When I grow up
I don’t know about you, but when I was a child, I always thought being an adult was the coolest thing ever. And it was for one primary reason: you got to do whatever you wanted. No one bossed you around. You didn’t have to wake up at the crack of dawn every day and go to school. You didn’t need to obey your parents and be at their beck and call. You were your own person. You made the rules and lived freely.
But First…
My perception was not misguided. My childhood was rather unpleasant. And for reasons that were out of my parents' control. Education was the one thing that made my childhood an utter nightmare. From a very young age, you’re forced to go to school. School was equal to a military ground. For some reason, the adults back then believed hardship made a man great. And they went out of their way to invent hardships. The first hurdle was the distance from home to school. The topography of the area I grew up in was uneven, with hills competing for height. To make everything worse, the place was unbearably cold. For an African, anything below twenty degrees is a form of tribulation. The cherry on the icing was the lack of power. When dusk dawned on the village, everyone shut their doors, and darkness hovered like an unsettled ghost.
Mornings That Made Men
The usual mornings of a school-going child looked a lot like this. Your sleep is rudely interrupted by your mum, who will not call you twice. The first call was enough. If you dared ignore her the first time, best believe thuds, whips, slippers, or whatever form of military punishment would come raining upon you. My mum was not particularly violent, but she thrived in one art; guilty tripping. She’d call me twice, and the third time, I would hear complaints of how disrespectful children would never see heaven. But the one thing that worked magic was the idea that I would be late for school. Everyone was expected to be seated in class by eight on the AM. The teacher on duty would be standing at the school gate with a whip, waiting for latecomers. Now, imagine being caned on your bare hands or calves in a cold and chilly morning. These teachers were honestly agents of the devil. They were sadists who enjoyed inflicting pain on students. At the slightest whim, a psychotic teacher would beat you mercilessly, and no one would defend you. If you ever reported them to your parents, they would add to the beating. It is as though they were competing to have a piece of the pie; your buttocks.
Roses and Rainbows
I was a stubborn child growing up. Some said it was because I was the last born for eight years, and my mum did not spare any effort to amuse me. I developed the tendency to ask for money every morning before going to school. At the time, my mum was running a small business at home and we were only the two of us. My siblings were away with my dad for school. They would only visit once in three months during half term. And they did not stay for long. My mum and I were the two musketeers. We lived a good life. Unlike my predecessors, I enjoyed a life of good food and being spoiled sick. With time, I became entitled. I would bawl out if my mum refused to hand me my daily allowance for snacks in school, especially when my packed lunch was not to my fancy. Sometimes, she would have to send the teachers money so that I wouldn’t starve myself. The other kids always gathered around me because I had sweet treats.
Circus of Small Tyrants
Evenings after school were spent playing and helping my mum around the house. When night came, we would gather around the house, have dinner, and then go to bed. We never used to have homework. All the learning you needed to do was complete once you left the school gate. The teachers focused more on beating the students than educating them. They were probably compensating for their lack of skills with violence. That form of torture is very typical of tyrants. All these events made me hate being a child significantly. I wanted to grow up so much and escape the constant fear of some psycho storming on you with unprovoked rage. I wanted to live free of the fear of being beaten. I remember this one time, a particular headteacher was transferred to our school. From the outside, you could see he was mentally unwell. He dressed like it and acted like it. This man made it his sport to use all forms of techniques to inflict pain on students. One time, we witnessed him sitting on top of a student in the name of discipline. He must have been bored with using whips and other forms of corporal punishment. To make the circus more interesting, he folded the student like a ball with their head between their legs and bounced on their back. He must have found the monkeys for his circus. These forms of animosity enraged me. And more than anything else, I swore I’d grow up and not remain shackled in dysfunctional systems created by mad men.
Adult at Last
As time would have it, I grew up. And I cannot begin to tell you how much freedom it came with. Now, I walk with my chest out, knowing you cannot beat me. This phrase has often been used to assert dominance in certain settings. It always goes like, “Speak your mind. What’s the worst they can do? Beat you?” It goes to show that many of my peers endured corporal treatment growing up. It is an absolute shame to think about it.
Not Again…
The gist of this long back story was to relate it to my faith. God admonishes us to have childlike faith. Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me.” These sections of scripture always baffled me. I despised my childhood, so what is so good about being a child? You are innocent and trusting. And unfortunately, the humans who should guide you along the right paths of life prioritize their interests over your well-being. They manipulate your innocence to serve their ego, and you end up fending for yourself. So why would God equal the fundamental part of Christianity to these innocent and gullible creatures?
When Heaven Seemed Deaf
Lately, I’ve found myself wrestling with my beliefs. I would be going through the toughest of times and wonder where God is. I would look around at things I spent years praying for, only for them to fall into shambles. And I look at God angrily, ‘Why are you quiet in my misery?’ One time, I remember thinking what a tyrant He must have been to sit and watch the devil have a field day with my heart. I’d even recall the stories of faithful saints who had the most tragic endings to their stories. Elisha was one such example. He was such a faithful man, yet he died because of sickness. It made no sense to me.
Faith Like Breathing
Then I recalled. I had become an adult. I wanted to have control over everything that happened to me. I wanted to serve God faithfully and die blissfully in good old age. By then, I would have lived a fulfilling life with the love of my life. I would have accomplished my purpose on earth. I would leave a legacy. I wrote my story and gave it to God to execute it. However, He has always had better plans. The times when I struggled to believe were the times He was nearest. He stopped me in my tracks and reminded me to look at him with the innocence and trust of a child. This realization was so painful. How could I simply ignore all the uncertainty that life throws my way and believe? Yet that is what a child does. They go to sleep oblivious of what they will eat the next day or how life will continue. They wake up knowing daddy will provide and mummy will care. This form of trust does not come naturally to someone who has grown up in dysfunction. It develops gradually over the years. You learn to loosen your grip and trust the one who made you. The scripture that cemented this concept was when David chose to fall into the hands of God because His mercy is very great. At that moment, I realized that I might have judged God harshly for thinking He would permit suffering without purpose. David trusted that God’s hand upon him was far much greater than the wrath of man.