THE PURGE

My early teenage years at school was not only full of misguided infatuation but also of stern parental guidance and unbreakable stipulations. The end of the  school term was always a time of excitement, expectations, and trepidations. We made plans and set goals, all within the parameters of strong parental controls, respect, and obedience to the sacrosanct principles of morality and acquired values of well trodden pathways. We never went against the wishes and aspirations of our parents and our village elders, one of which was an accepted, almost religious ceremony - to go through an end of term exercise that revolved around castor oil, epsom salts, and senna leaves.

The Shaman, as many of us called him because he knew everything about everyone, or, the practicing medical expert in my village, was the popular Pharmacist, who we fondly referred to as Dr. Shannon.He was an expert who dispensed several concoctions to ward off a multitude of ailments and maladies.

My end of term ritual happened like clockwork. I was up long before the sun rose, readying myself for the early morning trip to Dr. Shannon's place of practice. As a matter of fact, to wake up after sunrise, on any day, was a sign of lethargy and laziness, my father would say. It was an indication of failure and doom. So I would hastily rush into preparedness, in the grey, damp, morning dawn, before the golden rays of the rising sun become all consuming, hungrily eating up the dampness of the breaking day. 

A quick bath, fresh clothes, and a cup of hot, red rose black tea with brown cane sugar was sufficiently ample before my encounter with the Doc. I was ready to go with my father, on his Humber bicycle, to fulfill this end of term exercise. 

The ride was short; only half a mile away, but the bicycle was important since we had to ensure a quick return  trip back home.

Dr. Shannon was a pleasant, affable, light complexioned, freckled face man.He was always prepared and seemed to know everything about the people he treated, even predicting what will happen to them. A large  glass of epsom salts and senna mixture sat on a table which was covered with a clean white cloth. On that table also was a bowl of candy. A short, sturdy and meticulously polished, flexible wild cane rested next to the bowl!

 "Good morning, Harry", Dr. Shannon would say." "Are you ready?"

This question was rhetorical, but I would still nod my head indicating that I was ready, mindful of the wild cane that was on the table, and the reassuring hand of my father, which rested on my shoulder. 

Dr. Shannon would hold my head at the back of my neck with one hand, tilting my head backwards, and with the other hand, he would put the glass to my mouth. The metallic, raw mineral taste and the tangy taste of the mixture was overwhelming but I drank all of it. He would then quickly give me a candy to suck on, as if to say, "Good boy. You have done well!"

He would then look at my father, Indicating to him to take me home as quickly as possible. 

I always got home just in time to make the first of several trips to the toilet, in between which I drank cupfuls of fresh coconut water, procured from young coconuts that were harvested from one of the trees in our backyard. 

This was the purge! It was a washout! It was an internal cleanse.

After three, or four visits to the toilet, my mom's chicken soup would taste with a delicacy that calmed my pangs of hunger, leaving me  

refreshed and energized, ready to face the new school term.