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Malik was born in a simple way. The first and only son of a young mother full of so much hope for her young. He has few memories of the first few years spent in Algiers, like the only thing he kept about the time was the home of languages on his tongue and faded images of pale walls and alien buildings. So many juxtapositions that came together to build the foundation of home wrought from hands that willed it.

Johannesburg becomes much clearer in his mind. Everything less memories so flimsy they feel more fabricated than real. Remembering becomes a flickering reminder of lessons learnt. Knowledge gained. Malik came to terms with being different - how none of what he was made sense together - the modest wealth of his family, the color of his skin, his tongue that knew to speak through too many languages, too tall body being much stronger than anyone expected.

Being different felt many things but wrong was never one of them. Different meant and lead towards more good than bad things in the eyes of young Malik. Made him more aware of the good, of the precious, of the importance of peace and acceptance and the readiness for the quiet of war. The novelty of different wore off and became normal. Normal to be all that he was and wasn't. Normal to know he had to fight to grasp what he wanted and normal to know it made it all the more precious to hold it close to his chest.

All until at 13 his father had brought him along in his travels. The man thought it wasn't good a young boy waste his time in skirmishes for fun and in the simple joy of living. There should be focus, there should be a more practical drive. Somehow he thought Egypt would be the land his son veered away from glimmering dreams and his feet would hit the ground solid.

Instead Malik was captured by the mirage of freedom the desert seemed to bring. A promise that away could be a few steps away if he wanted to make it so. That the world could change that easily. Belief and fascination were a good mix until the ego of confidence took over. How long could he stretch this mirage out? This world of gold and peace alone in exploration? Confident that none of this would turn on him until it did. When the sun began to slip from a too distant horizon and he perhaps had let home slip further than he had been ready for it to.

He remembers a storm. Remembers the sting of heat melting away into a blanket of cold that paralyzed him sudden. How the sand felt like a cloud beneath him, forcing him to rise and rise until he was part of the heavens. The world a true blanket of clouds so dark that grey neared black-blue and mirrored twilight with lightning a snakes weaving in and out of the inverted landscape. How sweat felt like standing in the rainfall, drenching him pure and tired like he had run through the world to find a puddle to jump on just to find joy. He remembers wishing for home, for a way to find it.

When he awake he was at a Safe Haven. Later told that he had arrived there with a desert black snake coiled around his arm, fangs sunk clean into him. How he stood there, eyes golden and lightning rolling off his body in whips and whisps as the sky mirrored overhead. It was the wish in someone's heart that made him sink back down, asleep and fully safe for now. He had been taken to a room and kept there until his father was able to come.

Different became a novelty again. This nearly uncontrolable power surging through him and a constant reminder that very few things would feel fully normal now. On one hand his family thanked the blessing - of him this alive in spirit and body to be capable of weilding the full power of both. It felt as right as it did strange, the way most things in the walls of a place he had to call home had ever done. Home changed a lot in a short time. Johannesburg once again, Algiers briefly as affairs were set in order and suddenly Paris.

It wasn't any easier to be different in Paris and yet the city seemed to encourage it the way no place had ever done before. The Safe Haven tried to live up to it's name but the strict lines of French learning weren't for him. The people however, the thriving youth of eclectic celebration - that was his new desert to walk towards. Malik was 16 the first time he found arms that wanted to hold him up rather than push him towards some skewed expectation. Found a feeling he felt fully worth embracing the most unforgivable of his differences for. A boy his with tender hands and heart and a fire to match his own.

Malik had grown up hearing the sin and shame of men who only knew how to love others like them. It had been a silent struggle all along to know he was gay and have no word for it apart from disaster. Until a hand brushing up against his, a palm lingering seconds too long against his thigh, a laugh caught in the air for what felt like forever - all of it became a kiss that made it true. That this was good. That this was his. Wild and different and wrong but right.

He had no expectation of his parents ever understanding. That could be fine. Splitting yourself in two seemed like a good way for a boy built from building blocks of differences to be. Two strong halves to make a whole. Storming heavens and calm rooted earth.

He had no expectation of what would happen if they found out. He was a few months shy of 17 when the haze of comfort made him reckless. His parents came home much earlier than anticipated - greeted by jarring music filling their home through loud speakers and the sight of their pride and joy of a son lost in the lips of a boy they had been seeing plenty of the last few months. It took less than a night for him to find himself on the street, half of his clothes stuffed in the backpacks he had managed to get his hands on through the screams of a fight that no one won in the end.

When that door shut it had been with the promise that it would never open. And he had let it shut. Hadn't tried to promise repentance and rectifying this as some weak mistake once committed. There would be no absolution for who he was, for his differences. Forced change couldn't be home, and couldn't be what he forged himself from. So he was left to try to find home where he could. In the floor of whatever friend of his had clueless enough parents to let him around too many times in a row. In the house of his then boyfriend who wouldn't stick around for just how hard different could be.

Malik was ready for it. As ready as 17 could be. Prepared to stare life down in the face as he knew he had to use his everything for something that could lead him forward. All along he knew he had the Haven, knew he could find some regimented form of normal offered to him on a platter. Yet Malik took to streets, stubborn, took to a life made by him that no one could take away even if they tried. Savate gave that to him. Brawls that became fights that became living. Not so much with anger held in his mouth like a dog trying to not go rabid but as boy turned man turned capable.

Building a life for himself took more blows than most could take. His fighting career spanned three years and landed him gigs at gyms and boxing clubs, gave him enough money to get his own home, eventually open his own boxing club with the last of his earnings and money saved aside. Over the years his Temple grew, in recognition and as a place for others to go to. Something about him and his story attracted the kind interest of a trainer from overseas that invited him to visit New York. The offer extended from there, giving him a chance to explore and chase growth. To try something different - which Malik was always down to do.