By Paballo Chauke EVERYONE deserves all kinds of love; however, not receiving it does not make me any less worthy of being human. What is love? How do we show it? Who is worthy of it? What social value do we attach to romantic love? Of course, there are different types of love and the meaning differs depending on whether we are using scientific, religious or social definitions. Whatever love means to us, some experience plenty of it while others never experience it at all. I turned 30 years old last year and I have never been in a mutually romantic relationship. Of course, I have known familial and platonic love — that of my mother, siblings, friends, pastor and teachers — but a truly intimate connection with a partner has eluded me. Whenever I reveal this about my life, my inquisitors seem to gasp for air as a look of shock or pity infused with a pinch of disgust creeps across their faces. It is as though my worth diminishes on hearing that I have never been “chosen” or found love of the romantic sort. They usually go on to lecture me that I should be more open to falling in love, that it is important, that no human should be without it, and so on. Never mind that I could have opted not to engage in relationships, that I could have chosen to put my education first or that there are other fundamental reasons for this “unnatural” state of affairs; their disappointment is tangible. Sigh. I suppose I should pity their ignorance. Or I should point it out. People tend to impose their ideas of love (and family or lifestyle) on others, not stopping to consider where others come from, their past experiences or what their motivations are. They might not realise that as a fat, black queer man from the working class, I have had to grapple with the concept of what love means from a very young age. Existing on the periphery and being treated as an appendage because I do not occupy dominant identities has a huge effect on the prospects of love and acceptance, be they romantic or platonic. Love is intersectional warfare — systemic oppression from racism to ageism, from homophobia to fatphobia, among a whole matrix of domination, matters — who is more deserving of love? Are we all loved equally? Love is a currency and we do not all have equal access to it. Our identities mitigate and determine what type of love and how much of it we receive. I have always had to contend with the politics of lovability and desirability because, in whatever sphere, they do not come easy for people like me. The first man to deny me love was my father — it has taken me years of therapy to unpack what that festering wound means. My father woke up one cold morning in 1998 to throw my siblings and I out of his house because he and our then stepmother did not want us in their space any longer. He stuffed our Ghana Must Go/machangani bags without even folding our clothes and then chased us away — he even took a broom to sweep our footsteps off his yard after informing his ancestors at his gandelo. The symbolism of that act led to many years of dysfunction an