Spare the kid..spoil the rod - Jayvir Pillay

Let me start off by saying that I am not a parent. Not to my knowledge. I've never entertained such thoughts no matter how whimsical and I think it’s safe to say that any woman that has ever done me the service of allowing safe passage, has ever done so with that thought in mind. In short, my opinion on the matters to follow come from no place of fact or fiction and should be treated as such.

The setting for my tale spawns from an activity which I have grown to meet with disdain, derive humor and wonder as an insight into the modern human condition…..domestic flight. Comedian fodder I am aware but allow me this; I promise not to beguile home affairs or do a woeful Indian accent. I am a bean counter by profession and in my line of work I find myself in transit the length and breathe of Mzanzi. Where there is money, there is swinery in wake, and this how I make my bacon.

It all starts in the terminal where everyone’s transit is seemingly more important than the next. You’re greeted at the airline desk by the custodian of the conveyor belt who watches as you fumble with heavy breathe for your identification like a teenager pawing at the clasp of a bra for the first time. You negotiate the obligatory “safety” questions and the minutia of the pre-boarding dance begins.

Navigating the steel maze you arrive at the metal detectors and cringe for those with pacemakers. A forgotten belt buckle is your one way ticket to a frisk so deeply intimate you’ll need a cigarette and wimpy coffee with extra cream to restore emotional composure. The waiting game begins and ends half way through an episode of Downton Abbey shielded for fear of persecution and the chime of the overhead intercom signals an exodus.
A random allocation of a back seat means I have to traverse the tarmac for a rear entry. After ascending the steps to the iron steed I fumble again for my boarding pass which has managed to bury itself deep in the recesses of my pockets in the minutes from the boarding gate. After flashing this to the attendant on duty we exchange pleasantries about the control procedure (the bean counter emerges) and I’m told passengers minds are easily misguided when feet hit concrete and boarding the wrong plane happens more frequently than you’d expect. The check is merely a guard for stupidity. Entering the cabin as one of the stragglers, the pre-departure restlessness of my fellow passengers has visibly begun to take hold. With luggage stowed I recline in my seat, click my belt in one swift motion and take in a deep breathe of cabin ambiance. It’s about that time when I’m weighing up my in-flight beverage of choice that our story gets a subject and fear comes to fruition.

The piercing cries of a tumultuous child rip through the fuselage like something out of Stephen King novel. Starting of as sporadic agony we've now moved into a full blown rhythm of howling. This is a special kind of hell. It’s about this time when I tuck my boarding pass into the clasp of my folding tray, close my eyes and slowly begin to invoke Liam Neeson..he would know what to do. Mouthing expletives I open my eyes in anticipation of the anarchy to ensue.

The customary straining of necks from side to side and whispering begins. Mumbling becomes coherency and it emerges that the cause for distress of our little Machiavelli is protest over the seat belt. So begins the retort.

A certain carpenter of Nazareth is called upon in distaste by the couple to my left.

I lock eyes with a gentleman in front and I offer the following with instant regret;

“when I was a kid I would have gotten a hiding acting like that”

He’s response is swift

“That’s the problem ay, that kid needs a good hiding..and it’s clear he isn’t getting it at home”

I nod in agreement and quirk at the ETA of the drinks cart.

I find that seeded sentiment growing and I myself begin questioning the custodians of our tormentor. I’m too young to be from the old country but I still grew up in an era where acting the fool in public was greeted by consequence. This is by no means a swipe at my mother whom I’m grateful for instilling in me the fear of the wooden spoon or the loosening of the leather sandal. It’s these virtues that kept me on the straight and narrow and the reason I’m a moderately well-adjusted humanoid (moderately – adverb – within reasonable limits). In these times the sanctity of common courtesy in public was adhered and we didn't subject others to the tyranny of the fruit of our loins. Children were not treated as walking talking egg shells and Vicks vapor rub was all the medical aid you needed. Back chat was for the brave and respect unto ones elders was mandatory not optional.

My fellow passengers there are far more sinister things in the terminal of life that lie wake in wolf onesies to tempt and corrupt your offspring and to deprive them of direction is to strip them of any chance of  immunization against the powers that be. Don't get me wrong, i'm not saying brandish the rod as though swipes earned frequent flyer miles but a few trips down south would be cultural. Parenthood today is far too often an obligation than a privilege but it’s a social responsibility that one owes to society when you bring life into this world

We've begun to taxi and the blood curdling is marginally muffled. The flight attendant's attempt to quell the situation with sugar (ho irony!) has been futile and and we've accepted this cosmic karma for our sins. It’s at this moment midst the rant that empathy finds its way home. Possibly mistaken for indigestion but I don’t have any ENO. This congregation of people, yours truly included, in varying degrees of death have banded together in true South African mob justice style and declared this person to be an unfit parent. We've appointed ourselves judge and jury, and considering the evidence at hand, found them wanting. Wrangling rug rats is no easy feat...especially at altitude 

That being said…parents I digress. You have one job and one job only.

Don’t raise a poes