Kumbulani Kumbula

I went to an all-boys boarding school where certain things did not need explanation. On a quiet evening during prep time, if a group of boys gathered tightly around a laptop, heads close, bodies angled inward, smiles breaking out at the wrong moments, you already knew what was on the screen. No one asked. No one questioned it. Pornography had become so routine that it barely registered as something worth reacting to. It was not shocking. It was normal. Sometimes it went further than quiet watching.