I was not man enough, they said,
my hands soft, not callused,
the weight of a wallet
lighter than their expectations.
The chorus followed me—
gravel voices pressed into my ears:
“A man must…”
Must what?
Build a life from the splinters of his soul?
Swallow his silence and call it strength?
They stitched lessons into my skin:
Smile less.
Speak less.
Feel less.
Each thread pulled tighter
until tenderness unravelled,
until my own heart became
a stranger behind its cage of ribs.
You love me,
with a patience that terrifies,
your hands soft as the first rains in June.
You cradle what’s left of me,
but I pull away,
afraid you’ll see the cracks,
the hollow where vulnerability once lived.
Your love spills,
a quiet flood in a land of drought,
but my cup is broken—
unable to hold
what I was taught to let drain away.
At night, I wonder:
Am I man enough
if I choose laughter over legacy?
A shoulder over a shield?
Could I let you touch the walls I’ve built,
see them crumble beneath your hands,
and watch something grow there?
The gospel of “provide”
sits like stone in my chest.
Each breath scratches against it,
but still I ask:
Who am I,
if I do not carry this weight?
They said a man’s worth
is in what he holds.
But now I learn
it is in what he lets go.
I dream of a house
built not with bricks,
but with tenderness,
with truth.
A home where my hands,
soft as they are,
can finally hold you.
Jedidja Kakuva is a Namibian data professional and aspiring writer. They are currently studying mathematics and physics at NSSCO level while developing a financial management platform aimed at supporting small and medium enterprises in Namibia. This is their first publication.