Until I was twelve, boys were nothing more than yucky creatures that were not allowed to touch me, talk to me or even so much as glance at me.

I specifically remember the first time a boy stole a kiss from me. I was seated in class, noting down the names of noise makers. People like us (teachers’ pets) were branded as ‘foxes’ or even ‘snakes’. But my fear for canes was much greater than the fear for nicknames. 

After all, I had had many nicknames in the past because even as a child, my life was nothing short of scandalous. But none of the names stuck because eventually, people would get bored and move on with their lives because that’s what human beings do.

Anyway, so this boy, on a dare, walked to my desk and quick as lightning, he planted a kiss on my lips. The whole class erupted into laughter and applause. A lump quickly formed and threatened to burst my throat open unless I let out a stream of tears. 

So naturally, I ran to the staffroom blind with tears and reported the heinous crime. The boy was given a few strokes on his buttocks and forced to write an apology letter to me. 

When I turned twelve, my hormones begun to over-compensate for all the years I had spent hating on boys. 

Whenever I had a boy in my life, there were butterflies in the stomach and skipped heartbeats and insomnia and the belief that we would be together forever. And then my mother would find out about the boy, beat me, threaten the boy with life imprisonment. 

At that stage, I thought of love as something uncontrollable and overwhelming. Something that drives you mad. Something that rids you of all common sense. This school of thought went on well into my late teens.

When I had my heart broken for the first time, I pointed fingers at love and cursed it many times. I thought of love as something horrible. Something that comes to rob you of your life. I built a high wall around my heart and shut love out. I told it to get lost or throw itself off a cliff because I had no use for it.

Then I met someone wonderful. But despite my best effort, I could not love the man. He was bending backwards to win me over and I was giving myself pep talks about being able to do anything if you put your mind to it.

But it was all in vain. Rather than waste his time, I broke up with him. I thought I was doing him a favor but instead, he turned into the sort of man who wholeheartedly believed that womankind was ungrateful and just plain evil. 

And now I honestly have no idea if I’m capable of love. Because in truth, I do not even know what love is. I’m still figuring it out. 

I would ask but everyone is clueless. Everyone is just going round implementing their own description of love. Or maybe they aren’t clueless; maybe love is something that cannot be given a definite description. I have a feeling that I will never know.