One of my father’s favourite forms of hurting me was to burn me behind my ears with a cigarette. The pain was excruciating and I would howl and scream while my father laughed, knowing that it was highly unlikely that anyone would see the burn marks as they were very effectively hidden by my hair. My mother would do nothing to treat the burns unless they looked as if they might become infected, whereupon she would rub a little antiseptic ointment onto the wounds. It got to the stage where, as soon as I detected the smell of cigarette smoke, I would panic and start crying or run into the bathroom and hide behind the toilet bowl.
I remember one incident in particular when my father was sitting in the lounge and I was playing with my toys on the carpet. I saw my father deliberately light a cigarette while surreptitiously watching me. As soon as the smell of the burning tobacco reached me I began to panic. Very slowly, in the hope that my father wouldn’t notice, I stood up and walked out of the room. I hurried down the passageway, into the bathroom and hid behind the toilet bowl.
As I peered out at the doorway from my hiding place I heard my father approaching. He walked into the bathroom with the burning cigarette between his fingers. He smiled at me.
“Why are you hiding behind the toilet bowl, Garth?” he asked.
“I’m scared that you’re going to burn me with your cigarette.” I said, my voice trembling with fear.
“Burn you with my cigarette?” my father asked. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’ve done it lots of times before.” I said, my whole body beginning to shake with fright.
“But that was because you were naughty.” my father said. “Have you been naughty today?”
“No.” I said.
“But you must have been naughty or you wouldn’t be hiding from me now.” my father said still smiling.
“I really haven’t been naughty today, daddy.” I said as I began to cry.
“Well, if you haven’t been naughty today then there’s no need for you to hide from me. Isn’t that right?” my father said.
I was too frightened to answer.
“So, as you haven’t been naughty today you can come out from behind the toilet bowl.” my father said.
I felt utterly helpless as I crouched in my hiding place. Was my father trying to trick me or was he really being honest? I didn’t know what to do. I began crying in frustration.
“What are you waiting for, Garth?” my father asked. “You told me that you haven’t been naughty today and yet you won’t come out from behind the toilet bowl. Don’t you trust me?”
My helplessness overwhelmed me. I didn’t know what to do. My instincts told me that my father was trying to trick me and that as soon as I came out from behind the toilet bowl he would grab me and burn me behind my ears. But what if he wasn’t trying to trick me? He would know that I didn’t trust him and that would make him very angry and he would still burn me behind my ears.
I peered out from behind the toilet bowl hoping to get a clue as to what my father was going to do to me by the expression on his face. He smiled down at me.
“I’m beginning to think that you don’t trust me, Garth.” he said. “Am I right?”
I could sense the anger growing within my father, even though he was smiling, and instinctively I knew that regardless of what I did, I was going to get hurt. Resignedly, I crept out of my hiding place.
“That’s a good boy.” my father said. “Now come here and say you’re sorry for not trusting me.”
I walked slowly to where my father stood smiling down at me. Suddenly he bent down and grabbed me with his left hand behind my neck. I struggled to free myself but my father was much too strong for me. I began hyperventilating as panic set in.
“It’s disgraceful when a son doesn’t trust his own father.” my father said, still smiling at me. “And so, by not trusting me you’re being very naughty.”
Holding my neck tightly so that I couldn’t move my head, my father placed the burning tip of his cigarette against the back of my right ear. I screamed as the searing pain raced through me. I struggled with all my might but my efforts were futile.
My father moved the cigarette to another part of my ear. I screamed and begged my father to stop.
“I feel insulted that my own son doesn’t trust me.” my father said. “And as you don’t trust me you have to be punished.”
Altogether my father inflicted eight burns to the back of my ears. I screamed helplessly, the smell of my burning flesh making me gag and choke. Eventually my father released his grip in my neck and I collapsed onto the tiled floor, fighting for breath.
As I lay gasping on the floor I heard my father laugh.
“You stupid little bastard.” he said. “I hope that will teach you that you must always trust your father. The only time that I’ll ever hurt you is when you’re naughty and today you were very naughty.”
As I lay bawling on the floor I heard my father walk away along the passageway and into the lounge.
I quickly learnt not to trust my father and this distrust of him, and eventually all other people, stayed with me for a long time.
Something else that I couldn’t understand was my mother’s reluctance to help me or stop my father from hurting me and my anger towards her for this failure grew with each assault that I suffered. My own helplessness angered me as well but my father was much too big and powerful for me to defend myself.
As the assaults on me continued I became more and more illusive and withdrawn. The constant criticism that I endured for failing to succeed in the things that I did because of ignorance damaged my self-esteem and self-confidence. Anger and hatred became emotions that were constantly with me.
When I first began to wear lace-up shoes my mother ridiculed me my efforts to tie the laces myself and it was only with the help and guidance of one of my school friends that I finally achieved success. Of course, I was subjected to a great deal of derision by the other pupils for my ignorance and this added to the anger, rage and hatred of myself for my helplessness. The other pupils never understood that my ignorance was the result of never being shown how to do the many things that they did so easily.
Something that I desperately longed for but never found, was a sense of belonging. I so wanted to be accepted as part of my family and as part of the pupils in my class at school but this was destined never to happen. The more I was ignored the more I withdrew into myself which only served to exacerbate the situation.
I remember being taken to a local football game by my parents one Saturday afternoon. The moment that my mother told me about the intended outing I began to feel as if at last I was being recognized. I felt as if I was finally being brought into the family. I could hardly wait for the day to arrive.
My father supported the Windhoek Football Club so, naturally, did I. Their home was at the Sam Nujoma stadium in the northern suburb of Katutura. and they took pride in recruiting only local players and scorning the overseas players. This policy made it very difficult for the Club to prosper but there were few clubs in the country with more loyal supporters.
Football was my favourite sport and I knew all the names of the great players in countries like England, Brazil and South Africa as well as all the players in the Namibian “Samba Boys” team, the African Stars football club.
We drove to the Sam Nujoma stadium in my father’s car and I found it impossible to contain my excitement. I sat in the back seat of the car asking my parents a multitude of questions, not even noticing that they were all ignored.
“Who are we playing against today, daddy?”
Silence.
“Will Clive Gumede be the goalie today, daddy?”
Silence.
“How many goals do you think Thomas Kgope will score today, daddy?”
Silence.
My parent’s disregard for me didn’t affect my enthusiasm though. To be going to a football game with my parents was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. I felt like I was someone who mea
nt something to others; not just someone who had to be tolerated, beaten and shouted at for trying to be a human being.
My father parked the car in the parking area and we walked towards the small grandstand. People milled about and I saw several groups of children playing football on the lawns of the complex. I ran towards one of the groups to join in the fun.
“Garth!” my father shouted at me. “Where the hell do you think you’re going? Come back here immediately!”
I stopped and turned to my father.
“Please, daddy.” I said. “Let me go and play with those children. I never get a chance to play with other children. Please?”
“Come here, right now!” my father shouted. “If you don’t behave yourself I’ll lock you in the car and you won’t see any of the game!”
I looked over my shoulder at the children playing so happily together. Some of them stopped to look at me. I felt my shoulders sag and a painful feeling of depression filled my chest. I walked back to where my parents stood waiting for me.
“We came here to watch the football game.” my father said sternly. “Not for you to play football with the other children. We only brought you with us because we couldn’t leave you at home alone. If you continue to misbehave we won’t bring you with us again.”
My parents continued to walk towards the grandstand. I followed them, my excitement at being part of the family destroyed. We found our seats in the stand and sat down. I continued to watch the children playing on the lawns. They seemed so happy and carefree. A hollow feeling crept into my stomach as I thought of my own confined existence.
The game started and my enthusiasm returned. I stared at the players in awe.
“Which one’s Thomas Kgope, daddy?” I asked excitedly.
My father ignored me but the man sitting next to me pointed out my hero to me.
“Thomas Kgope’s number nine.” the man told me pointing to one of the players.
My father turned to the stranger.
“It’s no good telling him which number Kgope is.” he said. “He’s too stupid. He can’t even count to five yet.”
The man smiled at me and patted me on the thigh.
“Don’t worry, sonny.” he said. “I’ll tell where he is and when he gets the ball.”
My father glared at the man but didn’t say anything.
When the game ended we walked back to our car. My father met an acquaintance and stopped to talk to him. The children were still playing on the grass. I glanced up at my father desperately hoping that he would tell me to go off and play with the other children while he spoke to his friend. He ignored me. I decided to slowly move behind my father and then run to the other children but my mother guessed what I was about to do and stopped me.
“Come and stand next to me, Garth.” she said. “I can see that you’re planning to run away and play with those children.”
My shoulders sagged with disappointment and I moved closer to my mother. Why couldn’t my parents see how desperately I wanted to play with other children?
We finally got home and as we walked into the house my father turned towards me and slapped me hard across the face. I fell to the floor, stunned.
“Your behaviour today was appalling!” he shouted at me. “I’ll never take you to another football game again! You behaved as if we went there for your sake. Well, we didn’t. We took you with us because we couldn’t leave you here alone and you were a damned nuisance all afternoon! All you wanted to do was play with the other children. You weren’t really interested in the game. I could see that clearly. Now, go to bed! There’ll be no supper for you tonight!”
I stood up, crying miserably. I couldn’t believe what my father had just said. I had been thrilled by the game and, apart from wanting to play with the other children I had tried my absolute best not to be a nuisance.
I walked to my bedroom, changed into my pyjamas and climbed onto my bed. The day that I’d so looked forward to had turned into a disaster. Was I really just a nuisance to my parents? Was that all I was? I brushed the tears off my cheeks and took a deep breath. Loneliness crept over me as I though of the happy children I’d seen that afternoon. Why wasn’t I allowed to be happy? I so longed to laugh uncontrollably, to shout and run about carefree and joyful, free from the worries and fears that filled my life at present. I fell asleep.
***
My first few years at primary school were filled with new experiences and, although I tried to make friends with many of my schoolmates, I found myself unable to return the genuineness that they exhibited. I found it impossible to trust others beyond a certain point and I therefore kept many things about me to myself for fear that they might be used to ridicule and belittle me. As soon as I sensed a relationship becoming too personal I would withdraw behind the protective wall that I’d built around myself. As a result my fellow pupils remained acquaintances and never friends.
My parent’s reluctance to allow me to socialize with other children exacerbated my withdrawn nature and I suffered many disappointments as my attempts at creating friendships failed. Fortunately the school organized a considerable number of outing s to places like the zoo, the park beside the lake, the art gallery and the museum. These outings took place during school hours and although they were strictly controlled by the teachers, they did give me an opportunity to interact with the other children outside the confines of the school.
Although I enjoyed my studies I soon realized that I was never destined to be an academic achiever and my results kept me in the lower half of the school’s academic achievements list. The same situation prevailed in the sports arena. I enjoyed taking part but as soon as I found myself in a position where I had to commit myself, my lack of self-confidence would thwart my progress. As a result I was never selected for any of the school’s sports teams. In a way this was a relief to me as it meant that I could never let down my team-mates, something that I was convinced that I would do. I concentrated rather on being an enthusiastic team supporter.
I firmly believe that my anti-social, unfriendly behaviour and my deliberate detachment from emotional contact with other people was the direct result of the distrust that my father instilled in me during my formative years. This suspicion of other people’s motives had led me to avoid situations at a very tender age where I would have to rely on other people as I involuntarily expected them to disappoint me.
During the year that I turned ten I became aware of a subtle change in my father’s attitude towards me. He still shouted at me and assaulted me for the slightest transgression but during, and especially after, the attacks on me I noticed a prominent bulge in the front of his trousers that usually had a wet patch on it. He also touched my body more often, surreptitiously touching my genitals with his free hand as he hit me and frequently coming into the bathroom when I was having a bath.
This behaviour began to frighten me even more than the beatings did, mainly because it was so mysterious and unlike my father. Like most children, I feared the things that I didn’t understand.
My father had a dark green nineteen fifty four-door Austin A4 Devon that he cherished and, only if it required major repairs that he couldn’t do himself, would he allow anyone else to work on it. Every Sunday afternoon after lunch, he would put on his blue overalls and spend the whole afternoon tinkering with the motor and polishing the paintwork. He serviced the vehicle frequently, changing the sparkplugs and oil at regular intervals and adjusting the brakes to suit his driving technique.
The garage where the car was kept was built onto the side of the house and had two large wooden doors in the front and a large window with small glass panes in the outer side wall. This window was large enough to allow sufficient light into the structure to enable my father to work on the car with the doors closed. To help him see into some of the more confined areas of the engine he also had a hand-held electric lamp with a protective wire grid.
My father discouraged my mother and me from coming into the garage while he was workin
g on his car and usually took a few cold beers with him for refreshment so that he wouldn’t be disturbed. The few friends that my father had, knew not to visit him on Sunday afternoons. I was therefore astonished and frightened when, one Sunday after lunch, my father told me to accompany him to the garage.
“It’s about time you learnt something about cars and how to service and repair them.” my father said. “You might even want to be a mechanic when you grow up. And even if you don’t you’ll be able to save a lot of money by doing your own servicing and repairs.”
I glanced at my mother but she ignored me, concentrating on clearing the dishes from the table.
“Go and put on your oldest clothes.” my father said. “We can’t afford to buy you an overall.”
I went to my bedroom and, with a hollow feeling of dread in my stomach, changed into my oldest clothes. My father never allowed anyone into the garage while he was working on his car and now he wanted me to be there. Why?
I followed my father to the garage. He opened one of the doors and when we were both inside, he closed it and locked it from the inside. The smell of petrol, oil and rubber filled the air in the room. Even though the sun was shining brightly outside, the light that filtered in through the window left the inside of the garage dim and gloomy.
My father undid the latch that held the bonnet in place and raised the cover. I could see him glancing at me furtively, his breathing loud and hoarse. My fear increased even though my father’s actions seemed normal.
“Pull that wooden box over here so that you can stand on it and see into the engine.” my father said pointing at a small wooden box next to the wall.
I dragged the box closer to the front of the car and climbed onto it.
“Lean over so that you can see where I’m pointing.” my father said, his voice strangely husky.
My father leant over the front of the car and pointed into the depths of the motor with his left hand. As I leant over the front of the car to see what my father was pointing at I felt his right hand slide up the inside of my left thigh and gently grip my genitals. I froze with fright and horror.
Phoenix Resurrected Page 3