I was in the typical kind of primary school where the proprietor was not the only one licensed to cane pupils.

Your teacher could. The gateman could. Even the prefects,who are older pupils could.

It was this culture of flogging that made parents believe made us well disciplined. So every term, our class increased in size. There was always a new kid on the block. It was a popular school known for 'upright' kids.

Every one lived in terror of those who used 'Mr Brown.' Break-time was so stifling. Class time was worse. Every corner had a fresh supply of long, brown sticks with thin heads. There was no room for a little childishness!

One afternoon, it was nearly closing hour and my seat partner was in a hurry. He didn't erase his work properly. The teacher came near, glared at him and went for the often-used decisive method to 'beat appropriateness into his senses'. Pity spread on my chest. The boy was disillusioned.

The first stroke sliced through the air and went on his back. It raised his school uniform away from his body. As the instructor pulled the cane up for another whip, its thin head dashed across my eyes.

A boy was cut and I was the boy.

My eyes grew red and I was rushed home.

I spent a some days being nursed on my mom's lap...with bread, peanuts and orange juice. It was a merry boycott from school.

The incident brought a little sanity to how teachers used canes. An emergency meeting after,perhaps, brought my teacher a query. Perhaps not. But she was as cold as a fish, afterwards.

My boycott amplified the suspicion that I was badly injured. That was the idea...to leave them all in profound remorse and even regret.

I returned to school the following week. I got the assembly staring at me with love and inquisition. I was now a fragile egg among stones.

The rules of discipline had mellowed a tad more. We played with boundless freedom. Classes saw less fear from our young faces. Only the proprietor could now flog, we learned.

A boy was cut. He observed a boycott...But it worked.

Oh yes, it worked!

Any brutal rule can change when a boy is caught in the cross-hairs and is cut. A slice of martyrdom still has its appeal. And with a boycott, there was no turning back on fixing that wrong practice.

THE END.