earn yourself a random beating, you had to do the wrong thing a few times. The mistakes would be swept under the rag until they became too bulky and volcano-ed in your face. My mom would recount all the mistakes I was being beaten for as she beat the life out of me. 

This was the worst kind!

The Wild Beating

Every so often, my mom lost her mind and visited the crazy town of extremity. This happened when I did something extremely outrageous. She would tell me to undress then she'd tie me up. It was meant to instill fear in my sister and I and it worked like a charm. I now tell her that she was insane and she agrees.

Discourteous Beating

This is the kind of beating you get when you question your parent's authority and they need to show who's the boss. The more humiliating, the better. When you think discourteous beating, think a slap across the face and the like.

I remember when I became a little bigger, my mom stopped beating me like a kid and started pinching my inner thighs when I did wrong. It was humiliating, it was painful and it was demeaning.

Being the defiant teen that I had become. I could not even cry. I just stood there with a smirk on my face and took it like a man. My smirk was meant to show mom that I did not care. This probably earned me a tighter and more prolonged pinch, but I made my point alright. 

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