In the little lines of clenched eyes, human brine forms rivulets of charged up emotions that can never find the words to describe the trapped turmoil that drips out of those angry, fearful eyes. The boy child knows that fairies do not dance under lime trees. He knows love as a gigantic male hand that rips his favorite pyjama pants to violate his little ‘winky’ that he has not even learnt to wash yet. Love is the reprimanding female index finger that barricades his dry, cracked lips while monitoring the red nail polish that is drying on the other hand. Love is the thick leather belt that licks his urine dampened skin the morning after a night riddled with fear of meeting the dark shadow on the way to the bathroom. There are bruises of the spirit in such a tenderly young soul. He wears confidence like a plastic bag over his head. Protective and lethal in equal share. Little does he know that confidence is not to be worn. It is to be grown into. It is to be breathed, befriended and welcomed whenever there is room in the heart. And room there forever shall be.
Frank Malaba – Untold Childult Stories.