Rock of ages, Cleft for me. Let me hide myself in thee...

I wished the ground would just open and swallow me up there and then. Why did the teacher have to bring that part up, I mean, was there any real need to? None apart from the seemingly overwhelming urge to put a kid into trouble.

"Which incident" my father asked, confused.

"Erm, the one that happened two weeks ago, sir." My teacher said equally confused.

This was a battle of the most confused minds, and it was difficult to see who was in the lead.

"Eh...Ozioma..." My teacher said, looking more confused than ever.

"Ozioma what's he talking about?" My dad asked. He probably felt like his time was being wasted here.

I was acting like I was zoned out. I was actually counting minutes until the jig was up and they finally understood what was going on.

"Eh...Eh....Eh...Uncle which one are you talking about?"

You couldn't blame me. There was a slim chance that if everyone got really confused, one way or the other they would all forget about this. And I was taking that slim chance.

"The one that I reported in the communication book that I gave you last two weeks now. Sir, you remember, right?" My teacher asked.

At this point, my dad was basically floating. Thats an expression to show that someone does not get what they are talking about. Even if you tied a bri j to his leg he wouldn't sink.

But it was about to go down in T minus 10...9...8

"What are you talking about? You didn't give me any communication book that day, Mister man." My dad said with this "what type of idiots do they hire at this school anyway" look on his face.

Bingo.

My teacher looked at me with this wickedly amused look on his face, mixed with the shock of realizing exactly what I had done.

I abandoned all my strategy and started begging him with my eyes to maybe tell him something that wasn't as grievous as what I'd done.

The b@stard didn't do that.

"Okay, sir, I think there's been a slight misunderstanding here. I gave Ozioma the book on that day, and he returned it the next Monday with your response and signature."

And after centuries of waiting, my dad finally got the whole picture of what was going on.

And then he looked at me. His eyes were a consuming fire. I needed to crawl under a rock and hide.

"And what was that report about?" My father asked icily. The anger in his voice was unmistakable.

And then my teacher - the Nora Roberts, the Dan Brown, the Arthur Conan Doyle of his time - outdid his report in the communication book with a report so graphic and real, even I thought that was how it all happened. The only difference was that the way he spiced up the story made it look less like the casual curiosity of a 7-year old and more like hard©ore rape.

When he was done, my dad just looked at me. "Get in the car." He said quietly.

I already knew I was dead, but at that point it felt like they brought me back to life to kill me again.

"But daddy school's not over yet..."

"I said get in the car NOW!"

Everyone in the class turned. There was pin-drop silence in the class as I went to pick up my bag. And then...

"Please sir don't beat him." My teacher said.

Are you fu¢king kidding me? You just sacrificed me on the altar of african parental discipline and you're trying to do what exactly? Save me?

The ride home was longer than it used to be and more painful. Because my dad made me seat in the passenger seat and shouted at me throughout the journey, punctuating it with hot slaps from time to time. From time to time meaning every 10 seconds, more or less.

Then we got home and I was asked to pull off my trousers and underwear and then face the wall. Normally taking off those two was exclusively my mom's style, so that let me know that I was in soup. He left me there for almost half an hour. I was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe he would forgive and...

Whaaaaaaaam!!!

He used a d@mn wire godd@mnit! Who does that? That felt like the Scourging at the Pillar right there. This was exactly what I was talking about when I said "Passion of Christ" stuff earlier.

After about 12 strokes, with my teary eyes and buttocks as red as a fire truck, he released me and I wandered back to my room. Up till today I do not understand the psychology of people who have a spanking or flogging fetish. It beats me big time.

As if that wasn't enough, when my mom got back and heard the news, she came straight for my room and started slapping me. Where the hell is motherly love in the world??? I was as sore as..... I dunno, whatever is really sore in this life.

I never got my revenge on that teacher. That really saddens me, but I guess we can't always get what we want.