Growing up, the "bone shaker" - that rattling, jarring trotro - was the only way many of us got into town. The bumps shook our bodies, the close quarters forced us near strangers, and old customs meant that if an elderly person was on board, a child might be asked to sit on their lap - a gesture of respect, or so I believed.

I was just a small, trusting girl in primary school when one day, as my mother and I boarded the trotro heading to the market, a gentle-voiced man asked me to sit on his lap. Innocent and unsure, I obeyed. But even then, I felt something I couldn't explain - as if I was sitting on something hard, something heavy pressing me, a silent discomfort I didn't understand and didn't know how to voice.

Only years later did the painful truth begin to settle in my heart: how vulnerable I was in that moment, how my innocence was quietly violated in a way I couldn't grasp at the time. That memory has stayed with me - sharp, raw, and haunting - a shadow I carry every day.

I tell this not to blame, but to plead: let us protect our daughters fiercely. Let us teach them courage to say no, strength to speak out, and safety to grow without fear. Childhood must never be a time of silent suffering hidden behind respect and obedience.

Our daughters deserve to be safe - on bone shakers, in classrooms, in their homes, and in every place life takes them. They deserve dignity, love, and freedom from harm.

Let us not stay silent. Let us listen, watch, and act - with hearts wide open and hands ready to protect.

Because every child's innocence is precious, and every silent pain cries out for justice.