Palesa swept into my life like a hot, dusty wind from Africa during the first week of my time at university; she tumbled into my tiny room in the hall of residence with a huge collection of boxes and cases, announcing that she was to be my room-mate for the year and that, hopefully, we would become friends. Palesa was from one of the smaller, land-locked enclaves in the south of the continent, and her father was a high-ranking minister; presumably he could have bought the whole of the accommodation block outright, but, Palesa informed me, he had thought it good for his daughter to share a room and acclimatise to the western culture in which she would be immersed for the coming three years whilst she studied for her economics degree.
“So, what does your father do for a living?” she asked brightly.
I told him that he worked for the post office.
“Is he the minister of telecommunications?” she queried.
“No, he pushes letters through the doors of houses in Dudley each day,” I explained, with some degree of embarrassment. But Palesa clapped her hands and exclaimed how fortunate it must be to live in Britain, where even the daughters of the servant classes could aspire to be great and influential women; I hadn’t the heart to explain that most of us graduates would end up doing nondescript clerical jobs in dull commercial organisations and greatness would bypass us entirely; maybe a university degree was a passport to fulfilment in Africa, but here graduates were ten a penny. I merely smiled and helped her unpack.
Regretfully I was probably not the kind of chaperone an African minister would have chosen for his daughter, for I soon introduced her to clubbing and men, along with the kind of stimulants and precautions which would enable her to enjoy both but return to Africa at the end of her first year more or less physically and mentally intact. However, for the start of our second year Palesa’s father purchased a small terraced house for us to share and, with the privacy and luxury of her own bedroom, Palesa sowed her wild oats wastefully amongst a succession of scruffy student types. As she explained giggling, none of this “meant anything” of course, for she had been promised to a young scientist from her country who had just completed his degree in Cambridge and, by all accounts, was every bit as naughty as herself. But she was bright, kept on top of her work and graduated with ease, and it was a tearful, but no-regrets departure as she disappeared through passport control at Heathrow for the final time at the end of her third year.
I thought I’d seen the last of her, but I was wrong: two months later an ornately written envelope with a stamp bearing an African bird dropped through my letterbox one mid-afternoon (the London postal service being abysmal, according to my father). It was an invitation to Palesa’s imminent wedding, and I had to plead an urgent holiday request to my new bosses at Barclays Bank; two weeks later I was on the overnight plane to Johannesburg, from which a short connection would take me to Palesa’s town. African weddings were no hasty ceremonies, taking the best part of a week during which Palesa was constantly in demand for various appointments and activities, so she left me in the charge of her cousin Mpho who, now that Palesa had to adopt the dignity of a prospective bride, took on her cousin’s former role as confidante and giggling gadabout, escorting me to some of her high-ranking friends’ houses and, more discreetly, a few lower-ranking bars, although the rifeness of AIDS ensured that I kept the ogling local men at arms’ length. At night, I kept her entranced with lurid stories of golden-haired, fair-skinned young men, bespectacled design students from Tamworth and Nuneaton whom my imagination transformed into splendid sexual conquistadors.
On the day before the wedding Mpho told me to take a change of clothing and be ready for a journey and, around midday, a series of minivans rolled up, most of which were already full of young women. Palesa, Mpho and myself squeezed into the first van and we set out in convoy into the bush. I assume it was the local version of a hen night, but Palesa explained that it was much more than that, an initiation rite which would turn her from girl to woman in readiness for marriage.
“Will Joshua be having something similar?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” she laughed, and explained that young males underwent initiation rites at the onset of manhood, but that the female equivalent tended to happen much later now that marriages no longer commonly took place at the age of fourteen or so.
“So he’ll just be having a few quiet beers with friends,” she said. So some things were the same the world over – but others were quite different …
An hour later we stopped in the middle of nowhere alongside a larger white van, where three older women made us welcome and showed us our blanket rolls in a circle around a pile of wood, gathered for a campfire when the evening air began to turn chill. The vans we had arrived in turned and set off back to town in a cloud of dust, and utter stillness descended upon the scene. Mpho and I lay on our blankets and chatted; fortunately her English was every bit as fluent as Palesa’s. Palesa mostly spent her time in the company of the three older women, but as they began to attend to the fire and food in the late afternoon, she made a circuit of all her friends and companions:
“Although you’re an honoured guest, there may be things you won’t want to be part of,” Palesa warned me.
“Nah, I’ll be all right,” I assured her, thinking she had grub-eating contests in mind; I’d eaten some rather weird stuff over the last three years, admittedly when drunk, but I wasn’t going to be easily fazed by my first venture into African culture. She smiled and moved on. Soon the food came round, and it was a meaty stew with no discernible insect-like ingredients.
As the sun began to set and the fire cast shadows over us all and, incongruously, the white van now turned a flickering orange, the elders set up a drumbeat and, one by one, the young women came out to dance, until we were all dancing in a circle around the fire. The beat began to intensify, and the women’s ululation became higher; clothes began to be discarded until there was a ring of fifteen sweating naked black bodies and one white one; then, with a final “Haah!” and a crashing drum crescendo, the music stopped.
“You might want to sit out now,” reiterated a panting Mpho. But I didn’t, although I hesitated as the other young women formed a smaller circle outside of the campfire and bent inwards into a huddle. One of the matrons went into the back of the van and came back with an object; it was a leather whip. She began to harangue the young women as myself, Palesa and the other two elders looked on and, at a command, the circle tightened and linked arms. The whipholder positioned herself behind the first girl, shouted “Daa!” and lashed her across her bare buttocks; the girl howled and shuffled, but did not break ranks and the whipholder took a step sideways to position herself behind the second girl. Before I realised what I was doing I had crossed the scuffed, firelit ground and pushed into the circle between Mpho and her neighbour.
A few of the girls managed to take their lash silently, but most let out an involuntary yell and I began to tremble as my turn came closer. It seemed that the older woman hit Mpho especially hard and she screeched into my ear. Then I heard the feet shuffle a couple of paces towards me…
“Aaargh! Bloody hell!” I screamed as the whip felt like it was cutting me in half, and I would have run had it not been for both girls alongside seizing me to keep me in the circle. But there were only two more girls to be whipped, and then the circle broke up, some girls limping and other rubbing themselves ruefully.
“Now you now what the sjambok feels like,” grinned Mpho, “but you really didn’t need to, you know!” I had heard of the sjambok before, and knew it was made of the hide of some tough wild animal, like hippo or rhino, but I thought it had passed away with the brutality of the apartheid era in South Africa; obviously not. I wondered why Palesa had escaped unscathed, but was soon to find out why as the older women went towards the van.
“That was a general warning to us to respect our future husbands and be obedient to our elders,” explained Mpho, “Palesa’s turn comes next.” Although the sjambok had hurt incredibly, a quick feel revealed that I wasn’t cut, but was sporting a nasty diagonal raised welt across both buttocks, and wondered how Palesa’s turn would differ. As if in reply the three women manoevered a latticed framework from the old van and placed it in a prominent position; Palesa strode towards it almost nonchalantly and allowed herself to be stretched and tied to the frame with leather thongs at wrist and ankle.
“This is part of the transition from girl to woman,” said Mpho, “it symbolises the wiping clean of her misdeeds from when she was in her family’s care into ownership by her husband.” I didn’t like the word “ownership” but let it pass, especially as one of the matrons had begun to speak in Xhosa. Suddenly there was a collective gasp from the gathered girls, and a low moan from Mpho.
“Oh, she’s going to get thirty lashes!” she whispered, her voice faltering.
“Is that unusual?” I asked; thirty certainly sounded excessive to me.
“Unheard of; ten’s normal but usually rather ceremonial; twenty to really hurt, if a girl’s had a bad reputation, but thirty … it’s because of all the things she used to get up to in Britain,” said Mpho, and suddenly it wasn’t all that funny any more. “Her husband will see the marks, and know that he has to keep her under strict discipline himself!”
“That’s bollocks,” I replied hotly, “he knows EXACTLY what she got up to, he was just as bad himself … surely he didn’t tell those old witches?”
Mpho fixed me with a steady gaze.
“Of course not; she told them herself. It’s her honour to do so – such things matter in Africa.” And she turned away.
The next five minutes were among the worst of my life as I saw one of the women pick up the whip, stand slightly to Palesa’s left, measure out her reach and bring her arm back and across energetically; the thong cracked loudly across Palesa’s shoulders and she bucked against the restraints but made no sound. The woman waited a few seconds, assessed the situation and delivered a repeat blow just below the first, and was rewarded with a slight sob. She delivered three more hard lashes across the upper back, evoking increasing gasps, before handing the sjambok to the second matron. The other two women then repositioned the frame so that it was a folded V-shape with Palesa’s taut buttocks at the apex, and the whipping recommenced; five hard lashes left her whimpering as the rest of us watched sombrely. Back to the upright position, and the third woman took charge of the sjambok; by this time Palesa’s reserve was shattered, and each lash elicited a scream as she hung in the restraints. I had seen enough; as the frame was being manoeuvred again I grabbed Mpho’s hand and dragged her across the shadowed floor.
“No, you can’t interfere!” she pleaded.
“Just translate!” I ordered, and placed myself between my friend and the whip, facing the wide-eyed circle of girls.
“Listen!” I said. “Palesa is being whipped for the bad way she lived in England, and that’s quite right. But her father entrusted me to look after her, and I failed in my duty. It was me who showed her how to drink and party and misbehave with men, and nobody here in Africa has blamed me at all. But I AM to blame.”
I could take in the response as Mpho translated each phrase; resentment, disapproval –and curiosity – showed on the ring of firelit faces. I had to push it, and there was now only one place to go:
“That is because in England young women have no honour,” I continued. “They go to live in strange cities away from their families and are allowed to behave badly, and corrupt others. But I have seen the way of honour in your lives, and I want to gain back my honour in the way that Palesa has done!”
Interest was quickening, and the animosity fading; I thought now that I could do it.
“So please let me take the rest of Palesa’s punishment, so I can redeem my own honour for my father’s sake!”
Of course, Dad’s honour and pride was bound up far more in getting my degree and a good job – in reality he simply preferred not to know about my dubious moral standards, but that was the only card I held. Suddenly Dudley seemed very far away.
It worked; Palesa was untied and carried to her blanket and I was bound in her place and bent, so the first five lashes would be to the bare buttocks. I was far too young to have memories of school corporal punishment, and could barely recall the occasional parental smack; this was going to be a whole new league. I heard the whip whistle down and stifled a yell as it cut a long arc across both buttocks; the first of fifteen. Shit, what had I let myself in for? Then she placed the sjambok against my bare flesh, and I winced, but she consulted the other matrons and moved it fractionally, then lifted it away, and I clenched and screwed my eyes tightly shut and bit my lip. But the whip touched me again, lightly, and more discussion ensued; they were playing with me, and making it last. Suddenly she lifted the whip and brought it down sharply and, unprepared, I howled. The third stroke fell exactly on the mark left earlier, and there was no way I could keep quiet, and the tears began to flow. Two more shuddering lashes, and I was straightened for my back and shoulders to receive attention. Whether the second woman was less strong, or from concern that my Western frame was less fleshy than an African’s I cannot say, but it seems that this session was marginally less severe, although each lash made me yelp and try to draw away from the thrashing. Two thirds through, and Mpho came with a drink before the matrons lowered the frame into the V-shape for the last time. I was trembling, but not from the cool air, for this time the sjambok would surely make me bleed.
Bent double and unable to see behind me, I suddenly felt fingers probing my weals, and not too gently. Then more yabbering in Xhosa, and then I screamed as, without warning, another stripe of fiery pain seared across my bare behind. But, rather than increasing in unbearable intensity, the worst seemed to fade for a few seconds until the area with the overlaid sjambok weals was walloped once more, and I screamed again. I became aware that the whole surface of my bottom was being methodically punished in layers, and as the fifth and final shuddering blow caught me at the top of my thighs I let out a yell of pain mingled with relief and slumped in exhaustion. That was, until another stripe was repeated at the very top, and I cried out, this time with fear mingling with the hot pain; I’d had more than the five outstanding, and as my senses returned I could hear laughter behind me. But the thrashing didn’t stop, continuing relentlessly up and down my flayed rear and soon I was crying, moaning, pleading until finally I was mercifully freed; I straightened, agonisingly and slowly, and turned to face my assailants. The three older women were now amongst the large group of girls giggling in the firelight and, in centre stage stood Mpho grinning and holding a leather belt.
“I persuaded the elders to let me treat you like a naughty little African girl instead, and give you a naughty little black bottom just like the rest of us!” she explained. Then, in a lower voice, “I said your father would belt you if he knew what you’d been doing at university, but he’d also be angry if he saw scars and would think badly of our country!” And she escorted me to my blankets, rolled hers alongside and hugged me until I fell asleep.
I woke to the sound of birds in the acacia trees, and the smell of meal porridge. Shit, I hurt – just like when I’d fallen down the hall steps in a stupor, but worse. Before getting dressed I thought I ought to examine the damage, as I was again the object of attention. I asked Mpho to hold the mirror and surveyed my back; five angry raised red weals still showed across my shoulders and back, but when I angled the mirror downwards I almost screamed as the other five weals showed dark against a mottled purplish background; I had literally been beaten black and blue. Mpho came and stood alongside me and called a challenge to the other girls which caused them to shriek with laughter, she told me that she had invited them to “spot the African arse”. I struggled painfully into my clothes with barely shreds of grace intact.
The journey back to town on the battered minibus seats was dreadful; I tried to lever myself on my thighs from time to time, but could only do so for a short while before sinking back down with a wince, whilst Palesa leant forward the whole time, keeping her whipped back away from contact with the hot leather. But she held my hand throughout the whole journey, and told me that I was now her sister in blood.
The wedding was huge and joyful, conducted by the nation’s Archbishop in a cool white stone cathedral, and Mpho and I were the equivalent of chief bridesmaids. The wedding breakfast must have made inroads into the nation’s wildlife heritage, as smoking heaps of zebra and kudu steaks were placed before us by the capital’s top chefs. Then came the dancing, and immaculately dressed sons of scientists, agriculturalists and government officials came in courteous droves to ask for my hand in partnership for the shaking and ululation and, Palesa informed me later, to cop a feel of the weals through my thin cotton dress. To be honest I yearned for nothing more than a huge pile of pillows and a dollop of soothing cream, but like hell was I going to show it.
Three weeks later:
“Leaving the organisation so soon as an intern will look very bad on your CV,” warned the lecherous goat in the suit who tried to look up my skirt every time I used the escalator.
“What are you going to do, take a gap year?” he sneered.
I noticed how greasy his hands were, and how his club tie sported food stains. My appraisals would be meted out by this creature, and my future might depend upon his approval. But in my handbag I had another letter from Africa with the now-familiar bird stamp, this one written in elegant if slightly archaic English from a young army lieutenant. A slightly more formal letter had safely arrived at my father’s house in Dudley, and everyone at the sorting office had wanted to know what it was all about; for not many West Midlands postmen received letters from the Minister For Telecommunications in our own country, let alone Africa. It contained a request to consider an offer of marriage on behalf of his son to a young British woman whom, he was assured, was considered to be of unquestioned courage and honour and from an exemplary family. I’d had an interesting hour with Mum and Dad explaining that one!
Ten lashes, I thought. I could take ten lashes easily when my turn for a flogging in my own right came around. The bruises from the belting plus the whip weals I’d paid to retrieve my honour were already fading, and I fondly remembered the young army officer’s fingers tracing the marks above and below my bra strap as he held me in the light of a huge African moon whilst the cicadas chirped wildly in the scrubby bushes below the verandah. I pictured myself promising lifelong obedience before the altar of the whitewashed stone cathedral, and his gentle black hand spanking me into willing submission on our wedding night.
“You’re career’s at stake, young lady!” snapped the greaseball, jerking me back to dull reality. No it wasn’t. It was the career of a pathetic little man who hid behind the edifice of an international bank to pretend he was a somebody, a man who would scream for his mummy if he felt just one lash of the whip on a dark open plain trod by lions, a man who dressed in cheap chain store suits which he couldn’t even keep clean. In time, he assured me, if I kept my out of trouble I could rise in the ranks and command my very own little team of cowed nobodies scrabbling for shreds of recognition. Big deal!
“Stuff your job!” I said, and walked out into a brighter world with dignity and honour intact.
