How I Nearly Got BBQ’d for Breaking Dad’s Lantern

I stumbled upon this photo in the internet that thrust me down the memory lane.

One day, Dad came home carrying a sink tap head and an original lantern lamp glass, both wrapped in old newspaper. He placed it on the one-seater sofa closest to the door and issued a stern warning that no one should come within a meter of the merchandise. Then, he hurried out to respond to a neighbor’s call. 

I soon forgot his warning and began to casually play with the shiny tap head. I moved to the next seat with the tap in my hands, but boredom soon set in, and I tossed it back to its original place. The shattering noise as it hit the glass brought my world to a standstill. My knees went weak, and a huge lump formed in my throat. My brother witnessed it all and started that all-too-familiar chant, “I’ll tell on you.”

The terror of what was coming was unbearable. I doubted I could withstand Dad’s wrath when he returned. I crawled to our bedroom, climbed into bed, and covered myself completely, sweating and hearing my heart thump with dread.

I had every reason to fear. Dad rarely punished us—that was Mum’s role—but he had a stern face and no patience for foolishness. Once, in the evening, he rounded up half the village boys accused of uprooting his cider live fence, pulling some from under their beds. He frogmarched them to our living room and beat them senseless with his leather belt in front of us. From that day, village kids would scatter if they saw him at a distance. Stories circulated about how he caned pupils at the school he headed, outrunning and capturing anyone trying to escape. How could one wait peacefully for punishment from such a man?

The dreaded moment arrived, and my cheeky brother, knowing he’d be the first suspect, eagerly volunteered an overwhelming eyewitness account.

I could hear Dad fuming with rage about how hard it was to find an original lantern glass, how he had visited nearly every Indian shop in Embu town, and bargained until his mouth was dry to secure an exceptionally good deal. I eavesdropped on all this from under the covers.

Finally, the time came for the accused to stand trial. Dad roared my name, and I thought I felt a small tremor shake my bed. As I crawled out towards the living room, I could hear Mum acting as my attorney. She wasn’t one to shield anyone from deserved punishment, but she knew if she didn’t intervene, her third child would be consumed by the fire of Dad’s wrath. She pleaded for amnesty, explaining how I had fallen sick with a terrible fever right after discovering what I’d done. I couldn’t help but feel pity for Mum, seeing what I’d dragged her into.

So there I stood, trembling and sweating like a treasonous criminal facing a firing squad. Dad took a good look at me and changed his tone. I was a bundle of nerves. He then looked away but was still angry, ranting in lower tones before dismissing me. I can’t remember his exact words, but I knew I wasn’t forgiven, just temporarily spared—akin to a suspended sentence. I ran back to my bed.

Mum tried in vain to call me to the dinner table; I wouldn’t budge. Eventually, she brought me food. It was only after hearing Dad snoring in his bedroom that I dared to crawl out to pee. For weeks, I avoided letting Dad see me. One night, he came in with nyama choma, and I hid in my usual place. Even my love for grilled meat wouldn’t lure me out. He had to call out to me himself, inviting me to the feast. He spoke kindly, and only then did I feel that the hatchet had truly been buried.