Here’s Why You Should Beat Your Kids

I feel like sometimes parents get a lot of flak for beating their kids, and often deservedly so. Some people see it as an abusive and detrimental means of teaching your children how to behave. And maybe they’re right.

But that didn’t stop my Nigerian parents from beating the shit out of me. Oh no. My parents beat me every which way they could, often with lethal force. There were the basic open handed and backhanded slaps that could blind and stun a foo’ for a good 10 seconds. Boom! Everything disappears in a flash of light and thunder rings in your ears, as if struck by lightning. Those were reserved for simple transgressions, such as the, “I don’t wanna clean my room!”, or you stomping your feet up the stairs en route to a room clean.

My Parents used to say that to me all the time!



Then there were intermediate transgressions such as cursing out your school teacher, which called for the use of intercontinental ballistic missiles. That arsenal consisted of the closed fist uppercut and spinning leg kick commonly employed by Ryu and Ken of Street Fighter, as well as the modern day superman punch that Chuck Liddell is so goddamn good at.

Ken's form's not bad. My mom would say aim higher for maximum impact.



A technique commonly employed by Nigerians. Often it comes in the form of a "hard knock" to a petulant child's head.

Finally there were the Weapons of Mass Destruction, which were used to devastating effect and only reserved for the most heinous of crimes. If only Bush had heard of the Sunmonu household in 2001 he wouldn’t have invaded Iraq. (See image below)

I often crossed my fingers, praying not to get beat. It never worked.

Among some of the weapons used were thorny branches, poles, pots, pans, and a whole host of other hard objects. Saddam’s, ahem, my dad’s favorite WMD was what he would call the “juicy stick”. There was nothing juicy about it; except that it was brutal on your most juicy parts. The “juicy stick” was the long, bottom part of a plastic hanger. For those of you that don’t think it would hurt, think again; that shit would give you welts like a whip to a runaway slave.

I might not strike some of you as the rebellious type but I was bad as a motherfucker; stubborn as hell with an attitude to boot. A little Mr. T minus the fro. Most of my disagreements with my parents came from my lack of interest in all things religious. I remember one time in church a bunch of my peers and I were having band practice upstairs in the children’s room. We were about to play “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” for like the umpteenth time when I stood up and said, “I’m not playing anymore!”

Bad idea. I had shocked the whole room into silence. Here I was, 13 years old and the son of the choir director, who happened to be running our rehearsal. I could see the shocked looks on everyone’s faces. My best friend at the time; well his jaw just dropped. I could feel the heat rising in my face as everyone watched me. I remember hearing one of the mothers in the back snicker in a heavy Nigerian accent, (not unlike Eddy Murphy in Coming to America) “Uh huh, now you are in hot stew.”

I watched as my father began his menacing approach, a scowl on his face to rival Debo’s from Friday.

You about to get knocked the fuck out!

I didn’t care. I stared him down defiantly and waited for my punishment. I thought I was tough. I was not.

Remember when I went through the three stages of punishment? Well rarely has one gone through all three at the same time – that’s considered nuclear holocaust.

Phase 1 started with an open handed slap, followed by a backhand in quick succession. The blinding, paralyzing first attack struck me, moving my head rapidly from side to side. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as pain wracked my senses.

“You think you are grown!” my dad screamed, resorting to his native accent, a frightening visage on his face.

As I was falling, in slow motion I might add, my dad realized he couldn’t get to my face anymore. So he decided to use his nearest body part: his leg. Initiating phase two. Know what a round house kick to the gut feels like? Hell, that’s what. I couldn’t breathe and I remember gasping for air, futilely trying to crawl away from his menacing attack. I looked up to my best friend for help, but he responded with a look that said, “I ain’t gettin’ my ass beat!”

Thanks for nothing asshole.

I don’t know what had gotten into me. I was only 13 years old and must have been about 5′ 4″ and 100 lbs. My dad, probably 5′ 9″, 185. Thank god some saint broke it up, but I distinctly remember the emotional and physical damage. My face was still stinging, I had a pounding headache, and worst of all, everyone witnessed me crying. Like a little bitch. Big wracking sobs of “bitchassness” poured out of me uncontrollably. Ultimately I had to leave the room, my pride dragging in tatters behind me.

And you thought it would end there. Nope, how wrong you are. You obviously don’t know Nigerians. Everyone knows there’s an “after beating” for when you get home. That’s when your parents really unload on you. Initiating stage three. Nuclear Holocaust.

I remember standing in my parent’s room watching my dad pick out the thickest hanger he could find and breaking off the “juicy” part. He then proceeded to whip my bare ass for what seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t sit for a whole freaking day. School the next day was brutal. There would be no more outbursts from me anymore. At least until the next time.

Nigerian and other African parents are notorious for beating the shit out of their kids. It’s like a rite of passage every child has to go through before they’re considered mature. From my earliest age I can remember getting beatings. Beatings from my parents, uncles, aunts, church members, family friends and even people I didn’t know that well.

Elder Nigerians often expect the youth to prostrate in front of them when greeting, a sign of respect. One day a friend of my dad’s from Lagos came to visit. He and my dad walked in the door, laughing like good ol’ chums. He spotted me, stopped, and expected me to prostrate.

I simply said, “Hi.”

“Hasn’t your father taught you how to greet an elder?” he asked in a unusually strong Nigerian accent.

With a shit-eating grin on my face, I said, “Apparently not.”

His bushy eyebrows climbed to insane heights. Angry now, he demanded that I prostrate in front of him.

To which I responded, “Fuck that shit! I”m an American. I don’t bow down to no one!”

Whoom! Smack!

Another openhanded slap followed by a stinging backhand. Except that the first one came from my dad, and the second, his friend. How could they have moved so fast, and better yet, perfectly in sync? I remember thinking at the moment that I’d just been slapped shitless by Ryu and Ken.

For some time I resented these beatings. After a beating, my siblings and I would often sob, “I hate this house, I wish mom and dad were dead!” Or something like that. But as I matured I realized that it did in fact make me a better person. I realized that my parents only beat me out of love and while often in anger, it was never with malicious intent.

I don’t think I’ll ever beat my children, unless they’re like Montana Fishburne. Apparently she’s gotta a sex tape. (See picture below)

Every dad's worst fear. You send your daughter off to college and three months later you turn on the tune and see a commercial for Girls Gone Wild. "Now those are some ass nice titties", you say. Except you realize it's your daughter. Flashing her titties. FML.

Ok, I thought. That’s pretty bad but she was probably just foolish. Her boyfriend fucked her – in more holes, I mean ways, than one. Plus her dad and his friends tried to buy the sex tape from Vivid for a milli. Nuclear holocaust is a perfectly acceptable punishment in this scenario, but at least she’d still be alive.

But shockingly, Montana rejoiced that her father couldn’t prevent the tape from getting out, stating that the tape was ultimately a conduit into doing full time porn. Here are her comments,

“I had a little passion inside me to do porn… I didn’t really want to tell too many people about it because I was afraid of their reactions when I was younger. I started thinking about it…when I was 16. I wasn’t really into mainstream acting…I knew I wanted to do adult [films].”

WTF??? You better keep that passion inside you! This girl deserves a real ass beating. Not only is she disrespecting herself, she’s brought shame to her whole family. If I were Laurence Fishburne I’d get the “juicy stick” ready. Who knows what a few welts along the cheeks would’ve done for Montana, aka “Chippy D“. (What kind of stupid name is that anyway?)

P.S. For your further enjoyment, here is Russell Peter’s stand up on parents beating their kids.

This story was written by Samuel Sunmonu. It is loosely based on his experiences during his younger years. Samuel does not advocate beating your children.