The Art Of Preemptive Ass whooping

The Art of Pre-emptive Ass Whooping

Growing up in an African society, there were certain things we learned as kids, things that stayed with us for life. We learned that, no matter what, you'd always be blamed for the smallest things that went wrong, even if they were beyond your control. There were societal rules, maybe even traditional rules, that you had to follow so everyone could see how much you respect your elders.

But the thing is, all these rules were actually a trap... a trap for an ass whooping.

Now, in our house, if guests came over and you dared to join them, you’d get the stink eye from your mother. That look that said, "Once they leave, you will have a sore bum for even thinking about entertaining these people." But if you ignored them? Oh, well, that was an absolute ass whooping in the making. You couldn't win.

And then there was the famous rule: When Mum was talking to you, you didn’t talk back. If you dared speak, you'd get a beating. But, oh no, if you kept quiet while Mum was talking to you, that was a criminal offense! You had to at least acknowledge her words, or else you'd be punished for hiding something. It wasn’t enough to be quiet; you had to respond even if it was just a nod. Keeping silent meant you were clearly ignoring her, and heaven forbid if you've not gotten yourself beaten for a long time actually got you a sore bum coz that meant you've gotten good at hiding your faults.

So, you see, there was a method to the madness, a system that was perfect in its chaotic logic. Every day was a balancing act to avoid making the wrong move and getting your backside handed to you.

The historical ass whooping day of my life began like this.

Our neighbors had come up with a new business idea. They started making samosas and selling them around the neighborhood. As kids, we loved buying them because they were so different from the usual things we were used to. They were crispy, perfectly spiced, and stuffed with meat that tasted like heaven. So of course, we bought them every chance we got.

But my Nonna? She wasn’t having any of it. She got so angry that we were spending money on something she considered a "useless" treat. "I could make better samosas than that," she said with the certainty of someone who had probably never made a samosa in her life.

So, Nonna decided to show us all. She’d make her own samosas, the kind that would blow the neighbors' out of the water.

Nonna set to work, chopping the meat, mixing the spices, and adding potatoes, carrots, and a bunch of vegetables she loved. She was confident. The stew was ready, and now, it was time for the dough. She mixed the flour and other ingredients I’m not even sure what was supposed to be in there, and then, for reasons known only to her, she added baking powder to the mix.

She shaped each samosa, added the stew, and sealed them up. By the time she finished, the oil was bubbling away on the stove. We couldn’t wait to taste her creations. After all, this was Nonna's specialty, and she had promised us something amazing.

But then, disaster struck.

The first samosa hit the boiling oil, and we watched, wide-eyed, as it slowly started to swell, and swell,and swell some more. It grew like a balloon, almost filling the whole pot, and somehow, its shape morphed into something that looked more like a gun than a samosa.

We stood there, completely speechless, unsure if we even wanted to taste what had just come out of that pot. But we couldn’t look away. Then, just as we thought things couldn’t get worse, the samosa cracked open, and out spilled the minced meat and vegetables. It looked like a disaster, not a delicious treat.

Nonna, seeing her grand creation fall apart, turned to us with fury in her eyes. "I knew it! I knew something was off. If you saw me making this mistake, why didn’t you say anything?!"

We were just kids. We had no idea that the baking powder was the cause of the disaster. We had watched Nonna cook with such confidence, believing it would all turn out fine. But here we were, standing in the kitchen, getting the full brunt of Nonna’s fury.

"It’s the baking powder, isn’t it?" Nonna continued, as if she had just uncovered a conspiracy. "What were you thinking? Why didn’t anyone stop me?!"

We exchanged glances, but no one dared to speak. We hadn’t said a word when she added the baking powder. But honestly? We didn’t even know it was a mistake. How could we? We were kids. It was never explained to us that baking powder didn’t belong in samosas. We were just the helpless witnesses to her culinary adventure gone wrong.

Nonna paced back and forth, muttering about her ruined samosas and the betrayal of her own kitchen. "I should have never let you sit by while I cooked. It’s bad manners to just sit there like you don’t see me adding disasters to the pot."

She turned to us with a grim expression, the tone in her voice like a judge passing a sentence. "And you know what? I’m telling your mother when she gets home. I’m telling her how you all prefer to eat the neighbor's food instead of respecting me and my cooking!"

The horror in our eyes was evident. We knew what that meant, our mother would get the full story, complete with every exaggerated detail. There was no way to escape the consequences. We were about to get our asses handed to us for the wrong reasons . And worse, we had no idea if we were getting beaten for buying samosas or for the disaster nonna cooked.

And that’s exactly what happened.

Nonna, now in full wrath mode, pulled out the infamous belt, a tool of both discipline and fear in our household. With a speed that came from years of experience, she moved toward us, belt in hand. "You let me ruin dinner, and now you’ll feel it!, you prefer to eat by the neighbor's house right?

"You thought this was funny, huh?" she asked, hitting again. "You thought I wouldn’t notice you all sitting there while I made the biggest mistake of my life?!"

We tried to dodge, but there was no escaping her wrath. One by one, we felt the sting of her disciplinary fury. "Next time, you’ll speak up," she warned us. "Next time, you’ll let me know if I’m about to ruin everything. No more sitting by pretending you didn’t see a thing."

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of swats, Nonna stopped. She dropped the belt with an air of finality, as if she had just finished conducting an important lesson. "Let this be a lesson to you all," she said, crossing her arms. "If you ever see me about to make a mess, you better speak up. And don’t you dare eat anyone else’s food ever again. You have all the food you need right here, and it better be respected!"

We nodded, our faces flushed with the heat of embarrassment and a sore backside. But we knew she was right. We had learned the hard way, silence wasn’t always golden. Sometimes, silence was just the ticket to an ass whooping.

And so, from that day forward, we made a vow: we would never again sit in the kitchen when Nonna was cooking. And we would never, ever, let her add baking powder to the samosas again, better yet when buying food from outside never make a comment about it at home, what happens on the streets stays on the streets.