The humiliation hurt more than the physical pain. All I wanted to do was fire off a volley of swear words at the brute.
But he wouldn’t let go of me and, as if reading my mind, shook his free fist in my face and growled,
“Say something then, toerag! Swear! Why don’t you say anything?”
My eyes filled with tears; it was the pain, the humiliation, the sniggering onlookers.
The Portuguese carried on shouting. “Why don’t you swear at me, toerag?”
A cruel fury rose up in my chest and I managed to splutter angrily,
“I might not be saying anything, but I’m thinking it. And when I grow up I’m going to kill you.”
He laughed, followed by everyone standing around us.
“Well, grow up, then, toerag. I’ll be waiting for you. But first I’m going to teach you a lesson.”
He quickly let go of my ear and bent me over his thigh. He walloped me only once, but so hard it felt like he’d sent my back-side through my stomach.
Only then did he let me go. I staggered away with the roar of the crowd ringing in my ears.
It was only when I got to the other side of the highway, which I crossed without seeing a thing, that I was able to rub my stinging rump.
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