My teenage years met me in the cold, poorly lighted store that was my bedroom. It was crammed with loads of stuff we would never need and what we were afraid to throw away. Finality is a fragile, terrible thing. Beside my tiny television, as if to dampen my entertainment was a baby pram. It reminded me father needed an heir, a male child. It was there so the request for a male child would never forget to seep into my prayers at night. My little brother’s name was to be Miracle, we had his life planned out and all. He was to save our name from dying, to cure the tears mama sheds daily on her knees. Those tears poisoned my own blood with each drop. I tried everything to make it stop, it was infecting me from the inside, chopping off my limbs bit by bit, it was a leprosy of my soul. I remember cutting my hair at age five to make it stop; I cut it so low and only wore trousers, I wanted to be mama’s boy. Mother never stopped crying, she didn’t give me a second glance, not even for a minute.