As a child I lived with my grandmother in a coastal town in Ghana called Tema. I was the only girl of my age on my road, at least that’s what it felt like. Our neighbours only had sons and all my cousins at that time were boys. I spent my afternoons rolling around with the boys next door and getting into fights with other neighbourhood boys. I vividly remember one fight that got me into a whole heap of trouble and earned me a proper beating- African grandma discipline style. I’d been having an argument with a particularly annoying boy about the old age topic of which sex is better/stronger/faster (weighty topic for anybody let alone two 7 year olds) when he pushed me to show that boys were stronger than girls. I pushed back harder until he fell and then ran home to put on a dress over the shorts and t-shirt that I was wearing. I had something of a dramatic flair back then and I thought if a girl wearing a dress could beat a boy in a fight then the argument would finally be settled.
I ran back outside to pick up where I’d left off and started on the poor boy again. In the heat of the moment I had what could only be described as my incredible hulk moment and ripped the front of my dress to show my (not-so) considerable strength. I don’t remember who pulled me off the boy but I think it was probably my best friend at the time D who used to follow me around everywhere. With all the adrenaline flowing I only became afraid when the time came for me to go home. I knew that I was going to be in serious trouble for fighting, that was a given, however, on realising that I had deliberately chosen a dress to do my fighting in, I knew that this punishment was going to be like none other. It didn't matter that the dress was old but the fact that it was a dress and I had deliberately torn it was going to be an issue.
With my head bowed, I headed home to face the wrath of a very annoyed grandmother. My best friend for some reason didn’t want to stick around in case he was dragged into my punishment. I walked through the backyard and slipped off the dress before creeping through the back door as quietly as I could and headed for the bedroom to hide the dress. I was barely through the door when a calm and measured voice asked me to come into the living room. At the time I was used to being yelled at if I’d dome something wrong so the quiet voice had me thinking that I was home and dry and that for once in my young life my grandmother understood that I had no choice but to fight my corner…. I obviously now know better.
The punishment involved climbing a small tree (one of my favourite activities) to choose my very own thin flexible branch to be used as my whip (not so favourite punishment method). I wasn't whipped that day but I do remember that I kept my nose clean for a few weeks after that. After-all, the instrument that i had fashioned for myself was still in the house.
