As a young girl when I erred in ways that could easily be corrected by caning, I would be sent out to bring a cane. The simple errors that fell in this category included but not limited to; swimming in the river without consent, taking short calls in a thicket Hehe (in my defence I did not want to waste time going into the loo while Kati was on).
The act of ‘going to collect a cane’ had a punishment tucked in it. See, if I brought a feeble twig it would mean I was not serious, on the other hand if I brought a log it would mean I had crossed the line. I now was a hardcore, resistant to pain.
Usually I would walk in a slow gait to collect the cane, hoping that mum would recall the punishment, (Hehe, as if). To prevent the inevitable I would whisper prayers. Little things like ‘please God let there be no wood’ or ‘please bring us a visitor God’ which were obviously futile attempts.
I do not know why but when the trees swayed I always felt like they were whispering to me, ‘we told you little girl’ and like the clouds were gathering just to watch the spectacle of my caning (sadist clouds nkt!)
Later I would forget all these little childish thoughts.
I wonder if still I were a child what I would think of these clouds that hang over my shags today.
(Models: Clouds from my village)