The dorm Auntie kissed each of us four girls goodnight and turned out the light in my bedroom in the boarding school dorm in Nigeria.

“Good night,” my roommate said, a little too loudly for the Auntie’s liking.

“Good night. No more talking after your light is out. You’re the last room in the hall, and I don’t want to hear another peep from anyone.” The short, dark-haired lady’s voice was firm. Her skirt swished as she turned, and her sturdy shoes clip-clopped down the hall to her apartment.

“Good night. Sleep tight,” I whispered to my roommate in the bunk above mine.

“Shhhh. Don’t get me into trouble!” Her raspy voice held a tinge of fear.

Our room was right next to the office of the girl’s dorm at Kent Academy (KA), a school for missionaries’ children. In that room, the same size as our bedroom, a large cupboard along the left wall stored our cookies from home. On the opposite wall, was a file cabinet in which the house mothers (all of whom we called “Auntie”) kept notes, receipts, and dorm report cards for each of the 115 girls.

A window across from the door had curtains that were almost always closed. Except on Saturdays. That’s when we sat on tall stools and the big girls rolled our hair in curlers.

In this dark and gloomy room punishment was carried out.

A short time after I fell asleep, I woke with a start. Moonlight streamed through a gap in the curtains. Two sets of footsteps pounded past our room. The office door opened, then slammed shut.

Punishment in the Dorm Office

Through the thin wall between our two rooms, the Auntie’s Australian accent rang firm and harsh. “You know you’re not supposed to read after lights out.”

“But the book was too exciting to put down!” The little girl’s voice quavered.

“Give me that flashlight. Now you’re going to get paddled.”

“No!” The thin, high-pitched voice sent shivers down my spine. “Please don’t spank me. I won’t ever do it again!”

My stomach tightened in a vice grip. The springs of my bunk bed squeaked as I turned away from the wall, curled into a ball, and pulled my pillow over my head. Still, I heard the voices.

The dragon lady spoke in a firm, muffled tone.

Then I heard it. Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack.

Loud little-girl cries followed.

Was she done?

More harsh murmurs. The minutes stretched on for what seemed like hours.

Finally, they both left the office and walked past our room down the hall.

Had my roommates heard that?  I was too afraid to ask. I didn’t want to get caught and whisked to the office.

The next morning, Saturday, my roommates and I played hopscotch on the asphalt playground under the hot African sun. When sweat drops began to bead on our foreheads, we moved to the ring of dirt that circled the thick trunk of a tall, leafy mango tree in front of the Auntie’s apartment.

I dragged my fingers through the soothing sand. “Did you hear the girl getting spanked last night?”

Another girl piled the yellow-gold dirt into a pyramid. “Yes. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

The screen door opened, and we all watched as the Auntie stepped onto the porch.

My insides froze. “Oh no. Here she comes.” I barely mouthed the words.

Here Comes Trouble

Were we in trouble for something we didn’t know about?

She marched past us and headed toward the kitchen. “It’s almost lunchtime, Girls. You’d just as well start washing up.”

We nodded but went back to playing. Soon the lunch bell rang, and we skipped across the playground to the dining hall. As I walked into the main waiting area, a short, thin, blond-haired boy raced up to me and grabbed my arm. I recognized the first-grade friend of my youngest brother.

I smiled at the freckle-faced ball of energy. “Hi. How are you? Where’s Grant?

He hopped from one foot to the other. “Grant is in big trouble. He failed room check again this week. The Uncle says he must go to the office after lunch.”

My heart rate sped up like a race car. “Oh, no! Where’s Grant now?” I looked around at the wooden benches lining two walls of the waiting area. “I need to give him a hug.”

“He’s in the dining hall, already sitting at our table.”

Just then, the last bell rang. “Tell him I’m so sorry. We’re supposed to get to our seats now. I guess we should hurry to our tables.”

As I sat down to lunch, my throat tightened. My brother sat on the other side of the dining room, and I pictured him struggling to eat while bracing himself for the upcoming beating. Why does he get punished for failing room check?

How Will He Make It?

I picked up my fork, then set it down. I couldn’t eat. This happened to Grant last Saturday too. How many times would he get into trouble this year?

I looked around at my table mates eating their beef and potatoes. “My brother’s going to get a strapping after lunch. Why does he have to be punished for not cleaning his room good enough?”

The red-haired classmate sitting across from me paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “We boys get whippings for everything.” Then he silently chewed his beef.

I smeared the mashed potatoes around my plate. “I’m glad we girls don’t get in trouble as much as you boys do. We mostly get the hairbrush or a ping pong paddle for talking after lights out.”

After lunch, I looked for Grant but couldn’t find him. All afternoon I thought about the pain he was going through. Where was he? How badly was he hurt?

I didn’t see my little brother at dinner either.

That night in bed, all was quiet in my room and in the office next door. But anxious thoughts swirled through my mind. How will my brother make it in this scary place? I’m so angry at the mean uncle, but if I say a word, I’ll get a strapping too. Isn’t there anything I can do?

It seemed impossible.

Looking Back at My Childhood

It was so traumatic having my bedroom next to the office in the girls’ dorm. We heard every spanking meted out. Talking after lights out was sometimes overlooked, but often drew a punishment. The spankings caused both physical pain and emotional shame. To this day, I haven’t talked much about this with my KA girlfriends.

There was nothing inherently wrong with talking after dark. It would have been a healthy process, a good time to decompress after our day. However, because a rule had been set, and we broke the rule, that merited corporal punishment.

For discipline, the boys were beaten with a long piece of canvas army belt or a rubber tube with a metal core, often for minor infractions. One was called Black Magic and the other Red Scorpion. Some rambunctious boys received these “spankings” every week, if not every day. Many of those students went on to fare well later in life. However, many young men struggled for decades with emotional and psychological issues.

During the past few years, I’ve talked often with my brother Grant as we’re trying to make sense of our upbringing. Because of the childhood abuse, he struggled for the next forty-nine years and made multiple attempts to take his life.

He doesn’t place all the blame on the school. But he attributes his wounded psyche to a combination of his own DNA, our family dynamics, the boarding school system, and the mission’s faulty theology. In recent years he has found great healing through the 12-step programs of ACA and Al-Anon, both of which are offshoots of AA. For more information on how these programs can help, click this link.

What I Know Now

Boarding school was not safe for me. True, I didn’t get the strappings my brothers did. But, I witnessed their pain. I hurt when they hurt, and I carried the shame of being powerless to stop the abuse.

Today when I feel like I do something wrong, my heart starts pounding, and I get a ringing in my ears. I quickly justify my actions for fear of punishment or backlash from someone in some way.

My grief at the eight-month separation from home and family each year was suffocating. I constantly carried that sorrow even when I had moments of happiness. By fourth grade, I finally “settled in” because the rules felt familiar, but I never liked living in a dorm.

Recently I talked with my middle brother, Mark, and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t reach out to you more and comfort you. I wasn’t a good big sister.”

Mark graciously replied, “Everybody was trying to do the best they could to cope with things and try to keep themselves safe.”

My brother Mark has shared that he started drinking in high school to numb the emotional pain. He became an alcoholic in his twenties and has now been in recovery for thirty-five years.

This summer, we started a private Facebook group for KA Survivors. Through listening to the heartfelt stories of other survivors, I’m slowly able to acknowledge that our over-the-top physical punishment at KA wasn’t justified.

It’s been somehow comforting to find that many of my friends who were raised in the U.S. experienced similar harm in their homes and schools.  Although abuse in the name of discipline may have been common, it was never right.

Link it to Your Life

Was discipline fair in your home and school, or did you experience abusive punishment? What other unfair or difficult events did you have as a child or an adult?

What do we do with our pain? How can our stories help others? If you knew you couldn’t fail, what would you have done instead of just taking it? Did you have other options?

How have you found healing from painful memories? In what ways have you been able to see or feel God’s love in your life in spite of the suffering?

Dear Father, thank you that you upheld me during those tough times, even though I didn’t know you were there. Give me peace as I sort through these troubling memories and hope as I move forward with healing.

The LORD is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer,
my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge…  (Psalm 18:2 ESV)

To find out how I came to live at the boarding school, click on my about page.